| Uncle Bob, The Rooster and Myrna by Peggy Greene |
When the Wind Blows by Peggy Greene |
| Come on! Tell Me a Story! |
BABSHI’S CHRISTMAS COOKIES By: Penny Lockwood Ehrenkranz |
| Art by Kim Reale Johnson |
Myrna at age five or six was no bigger than a
minute. She had a little jelly bean body on
two little sticks for legs, and with two more
sticks for arms. She had white blonde hair,
big blue eyes and a freckled pug nose. It
was a challenge to keep shoes and socks on
her. I never look at a Cupie Doll without
thinking of her at that age. What she lacked
in size, she made up for in opinion. If you
were to have asked, she would have
explained with a slight stammer that she was
big enough to do anything. We knew she
was big enough to try.
Granddad White had a big, cocky rooster, if
you will pardon the redundancy. This guy
might have taken on a Mac truck if given the
opportunity, and he liked to chase Myrna or
me if we were alone. He particularly liked to
rush up to Myrna and beat her with his
wings. Therefore the adults usually kept a
weather eye out for any meetings between
Myrna and the rooster.
In the days of outdoor plumbing (or lack
thereof), it was necessary to leave the
fenced yard around Granddad’s house to
cross the area where the chickens ranged to
the outdoor toilet beyond the barn. On
Sunday visits, this wasn’t such a problem
because there were lots of adults standing
around talking. The trip was pretty safe.
Monday was another matter. Then
Granddad and Uncle Bob would be doing
farm work and Mother and Grandma were
doing laundry. Then, crossing the chicken
yard was a pain. Here would come the
rooster. We would yell, and one of the adults
would rush to shoo off the critter. Uncle Bob
would sometimes be sent as an advance unit
to scare him off, and if the rascal managed to
flog one of us, Bob would chase him. All Bob
had to do was show up, and the rooster ran.
We had to go to Grandma’s to do the week’s
washing because it was during World War II,
and it was not possible to buy a washing
machine. Grandma’s machine was a
gasoline powered Maytag with a top wringer.
It was a Prima Dona that ran on prayer as
much as gasoline. With a gasoline shortage,
we were lucky to have gas. Washing clothing
in those days was an art, but that is another
story.
On this particular wash day, Murphy was at
work full time, and everything went wrong.
The machine wringer got fouled up, the
motor quit half way through the wash, Myrna
and I got thrown off the horse, she had to be
rescued out of the sticker patch several
times because she wouldn’t keep her shoes
on, I got stung by a scorpion hiding in the
laundry basket, and it was too hot to be
comfortable on the Kansas prairie.
We had our chores. Uncle Bob, Myrna and I
were coming back from digging new potatoes
for our mid-day meal when the rooster
caught Myrna alone. She began to cry and
scream. Uncle Bob had his hands full so the
rooster got in some really good licks before
Bob came racing back. The rooster saw him
and took off. Bob was shouting at him and
threatening to teach him a lesson. The
feathers flew in all directions, but just as Bob
would about get to him, the rooster would fly
out of reach. Around and around the yard
they went, and the rest of us had all stopped
what we were doing to cheer them on.
Entertainment was scarce on the prairie in
those days.
Uncle Bob and the rooster took another cut
through the fenced yard. The rooster flew
over the front fence and dropped like a rock.
Uncle Bob hurdled right behind him. He
stopped in his tracks, looked up and said,
“Well I’ll be, the fool thing is dead.”
Oh my! Grandma had been laughing; now
she was peeved. In addition to everything
else, somebody was going to have to stop
and clean that chicken. Poor Uncle Bob got
the job of scalding and plucking it. That was
clearly not his favorite thing. Tempers were
short. It was time to look small, be seen and
not heard.
Myrna and my views were quietly more
upbeat. Some prayers are answered. That
bird was no fine feathered friend of ours, and
he wasn’t ever going to chase us again.
Uncle Bob was our hero. By the way,
Grandma’s chicken and dumplings were
delicious, the best ever.
| "Owls at my camp…" by Phil Douglass, Regional Wildlife Manager, Conservation Outreach Utah Division of Wildlife Resources |
Owls have shared many camp sites
with me. It is always with a smile when
an owl wakes me up in the middle of
the night.
I remember one time in the Book Cliffs,
near the Colorado border hearing the
faint call of a pygmy owl. I made the
same call and it responded. This
calling back and forth went on for
almost a half-hour, with the owl getting
closer each time. At length, it landed
in the tree above me and called the
rest of the night.
I recounted this story a couple of years
ago when I lead an “owl prowl” tour at
Hardware Ranch and told the
participants “I finally realized I was
doing this calling right during the
courtship period–this owl must have
been very disappointed that I wasn’t
who (or what) I sounded to be!” One of
the ladies turned to her friend and
whispered, “Sounds like the internet to
me!!!”
Some native American legend states
that if the “owl calls your name” your
death is eminent. Owls have called my
name for my whole life, but instead of
creating a fear of dying, they have
brought peace and richness to my life
and outdoor experiences.
On the Big Island, I saw the feathers of
“pueo” near a roost tree during a hike
and again felt grateful for the spirit of
friendship that I always have when I
see and hear them. In Hawaii, the
legends of the owl often involve
protection.
The most famous legend, “The Battle
of the Owls” underscores the aumakua’
s force. It relates the story of an Oahu
man who robbed an owl’s nest: After
he slung the coveted bounty in his
knapsack, the owl-parent shrieked with
grief and complaint. The man felt sorry
and quickly returned the eggs
unharmed to the nest. Not only that, he
took the owl as his god and built a
temple in its honor. Naturally, the ruling
chief thought this an act of rebellion
against the prevalent gods, and
ordered the man’s execution. The
weapon was poised, the man feared
his last breath, and the owls gathered,
darkening the skies with their wings.
Any further action of the king’s soldiers
became impossible. The man walked
free. Pueo-hulu-nui near Moanalua on
Oahu is one of the alleged places
where the awesome battle took place.
(from www.coffeetimes.com/mar98.htm)
Saw-whet owls have whistled to me
near the slopes of Snow Basin. Great
Horned owls on the Green River and
burrowing owls at Antelope Island have
serenaded me to sleep. At my camp on
the Gros Venture River, they
awakened me and I was awash with
peace and gratitude for being able to
hear their wild rune. And even in
Hawaii, the call of “pueo” welcomed me
on the cool slopes on the northern-
most portion of the Big Island and
beckoned the spirit of inspiration and
“aloha” that I so desperately yearned
for. The times that I have seen and
heard owls are too numerous to
recount, but the effects are summed
up by one word: awesome!
The legends and mysteries of owls
have added savor and smiles to my
many adventures, and I hope, thus, it
will always be so!
with me. It is always with a smile when
an owl wakes me up in the middle of
the night.
I remember one time in the Book Cliffs,
near the Colorado border hearing the
faint call of a pygmy owl. I made the
same call and it responded. This
calling back and forth went on for
almost a half-hour, with the owl getting
closer each time. At length, it landed
in the tree above me and called the
rest of the night.
I recounted this story a couple of years
ago when I lead an “owl prowl” tour at
Hardware Ranch and told the
participants “I finally realized I was
doing this calling right during the
courtship period–this owl must have
been very disappointed that I wasn’t
who (or what) I sounded to be!” One of
the ladies turned to her friend and
whispered, “Sounds like the internet to
me!!!”
Some native American legend states
that if the “owl calls your name” your
death is eminent. Owls have called my
name for my whole life, but instead of
creating a fear of dying, they have
brought peace and richness to my life
and outdoor experiences.
On the Big Island, I saw the feathers of
“pueo” near a roost tree during a hike
and again felt grateful for the spirit of
friendship that I always have when I
see and hear them. In Hawaii, the
legends of the owl often involve
protection.
The most famous legend, “The Battle
of the Owls” underscores the aumakua’
s force. It relates the story of an Oahu
man who robbed an owl’s nest: After
he slung the coveted bounty in his
knapsack, the owl-parent shrieked with
grief and complaint. The man felt sorry
and quickly returned the eggs
unharmed to the nest. Not only that, he
took the owl as his god and built a
temple in its honor. Naturally, the ruling
chief thought this an act of rebellion
against the prevalent gods, and
ordered the man’s execution. The
weapon was poised, the man feared
his last breath, and the owls gathered,
darkening the skies with their wings.
Any further action of the king’s soldiers
became impossible. The man walked
free. Pueo-hulu-nui near Moanalua on
Oahu is one of the alleged places
where the awesome battle took place.
(from www.coffeetimes.com/mar98.htm)
Saw-whet owls have whistled to me
near the slopes of Snow Basin. Great
Horned owls on the Green River and
burrowing owls at Antelope Island have
serenaded me to sleep. At my camp on
the Gros Venture River, they
awakened me and I was awash with
peace and gratitude for being able to
hear their wild rune. And even in
Hawaii, the call of “pueo” welcomed me
on the cool slopes on the northern-
most portion of the Big Island and
beckoned the spirit of inspiration and
“aloha” that I so desperately yearned
for. The times that I have seen and
heard owls are too numerous to
recount, but the effects are summed
up by one word: awesome!
The legends and mysteries of owls
have added savor and smiles to my
many adventures, and I hope, thus, it
will always be so!
A DIFFERENT KIND OF CHRISTMAS by Karin Carstens |
The wind blew today, hot and dusty with lots of
fuzzies from Mesquite trees and Desert Broom.
For some reason, it made me think of a day in
my childhood on the plains of Kansas although
in severity, there is no comparison.
The year was 1939 or there about. It was a hot
blustery day, but not so hot that a five-year-old
would stay inside. The morning went well with
the usual bustle of adult chores. After milking
the cows, breakfast was prepared, eaten and
cleared away. The women began weeding the
garden, and the men went off to the barn or
somewhere.
I played with my cat, Boots. He played with a
mouse that he dropped into a bushel sized pail.
I tried to reason with Boots, but he would not
give up the mouse. When I overturned the pail,
Boots pounced on the mouse and killed it. He
carried it away in his mouth. That outcome had
not occurred to me. I considered Boots’
behavior very bad and felt sorry for the velvety
little mouse. It was not a fair fight.
Mid-morning, the adults began to behave
strangely. The men had reappeared, and the
women left the garden. They were watching the
western sky. I looked, but I did not see anything
in particular. On a hot day, the horizon appears
to run in waves from left to right. The waves
never run right to left. Is that not curious?
Even more curious was adult behavior. I was
told to stay indoors. Grandmother and my aunt
and uncle were ripping up sheets into long
narrow strips. They set up a team. While one
tore strips of tough material, two of them were
stuffing the strips around all the doors and
windows of the dining room with table knives.
The wads of material looked very tight. They
were in a terrible hurry and very impatient with
me.
Grandmother got the leaves out for the harvest
table. She used them all. Then she began to
drape tablecloth after tablecloth and even
sheets over the table. The drapes hung clear to
the floor. I wandered outside to play.
It was strange outside too. It was nearly dark
like after sundown but before it is night. The sun
was in the sky, but you could not see it very
well. I could hear the cattle bawling in the big
barn. Usually the cows and the horse were in
the pasture, but I did not see any now. Even the
chickens had gone to coup, and Dad was
locking them in. He scolded me for being
outside. That was puzzling. I was always outside
except at bedtime.
Grandmother was looking for me. She told me
to get under the dining table so I did. It was like
a tent, but there wasn’t much to do, and it was
getting pretty dark under there. Someone
handed in Boots. Boots did not want to be there
so I had to hold him while everybody else got
under the table. We had never done this before
that I could remember. At first, it seemed like fun.
Someone had the wash pan with water in it.
Grandmother wet a washcloth and told me to
hold it over my nose and mouth. When it got
brown spots on it, she would rinse it out in the
pan and give it back to me. I thought we would
be under that table forever. There was not even
room to lie down with the whole family under
there, and they looked like bandits with
handkerchiefs tied around their faces. I
complained. They told me to be patient.
There has never been a lonelier sound for me
than to hear the moans and screams of the
prairie wind. All afternoon the wind howled and
railed at the big old farmhouse while we huddled
under the harvest table. The water in the wash
pan was getting pretty dirty toward late
afternoon. I was tired of having to put the wet
cloth on my face, but all the adults insisted that I
had to use it. They threatened me with dust
pneumonia, whatever that was. It was something
evil. It killed little girls by filling their lungs with
dirt. I was suspicious. I knew adults had lungs
too, but there was no reasoning with them.
Just when I thought we would never get out from
under the table, one of the men came back to
say the storm had passed. He had gone out
and back a number of times before he gave us
that welcome message. He said the sky to the
East was still brown, but he could see the sun in
West. He said it was bad, and later I saw what
he meant. There were inches of dust in the
house. Outside the fence posts were half
buried.
The world outside the tent of the harvest table
was deep with silky dirt. The adults called it silt.
It had sifted around the carefully sealed doors
and windows. No one could walk without kicking
up clouds of dust. The men got out the wheat
scoops and began to shovel out the house. The
women began to uncover things and wash them
down. I sneezed a lot.
It was a long time before the farm looked like it
had before the dust storm; and whenever the
adults started watching the western sky, with
dread in my heart, I watched right along with
them. None of us wanted to see that brown
cloud bank billowing up from the far horizon. I
knew what it meant as well as anyone. When
the wind blows like that there is little we
creatures on the Earth’s crust can do but wait it
out and try to survive.
Mrs. Oliver, the slender lone woman,
elegantly dressed in matching reds, bagged
the lovingly wrapped gifts and sped off to
her daughter's home. A glance backward
brought a sense of regret that soon she
would return and there would be no brightly
lit tree to welcome her. At other times, since
Edward died five long years ago, she would
ultimately relent and go out into the dark
night with Ms. Holly, her housekeeper, to
pick a tree. Her late husband had
proclaimed his choice of trees the best
ever. She had agreed, every successive
year of their life together. This year the
irresistible urge to buy a tree had not come.
“Grandma is here, everybody!” someone
yelled amidst the chatter and laughter of
children. Christmas began once again, and
once again, it was very good.
“Grandma, come let me show you where
you came from!” said young Theodore, her
grandson. He pulled her along to the corner
of the room where he had started his
computer up.
“Oh Teddy, it’s all right, and we don’t need
to do that now,” she said, resisting,
diverting her attention to her daughter.
“Mom, I thought you might enjoy that
program. I’m disappointed,” her daughter
said.
“Well then, let’s go home!” said Grandma,
sitting down at the computer. She felt her
grandson draping himself over her, giving
directions.
“Plug in the name of your hometown,
Grandma!” he commanded. “Now, the
country,” she did, watching the screen, not
really believing.
“There!” she whispered astonished and as
excitement rose so did her voice. “The lake
and the church…!” Her hand, resting on the
mouse, began timidly to explore the wooded
area surrounding the dark, deep-looking
lake.
Out of her memory grew the story of her
childhood as she followed the line, the road
back home. It had to be her home, cradled
in that cove--the cove she had swum into,
paddled into and skated into in winter,
countless times in her youth. Zooming in,
she saw the little uninhabited island on the
lake. It was wedged between her home and
the great church across the lake, just as
she remembered it. Suddenly, transported
back in time to the Christmas’ of her youth,
she began her journey moving about the
map. It all came back so clearly, feeling the
chill of the dead of winter, hearing the ping
of the frozen lake, awakening her through
the open window of her room. The lake’s
frozen surface gave way to freeze yet
deeper in the blue, icy silence of the night.
As she told the story of Christmas’ past, her
other two grandchildren gathered by her
side. They watched with awe as her hand
moved across the frozen lake, taking them
along on Christmas eve at midnight in a
wintry wonderland to the ancient Gothic
Church and home again- as she entered
the old, gabled home of her youth with
them, to the brightly lit room of Christmas.
Once again, she heard the clear, bell-like
laughter of children, mixed with her own and
now grandchildren’s. The room was warm,
lit by candles burning on her first and
everlasting true, Christmas tree.
| (Click on the butterfly) |
| Identity by Kimberlee Medicine Horn Jackson, Yankton Sioux |
One of my favorite authors is award-winning
Sherman Alexie. His writing is filled with
humor, gut-wrenching tears, hope and
hopelessness, and is some of the boldest
writing I've encountered. I like him because
when I read about the rez, I can picture my
own rez. His writing is honest and relevant.
My last semester at Kent State, I asked my
young adult literature professor why Alexie's
book, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part
Time Indian wasn't on the reading list. She
said she was waiting for it to come out in
paperback so it would be affordable for her
students to purchase. I agree with her
willingness to save students some money. I
was thrilled to know she was familiar with the
book. I will contact her to let her know it's out
in paperback now. We discussed how Alexie
had spoken at Kent State during the fall
semester.
I met Alexie and wouldn't you know it, I was
tongue tied. I could have shot the breeze
with him for a while but...well...he's Sherman
Alexie! He was the first person I voiced my
lofty dream of attending grad school. He
looked at me and said. "You'll be one in a
thousand." That he so easily encouraged me
was confirmation that I would one day be a
Native American writer. We need to be
examples of success to one another. We
need to encourage one another to reach for
a higher standard. One of the hallmarks of
Native American Literature are issues of
identity.
Who is Indian and who is not? According to
the government, you must be a card carrying
member of one of the over 500 federally
recognized Indian tribes. Each tribe has
criteria regarding proof of lineage, or require
a blood quantum. The Yankton Sioux, at the
time I was enrolled, required at least one
quarter Yankton Sioux blood, to be voted by
council enrolled in the tribe. Even after I
received my card and enrollment certificate, I
still wondered if I was really Indian or not.
In Alexie's book Flight, we examine identity
through the main character, Zits, a
fifteen-year-old mixed-blood Indian in and
out of foster homes who travels through time
in different important historical periods and
in the lives of urban Indians. In this scene,
Zits finds himself in the Indian camp before
Custer's last stand:
"These old-time Indians have dark skin.
There aren't any half-breed pale-beige
green-eyed Indians here. Nope, unlike me,
these Indians are the real deal...I don't hear
any of them speaking English...even the
dogs seem to be barking in Indian...So
imagine a camp filled with tens of thousands
of sweating Indians, dogs, and horses, along
with what appears to be the rotting and
drying corpses of hundreds of buffalo, deer,
porcupines...and deodorant hasn't been
invented yet...Imagine what that smells like...I
never read anything about the smell of old
time Indians. I never saw a television show
that mentioned it" (61).
Before I reunited with my family, we spoke on
the phone several times. I remember one of
the first questions mom asked was, "Are you
light skinned or dark skinned?" Darkness of
skin is a matter of pride. We have all seen
the movies that depict the "Hollywood Indian"
or the fierce but handsome, well-muscled
Savage on the covers of countless romance
novels, and let's not forget the Indian
princess/squaw. Those are the Indians
people expect to encounter in 2009. Since
there aren't large numbers of us walking
around in full regalia, people tend to
conclude we are extinct.
Alexie is not satisfied with allowing
non-Indians to assume Indians no longer
exist.
Neither am I.
Indian identity is rooted in skin color,
language, connection with culture,
connection with family, stereotypes, facts
and fallacies, sports mascots, casinos and
traditional Indian Spirituality. Then there is
storytelling, reservation life, education,
commodity food, prejudice, racial profiling,
third world country poverty, undeniable
human spirit, warriors, grandmothers and
grandfathers, just to name a few.
We are not alone. Every person who walks
this earth for whatever length of days they
have ponder larger than life questions. "Who
am I?" "What is my purpose in life?" "Is this
all there is?" Wouldn't it make more sense to
hold a mirror up to each other to help?
Dismissing a race of people as extinct is not
helpful, it's a lie. If we lie to ourselves so
easily, how will we ever find these truths?
_FLA8.jpg)
| Bertha Fights Back Book One: Where is Ms. Green? by Fran Lewis |
Excerpt from book:
Everyone in the world has one person that they would rather be around as much as they
would like getting the flu or a bad cold. There are certain people know matter you turn it will
always go out of their way to be mean, annoying, and very disagreeable no matter how hard
you try to be nice to them or to prevent that person from not getting in your face. That person
is my conceited, rude, self-centered, and two-faced cousin Penelope Mia. “I HATE THAT
WITCH! If she moved to Alaska or Japan, it would still be on this planet and not far enough
away from me. Penelope Mia is always trying to make me look bad. I AM VERY SICK OF IT
AND HER! She thinks that she is the most beautiful creature on this planet. Creature maybe,
beautiful, well on the outside and very superficially otherwise she is UGLY on the inside. I bet
her heart is made of black ice and her intestines of solid granite or some other stone.
Therefore, what if she is tall and thin and weighs less than a toothpick. Therefore, what if she
can pick out and eat anyone she wants and never gains weight. I CANNOT STAND HER! Oh
no, here she comes with her very own group
of self- absorbed and self-impressed stuck up girls.
“Hi, Bertha, Wait up. Don’t walk so fast. Oh yeah, you cannot. Wait up I have to tell you
something.” I walked as fast as my legs would go. I have no use for her or anything that she
might have to tell me. She is always making fun of me and tells everyone that I am her cousin
the beached whale from the Bronx. She lives in Bronxville and she thinks because I come
from the Bronx that I am poor, not hip, and even up to date with the latest trends in music of
fashion. I do own a television. I do watch What Not to Wear and Project Runway. I even own
an IPOD with the top 100 hits on it. I do not care what she thinks of anyone else thinks of what
I look like or wear. I AM WHAT I AM AND THAT IS ALL!
I am doing my best to ignore the laughter and the snorts coming from her and her new so
called friends. I think a change is definitely in order. I have had it with being Miss Goody Too
Shoes. I am tired of being that sweet and lovely oversized and over stuffed child with the nice
personality. I am tired of everyone treating me as if I am different because of the way I dress.
I am tired of people calling me names behind my back. It is my turn now to talk about them.
The tables are about to turn in my direction. So watch out. Here comes the new and
improved BERTHA!
Here she come, the one and only miss perfect or so she thinks, Penelope Mia. I have decided
as my first change to disown her as part of my family. Being stuck with such a conceited and
self-centered excuse for a relative was just an accident of birth for my poor Aunt Elisa. Just
look at her walking to school with Casey and Dani who are supposed to be my friends. All
three of them are pretending that I do not exist. See if I care! I do not!
The three clones, as I will now call them are wearing their favorite skirts over black tights and
great hot pink shirts with sparkles and sequins down the front. I am wearing my black pants,
which is my trademark, my white pullover shirt, and my famous ugly saddle shoes for kids with
very flat feet.
They were walking to school together and looked like they were up to something and I was
definitely going to find out what. Following them from a distance, I see them turn around to
make sure that I cannot overhear what they are saying. Penelope and Dani are in a different
homeroom class than I am. My first class is Science. I would find out just what they are up to
and why they keep turning around and laughing when they look at me.
Walking into my homeroom class, I realized that something was definitely going on and I was
beginning to think that I might not want to know what it was. One of the boys, Dan, looked at
me and then at his cell phone and burst out laughing and almost fell off of his chair. Since the
teacher was not there, which seemed odd, no one stopped what was going to happen next.
On the door of the classroom, I noticed a note written by our teacher, Ms. Green that she was
detained and we were to wait quietly until she arrived. However, everyone was staring at me
as I walked to my seat in the back of the room. They were covering their mouths to stifle their
laughs and others were laughing so hard they started to cry.
As I was just about to sit down, I turned around and saw that all of the kids in the class were
using the internet on their phones. Some were sharing the information they found with other
kids. Some were on Face book, My Space or UTUBE. Others were looking at pictures sent
from one phone to the next. Everyone was staring at me. One girl was sharing a video some
had to her phone from Face book.
Since the teacher looked like a no show and no one was there to take control of the situation,
some of the kids went over to see what Dan had on his phone. I saw too. I could not believe
my eyes. What was staring back at me on almost every phone was I! Someone had sent
pictures of me in the girl’s bathroom while I was changing into my gym uniform. There were
pictures of me throwing spitballs and wads of toilet paper all over the walls and floor of the girl’
s bathroom. On the door of the bathroom someone wrote,” BERTHA RULES! Rules what I
don’t know. Maybe, the toilet paper or the bathroom but nothing else or maybe the paper
towel rolls too!
Sitting in Science class, I began to think of how these pictures got on Face book and the other
sites. I thought about where this might have started. Then, I remembered, it might have
started the week before.
The day began as any old weekday. I got up and got ready for another meaningful day of
Middle School. This was not going to be any boring day. Let us begin to recap the events
that led to what everyone was now looking at on Face book. Since, I was now the star of the
show and becoming as famous as a magazine centerfold, you might as well know how and why.
I left for school but not before eating, a double order of chocolate chip pancakes and French
toast smothered in maple syrup and sugar. Walking to school with me was my sister Tillie and
my cousin Annie Sue. They were trailing behind me, as they should. My friends JD and AJ
came up behind me and grabbed my arm. I must have been daydreaming or distracted or
thinking about why I did not have another helping of pancakes to let them sneak up behind me
without elbowing both of them in the stomach. (Just for fun of course). AJ is my best friend in
the whole world. We hang out together and listen to the same music on our IPODS while
walking to school and ignoring Tillie and Annie Sue.
I dropped off the two little ones as I called them at their Elementary School and proceeded to
go to my school. When we got there, AJ went to his homeroom and I went to mine. Now is
when all the fun began. I walked into my room and sat in my usual seat. Just like today, the
Science teacher was missing. The note on the board said she was detained and everyone in
the class should start their morning assignment in their textbook. She had assigned all of the
review questions at the end of the chapter on pages 45-46 and left the homework for that
night too. That was a little strange. If she was going to come to class, why leave the
homework on the board. She usually assigns the work at the end of the class when she sees
what was covered.
Everyone in the world has one person that they would rather be around as much as they
would like getting the flu or a bad cold. There are certain people know matter you turn it will
always go out of their way to be mean, annoying, and very disagreeable no matter how hard
you try to be nice to them or to prevent that person from not getting in your face. That person
is my conceited, rude, self-centered, and two-faced cousin Penelope Mia. “I HATE THAT
WITCH! If she moved to Alaska or Japan, it would still be on this planet and not far enough
away from me. Penelope Mia is always trying to make me look bad. I AM VERY SICK OF IT
AND HER! She thinks that she is the most beautiful creature on this planet. Creature maybe,
beautiful, well on the outside and very superficially otherwise she is UGLY on the inside. I bet
her heart is made of black ice and her intestines of solid granite or some other stone.
Therefore, what if she is tall and thin and weighs less than a toothpick. Therefore, what if she
can pick out and eat anyone she wants and never gains weight. I CANNOT STAND HER! Oh
no, here she comes with her very own group
of self- absorbed and self-impressed stuck up girls.
“Hi, Bertha, Wait up. Don’t walk so fast. Oh yeah, you cannot. Wait up I have to tell you
something.” I walked as fast as my legs would go. I have no use for her or anything that she
might have to tell me. She is always making fun of me and tells everyone that I am her cousin
the beached whale from the Bronx. She lives in Bronxville and she thinks because I come
from the Bronx that I am poor, not hip, and even up to date with the latest trends in music of
fashion. I do own a television. I do watch What Not to Wear and Project Runway. I even own
an IPOD with the top 100 hits on it. I do not care what she thinks of anyone else thinks of what
I look like or wear. I AM WHAT I AM AND THAT IS ALL!
I am doing my best to ignore the laughter and the snorts coming from her and her new so
called friends. I think a change is definitely in order. I have had it with being Miss Goody Too
Shoes. I am tired of being that sweet and lovely oversized and over stuffed child with the nice
personality. I am tired of everyone treating me as if I am different because of the way I dress.
I am tired of people calling me names behind my back. It is my turn now to talk about them.
The tables are about to turn in my direction. So watch out. Here comes the new and
improved BERTHA!
Here she come, the one and only miss perfect or so she thinks, Penelope Mia. I have decided
as my first change to disown her as part of my family. Being stuck with such a conceited and
self-centered excuse for a relative was just an accident of birth for my poor Aunt Elisa. Just
look at her walking to school with Casey and Dani who are supposed to be my friends. All
three of them are pretending that I do not exist. See if I care! I do not!
The three clones, as I will now call them are wearing their favorite skirts over black tights and
great hot pink shirts with sparkles and sequins down the front. I am wearing my black pants,
which is my trademark, my white pullover shirt, and my famous ugly saddle shoes for kids with
very flat feet.
They were walking to school together and looked like they were up to something and I was
definitely going to find out what. Following them from a distance, I see them turn around to
make sure that I cannot overhear what they are saying. Penelope and Dani are in a different
homeroom class than I am. My first class is Science. I would find out just what they are up to
and why they keep turning around and laughing when they look at me.
Walking into my homeroom class, I realized that something was definitely going on and I was
beginning to think that I might not want to know what it was. One of the boys, Dan, looked at
me and then at his cell phone and burst out laughing and almost fell off of his chair. Since the
teacher was not there, which seemed odd, no one stopped what was going to happen next.
On the door of the classroom, I noticed a note written by our teacher, Ms. Green that she was
detained and we were to wait quietly until she arrived. However, everyone was staring at me
as I walked to my seat in the back of the room. They were covering their mouths to stifle their
laughs and others were laughing so hard they started to cry.
As I was just about to sit down, I turned around and saw that all of the kids in the class were
using the internet on their phones. Some were sharing the information they found with other
kids. Some were on Face book, My Space or UTUBE. Others were looking at pictures sent
from one phone to the next. Everyone was staring at me. One girl was sharing a video some
had to her phone from Face book.
Since the teacher looked like a no show and no one was there to take control of the situation,
some of the kids went over to see what Dan had on his phone. I saw too. I could not believe
my eyes. What was staring back at me on almost every phone was I! Someone had sent
pictures of me in the girl’s bathroom while I was changing into my gym uniform. There were
pictures of me throwing spitballs and wads of toilet paper all over the walls and floor of the girl’
s bathroom. On the door of the bathroom someone wrote,” BERTHA RULES! Rules what I
don’t know. Maybe, the toilet paper or the bathroom but nothing else or maybe the paper
towel rolls too!
Sitting in Science class, I began to think of how these pictures got on Face book and the other
sites. I thought about where this might have started. Then, I remembered, it might have
started the week before.
The day began as any old weekday. I got up and got ready for another meaningful day of
Middle School. This was not going to be any boring day. Let us begin to recap the events
that led to what everyone was now looking at on Face book. Since, I was now the star of the
show and becoming as famous as a magazine centerfold, you might as well know how and why.
I left for school but not before eating, a double order of chocolate chip pancakes and French
toast smothered in maple syrup and sugar. Walking to school with me was my sister Tillie and
my cousin Annie Sue. They were trailing behind me, as they should. My friends JD and AJ
came up behind me and grabbed my arm. I must have been daydreaming or distracted or
thinking about why I did not have another helping of pancakes to let them sneak up behind me
without elbowing both of them in the stomach. (Just for fun of course). AJ is my best friend in
the whole world. We hang out together and listen to the same music on our IPODS while
walking to school and ignoring Tillie and Annie Sue.
I dropped off the two little ones as I called them at their Elementary School and proceeded to
go to my school. When we got there, AJ went to his homeroom and I went to mine. Now is
when all the fun began. I walked into my room and sat in my usual seat. Just like today, the
Science teacher was missing. The note on the board said she was detained and everyone in
the class should start their morning assignment in their textbook. She had assigned all of the
review questions at the end of the chapter on pages 45-46 and left the homework for that
night too. That was a little strange. If she was going to come to class, why leave the
homework on the board. She usually assigns the work at the end of the class when she sees
what was covered.
| The Land We Shall Call Home EXCERPT Part 1 – A Birthday like No Other Chapter 1 The Gift by Patricia Atchison |
When Sadie Elizabeth Upton awoke the
morning of her eleventh birthday, August 12,
1936, she had an itchy palm. She figured it
had to be a sign. Her brother Charles once
told her an itchy palm meant either money
would be coming her way, or her life was
about to change.
Sadie scratched hard at the itch while
studying the faded kitchen walls. This little
alcove in the small apartment showed its age
with dirt and old wall paper. The spindly cot
beneath her body threatened to collapse with
each swipe of her nails. Thinking on what
Charles had said, she knew without doubt
money would never come their way. Could her
life change?
Of course there was one other explanation,
Sadie thought inspecting her palm. A bed bug
may have done its dirty deed and bitten her
while she slept. Dawn’s early light crept
across the walls where last night’s hungry
crawlers scurried back into their tiny holes.
Heavy footsteps on the landing chased Sadie’
s thoughts away. She rolled off the cot and
folded her blanket with a snap of her elbows
and wrists. She stowed the cot behind the
settee. The blankets’ home was on a shelf
behind the faded curtain in the hallway.
The door banged open and in walked her
father, Robert Upton. Sadie eyed the dirty
sack of coal he carried over one shoulder.
She had asked him before why she couldn’t
go with him to the coal pits. He usually joked
that he couldn’t double ride her on his bicycle
and carry a heavy sack at the same time.
Other days he said it wasn’t the place for a
lass. Shoveling through the slag heap was a
grubby mess. Besides, it was his job as man
of the house to bring home fuel for the
fireplace. Sadie got the dustpan and broom
and brushed yesterday’s ashes off the grate.
“Aw, there’s me birthday lass.” Her father
emptied the coal into the fireplace.
“Eleven it is today, then. Such a big girl now.”
Father’s eyes gleamed when he reached into
his coat pocket and pulled out a small brown
paper package.
“This is for you, then.”
“I never expected a present.” Sadie said as
she accepted the precious gift. “Thank you
Father.”
“Oh Sadie girl, it isn’t from me.” His eyes lost
their brightness. “I’ve sent Charles down to
the corner store with a penny to get us some
butter and treacle for our bread. Today you
shall have a jolly breakfast in celebration of
your birthday. Blast it, where is that boy?”
“But if not from you, who is this from?” Sadie
turned the packet around in her hand.
“Your Grandmother. I met her down the road
doing her morning shopping. Just about ran
her over as she crossed the street. She’ll be
over this afternoon.”
“Shall I open it now?”
“Go on then.” Father waved impatiently.
Sadie untied the string and pulled at the
paper. Inside was a white box. Lifting the lid,
she saw a pendant nestled on top of a piece
of cotton. The pendant was a steamship
made of white china, with two black masts. A
long pin across the back with a ring clasp
would hold it in place on a cardigan.
“It’s so beautiful,” whispered Sadie.
Her father stole a quick glance at the piece.
He nodded, striking a match to light the coal.
“But why would Nana give me such a gift?”
Sadie asked.
“Not sure.” Her father stood and arched his
back. “Blast it, where is your brother?”
Sadie heard the edge in Father’s voice and
didn’t press. Still, she wondered why Nana
Doris gave the pin to her. Maybe she had
been on a ship before. Thinking of the
grandness of that overwhelmed Sadie. She’d
have to be patient and wait until she could
talk to Nana this afternoon. Oh that would be
hard to do. She scratched her palm again.
She’d just have to keep herself busy until
then.
| This excerpt is from a juvenile fiction, historical manuscript, targeted for ages 8 to 12 based upon Kingsley Fairbridge’s ‘Vision Splendid’ titled, The Land We Shall Call Home. This story involves siblings, Sadie and Charles, who must leave Newcastle-Upon- Tyne, England in 1936 when their father decides he cannot care for them and solicits the help of the Fairbridge Society. The reader will engage in the emotional journey with Sadie and Charles as they leave England forever and make their way to the Prince of Wales Fairbridge Farm School, their new home in Canada. This story starts at the beginning of the change in the children’s lives, and lends itself to a sequel as they settle into daily life at the farm school. |
| The Asquinn Family Saga The James Bay Frontier by Grace Brooks http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/TJBF.htm |
Chapter Thirty-One
“I’ve been a dunce,” Matt said.
This brought a chuckle from Erma, and a ripple of laughter throughout the congregation.
“No, seriously. I have been a half-wit. For ten years I willingly allowed Satan’s cunning ways
fool me into thinking I was having a good time. I can only thank God I did not get hooked on
any of those senseless drugs. I cheated on my lovely and long suffering wife, I took God’s
name in vain.”
His voice broke. Tears glinted in the corners of Erma’s eyes. “Can you imagine that? I took
God’s holy name in vain. And for what? But through it all my tolerate wife stayed with me; She
prayed for me. Martha my beloved, when you get to heaven that’s when you will fully
understand how profitable these prayers were.
I know my dreams were lofty, but fame and fortune came to nothing. Like Brother Ken, I did not
once stop to seek God’s approval of my plans. Then all that other stuff, including money and
position, lost its appeal. I can tell you now that God has steered me in the direction I should go.
I feel a lot more blessed and richer now that I’m walking again in harmony with God. I have
great rapport with my wife and sweeter relationships with my sons and now a daughter. This is
what truly makes a man rich in this life.”
“Amen,” said Pastor Asquinn and several others.
“Martha, I am sorry for all the heartache and loneliness I caused you. I thank God continuously
for giving me a Christian wife. I know when we married, I bought you a very expensive wedding
ring and fooled myself into thinking I did my duty towards you. I’ve since learned that rings are
merely a symbol, only God can unite and make a couple.
I have a message to pass onto any young man. Start now to pray for God to send you a
Christian wife. I did, and I’m glad. God chooses each partner a man or woman is to marry; God
makes a couple, and after that he adds the family. These are rich blessings and should not be
taken lightly. It’s only by the grace of God I didn’t continue in my folly and die in my sins. God
was merciful enough to include me in His way of salvation and when His son decided I’d
strayed enough, held out his hand and lifted me back into the joy of His salvation; And here I
am, a picture of God’s grace. God has a pattern for us to live by and it’s written for us all to
follow in this book,” he held up an open Bible. “From now on, I will use this as my guide.”
Erma's heart felt warm and fuzzy as she realized Ken was first with the “amens.”
Through, Matt returned to his seat where Martha waited. They embraced each other and
kissed. Martha included their two sons and daughter in this embrace.
“Do you have anything to add, Martha?” Erma heard her husband ask.
“I have no regrets, Dad.”
“Not one of us should have regrets in the outcome of these two men's’ lives. They stumbled
and have suffered the consequences. Thank God, they didn’t fall for good. I firmly believe
because of what these two went through they both came out with a greater and stronger
testimony. I’m privileged to know two such fine men and the women that loved and stood by
you no matter how rough you made the road for them. This proves, further, my theory we
need our own school to teach and train our children. Matt, I am certain your parents witnessed
this blessed event. They are looking down on us now and rejoicing.”
“Thank you, Pastor Asquinn.”
“Thank you, Dad.”
“Ken, and Matt should be restored to the fellowship of Golden Ridge Baptist Church,” Pastor
Asquinn said. “Those that agree raise your hands.”
Pastor Asquinn looked around. “Unanimous. Ken, Matt both of you are of good standing
in this church. Matt, if you are interested, you can have the position of musical director and
song-leader back.”
“Sure, I’m interested. If Ken’s interested in being my assistant.”
Ken nodded.
“But,the two of you have yet to be baptized. Charlotte, and Martha, that includes you two,”
Pastor Asquinn said.
“We can do that in the summer when the lake water is warm,” Matt said and Ken and the girls
agreed.
***
Erma arrived at her husband's side, where Mr. Greene sat during morning church service.
During the service Erma noticed Chester Greene’s actions. The elderly gentleman appeared
to have something bothering his conscience; he could not sit still in his seat. He shook and
trembled.
“I feel God telling me I need to be repent of my sins,” Erma heard Chester say.
Pastor Asquinn asked softly, ”Are you clear on the plan of salvation? I mean God’s plan of
salvation. This doesn’t happen like magic, you must know.”
“I know there is no other way to be saved but through Jesus Christ. The Father sent him to die
on the cross for my sins; we are bought and redeemed through His shed blood on the cross.”
“I believe you do,” Pastor Asquinn answered.
“Astonishing, isn't it? He’s used Ken's, and Matt’s lives to help show me how awful my life has
been,” Mr. Greene said. “And, through your unwavering preaching, I have come to know the
true way of salvation. Jesus died to save the elect, through the drawing to Him by the Holy
Spirit.”
There was much rejoicing from church members as one sinner came home; there was also
much rejoicing among the angels in heaven as The Great Shepherd sought, and found,
another of His own, and brought him home. Now there were five to baptize, Erma said to
herself.
Excerpt from Rie Sheridan Rose's latest novel SIDHE MOVED THROUGH THE FAIRE |
“Shh…quiet! If they catch you, they’ll pull your wings off and feed you to the witches!”
“Shut your gob, you git! They don’t suffer witches. More like put us in cages and charge
tuppance to see the beasties. But I ain’t afeard.”
“You should be. Fae aren’t welcome here.”
“Maybe they ain’t never seen our like. Makes folk nervous. They’d learn better if the King
would let us be seen.”
“Still your tongue, fool!” Aisling glanced over her shoulder nervously, her iridescent wings
trembling at the thought of what would happen to her lack-wit of a brother if the King or one of
his court heard him talk so.
Ailill sniffed. “What’s foolish is that we have to skulk around like shadows in our own country so
as not to be seen by the mortals. What’s the harm in learning more about them? Can’t we all
just get along?”
Aisling shook her head vehemently, hair the color of leaves in autumn cascading about her
shoulders. “They fear the sidhe. Treat us like demons if they catch us about. We can’t just
walk up to them and say hello.”
“And so we cower in the bushes,” he muttered in disgust, sweeping a hand to take in the
cavern-like space under the willow they crouched beneath. “It ain’t fair.”
“Maybe not, but it’s safer.”
“I want to go down there.” Ailill pointed down the hill to the brightly colored market square.
They could hear the din of lively trading going on even in their hidden bower. The smell of
roast meats and fresh baked bread wafted up to them on the breeze. “I can pretend to be one
of them.”
Aisling looked at her brother’s winter pale hair and tilted green eyes. The tips of his ears
peeked through the rough-cut thatch of hair, and his wings shimmered in the sunlight. “Only if
they are blind.”
“All I have to do is pull in my wings and keep my ears covered. Come on, it would be an
adventure. Doesn’t it sound like fun to you?”
“It sounds like a damn fool thing to do, that’s what it sounds like to me.” She sniffed, and ran a
grimy hand beneath her nose. “We shouldn’t even have come this close.”
“I promise, I’ll take care of you, Aisling. Nothing bad will happen. Please…come with me.” Ailill
put the wheedle into his voice that never failed to win her over.
She hesitated. This was the most foolish thing she had ever heard him ask for. To go down
into the center of the human town and try and pretend to be a part of it…but on the other
hand, the market was like a siren call tugging at her heart. The sounds. The colors. The
smells. It was all so…alive!
Life in the sidhe court could be so very dull. Especially for adolescent fae with only a century
or so under their wings. The twins weren’t considered old enough to be part of the council, but
they were considered too old to play with the hatchlings. Even Mother shooed them away in
exasperation when they seemed more underfoot than needed. She had sent them out of the
barrow today with orders to ‘find something useful to do.’
After wandering for most of the morning, they had wound up here, crouched in the dirt
beneath the willow. Ailill was fascinated with humans. He had studied their ways since he was a
tiny hatchling. She usually went along for the ride because he was her brother.
They were a rare pair. Twins were virtually unheard of in the sidhe society. If they had not
been younger siblings of the house, things would have been even worse, but their elder
brother Daragh held the place of heir.
Aisling glanced down the hill again, biting her lip nervously. She did want to go down there. If
she was honest with herself, she had to admit that. But how could they hope to fit in? She
looked at her dress of spider gossamer and moonbeams, and Ailill’s tunic of autumn leaves
over moleskin breeches. They looked about as human as the King’s prize stag.
Ailill caught her glance. “Don’t worry. I have a plan. See there?” He pointed to an isolated
cottage on the other side of the hill.
Aisling followed the direction of his finger and saw that there was laundry spread to dry on the
bushes beside the cottage. “What are you thinking, Ailill?”
“I’m saying we steal us some clothes—loose ones that will fit on over these—and we go to the
faire.” He grinned at her.
“What about our wings?”
“I can pull on a smock over mine. I’ve done it before.”
She glanced at him sharply. “When?”
She saw a faint tinge of color bloom on his pale cheeks. “Never you mind. I’ll find you a shawl
or bit of bed linen that you can drape into a bodice, and you can pull your wings down around
your shoulders like a shawl of your own.”
Aisling sighed. He obviously had given the matter a great deal of thought, and he was usually
right about such things. It could be very exciting….
“Oh, all right,” she murmured. “Let’s go to the faire.”
Rie Sheridan Rose -- the Bardabee Poet
http://www.riewriter.com
| “Trouble in the Park” by Donna M. McDine |
The first day of summer vacation finally arrived. First to arrive at the rebuilt basketball courts I stood
outside the gate admiring the new green and red pavement. I shielded my eyes from the glaring sun
and noticed a sign on the gate: “No playing without a town permit, by the order of Parks and
Recreation, 555-8989.” What the heck did that mean?
As I stood there baffled, Hayley came up behind me. “Hey, Courtney why aren’t you on the courts
shootin’ hoops?”
I pointed to the sign and said, “Cause of this and the gate is locked.”
“What do we do now?” Hayley said.
Bouncing my basketball by the gate I said, “I’m not sure. This is a neighborhood park, why can’t we
just use it?”
“I don’t know. I guess we have to get a permit,” Hayley said.
I rolled my eyes and said, “We always played here before without a permit. Let’s call Parks and
Recreation from my house.”
As I dialed the phone, my heart pounded. “Parks and Recreation, how may I help you?” answered a
woman.
“Um, my name is Courtney and we’d like to know why we can’t play on the new basketball courts
without a town permit and where do we get the key,” I asked.
“We’re trying to make sure only town residents use the park, so a permit is necessary,” the faceless
voice said.
“That doesn’t make any sense. How’s a kid suppose to get a permit? Why can’t we just go up to the
courts anytime we feel like,” I said.
“Young lady, we make the rules for the benefit of the town residents. You’ll have to get a permit.
Good-bye,” she said and hung up.
I slammed down the phone and turned to Hayley. “She totally ignored me because I’m a kid,” I said.
“So can we play?” Hayley asked.
“She said something about rules for the town people. She didn’t say what we need to do to get a
town permit to use the courts,” I said.
We sat in silence staring off into space, I remembered about the time when the 9th graders were
told they couldn’t go on the annual trip to Philadelphia. The kids all joined together and wrote up
why they thought it was important to go on the trip and had all the students sign it. They gave it to
the school and the principal changed his mind and rescheduled the trip.
I snapped my fingers and said, “That’s it, we can write up a petition and have everyone sign it, and
we’ll give it to the Parks and Recreation.”
“How do we write a petition,” Hayley asked.
“We just have to write up a paragraph saying what we want to change. Then we have people sign it
and then we give it to Parks and Recreation. Hopefully, they get our point and change the rule,” I
said.
After research on the Internet for petitions and many attempts to get the perfect wording we finally
finished.
“Come on Hayley, let’s get Margaret and Victoria to help get signatures,” I said.
“Don’t you think we should have our parents go with us?” Hayley said.
“Yeah, good idea. Let’s go get them,” I said.
After hours of knocking on doors and explaining the reason for our petition we had over 150
signatures. My mom drove us to drop off our petition the next morning.
We handed our petition to the lady at the window and explained what it was for.
“Please give me your names and telephone numbers and someone will get back to you,” she said.
My hopes that we would be taken seriously washed away. “I really thought we’d get somewhere with
our petition,” I said, my shoulders sagging like my hopes.
When we got back home we flopped down on the couch. “This is the pits. All of our hard work
wasted,” I said.
Ring. The telephone interrupted our silence. My mom stood in the doorway to the living room and
held out the telephone. “Courtney, the phone is for you.”
I slowly got up from the couch and took the telephone from my mom. “Hello.”
“Hello. Is this Miss Courtney Tyler?” asked a man’s voice.
“Yeap, that’s me.”
“I am Mr. Sharkey, Director of Parks and Recreation. I finished reading your petition. Upon reviewing
it, we agree with your point of view and by tomorrow morning the basketball courts will be open to all
without the need for a permit.”
“Enjoy your summer and the basketball courts,” Mr. Sharkey said.
“Thanks, we will, bye,” I d.
I hung up the telephone and shouted, “Hoorah!” I explained what Mr. Sharkey said. We exchanged
high-fives and hugged each other.
“Hayley, how about we meet at the basketball courts after breakfast tomorrow morning,” I said.
“Sounds like a plan. I can said.
I hung up the telephone and shouted, “Hoorah.” I explained what Mr. Sharkey said. We exchanged
high-fives and hugged each other.
“Hayley, how about we meet at the basketball courts after breakfast tomorrow,” I said.
“Sounds like a plan. I can’t wait,” Hayley said.
Ms McDine writes that many children can become very frustrated by the rules authorities may
institute and do not know how to have their voice/opinion heard on a particular issue. "Trouble in
the Park" is a fictional short story based around the sport basketball. It is intended to help spark
problem solving techniques in children and to show them their voice matters,
Donna M. McDine
Children's Author
Member SCBWI, Musing Our Children & Children’s Writers’ Coaching Club
http://www.donnamcdine.com
| Excerpt from "Mice Don't Taste Like Chicken" by Scott Heydt www.micedonttastelikechicken.com |
Excerpt:
The Destineers and the Legend of
the Netherscape
By NA Sharpe and Bobby Sharpe
All were present: the Keepers of the Realms,
the Alpha of the Centaur nation, members of
the Goblin Congress, Clarion the Elf Emperor,
various representatives of the great Tree
Whisperers and Standing Stones, and the
Fairyherd of the Eminent Council. Even the
trolls and giants had sent their delegates.
A phoenix perched at the highest vantage point
above the rare assemblage, making no noise or
sound, intent on watching and listening in his
characteristic unobtrusive manner. In fact, all
nations of fantasy in the Netherscape had
answered the call to meet with the Great
Council. Never before in recorded time had
such a turnout come to a Council meeting. Of
course, never since its birth had there been a
need such as this.
The sphinx called Myrrh, Guardian of the
Gateway, called the Great Council to order. His
hushed tones commanded attention. Even the
northern Brother Wind calmed his blustery
squall. A fearful and stunned silence fell over
the room.
“There has been much unrest throughout the
Realm. Many internecine battles have left much
destruction and bloodshed in its wake. This
great turmoil is like a cancer attacking our
realm; aggressively growing, multiplying,
spewing tragedy and death as it mushrooms
through our world. In recent days, the Clan of
Ares sen Feear has claimed the Sword of
Eternity as theirs’ alone. That Sword and its
Scarabs of Virtue have represented the
strengths and virtues of all populations of our
Realm since before recorded time. Our world’s
history, authenticated through the Inter-realm
archives, the Cybrarie of the Worlds, tells us
the Ancient One fused the sword with our
Scarabs of Virtue so the Netherscape would
always be ruled with Virtue as well as might.
The Ancient of Days foresaw the possibility that
one day a single nation would try to claim
dominion over the rest. Without Virtue the
power of the Sword is greatly diminished, but
much power still lives within.”
“The ancient prophesy has begun, the brother
winds have taken the Scarabs of Virtue from the
stolen sword and scattered them across our
lands. Our world, our very existence, hangs in a
precarious balance. Our survival depends on
reclaiming the Scarabs by learning their true
meanings and reuniting them with the sword.
The time has come for destiny to be fulfilled.
We need to call upon the destined ones of
Realworld. We need their help.” Distraught
murmurs passed through the room.
Wiliam Derrnz, the Guardian of the Keepers,
answered in his quiet pensive tone, “They are
not yet ready. They know nothing of their
powers or of their destiny. There is much
training to be done; they are mere children in
the Terrane.” His gaze lost focus deep in
thought of another place and time. “I have been
watching them. Their essence is strong, powers
unknown to them course through their veins.
They must be taught to use the energy, to
channel its source. When the time is right….”
Clarion, the Emperor of the Elves protested.
“Can we trust the judgment of those so young?
Wisdom comes with age alone; history has
revealed this truth before. Surely you have not
forgotten the civil war of the second age! So
much bloodshed….so many lives lost in vain.
Our world will not withstand the carnage of
another massacre. There is much at stake
here.”
Demetrius, the Alpha of the centaurs, snarled at
the ancient Emperor. “This is why we must act
now. Time is not our ally. We cannot stand by
and allow Ares sen Feear to continue their
rampage. My race is being slaughtered as
insignificant half-breeds; in all honesty, do you
think the Elves will escape the same
annihilation?” The wind howled its agreement,
the tree whispers whooshed with excitement
amidst the cacophony of the replies of those
gathered.
“Silence!” The Emperor hissed. “Do not speak
to me of slaughter! Are elves not being
captured and tortured into servitude to the
Clan? Those who refuse are being
exterminated. The question is not if something
should be done, but of choosing the best path.
Should the fate of our world lie on the shoulders
of those so young? They are not of our world.
They do not know our traditions, our history.
That is the question before this council, my
dear Alpha. The Guardian himself has stated
these destineers of the Terrane have not as yet
been trained with the knowledge they will need
for a quest of this magnitude.”
“Nevertheless,” Myrrh interrupted “the time has
come. The Clan of Ares sen Feear is
slaughtering any who challenge them and are
the one true threat to the existence of our
world. The Netherscape needs the young ones.
They are our final hope. They must be brought
to our realm before it is too late, before we
cease to exist. Will they answer our call?” The
delegates of all nations weighed the impact of
the ancient sphinx’ words and a deafening
silence fell through the room as all eyes turned
to the Guardian.
The Destineers and the Legend of
the Netherscape
By NA Sharpe and Bobby Sharpe
All were present: the Keepers of the Realms,
the Alpha of the Centaur nation, members of
the Goblin Congress, Clarion the Elf Emperor,
various representatives of the great Tree
Whisperers and Standing Stones, and the
Fairyherd of the Eminent Council. Even the
trolls and giants had sent their delegates.
A phoenix perched at the highest vantage point
above the rare assemblage, making no noise or
sound, intent on watching and listening in his
characteristic unobtrusive manner. In fact, all
nations of fantasy in the Netherscape had
answered the call to meet with the Great
Council. Never before in recorded time had
such a turnout come to a Council meeting. Of
course, never since its birth had there been a
need such as this.
The sphinx called Myrrh, Guardian of the
Gateway, called the Great Council to order. His
hushed tones commanded attention. Even the
northern Brother Wind calmed his blustery
squall. A fearful and stunned silence fell over
the room.
“There has been much unrest throughout the
Realm. Many internecine battles have left much
destruction and bloodshed in its wake. This
great turmoil is like a cancer attacking our
realm; aggressively growing, multiplying,
spewing tragedy and death as it mushrooms
through our world. In recent days, the Clan of
Ares sen Feear has claimed the Sword of
Eternity as theirs’ alone. That Sword and its
Scarabs of Virtue have represented the
strengths and virtues of all populations of our
Realm since before recorded time. Our world’s
history, authenticated through the Inter-realm
archives, the Cybrarie of the Worlds, tells us
the Ancient One fused the sword with our
Scarabs of Virtue so the Netherscape would
always be ruled with Virtue as well as might.
The Ancient of Days foresaw the possibility that
one day a single nation would try to claim
dominion over the rest. Without Virtue the
power of the Sword is greatly diminished, but
much power still lives within.”
“The ancient prophesy has begun, the brother
winds have taken the Scarabs of Virtue from the
stolen sword and scattered them across our
lands. Our world, our very existence, hangs in a
precarious balance. Our survival depends on
reclaiming the Scarabs by learning their true
meanings and reuniting them with the sword.
The time has come for destiny to be fulfilled.
We need to call upon the destined ones of
Realworld. We need their help.” Distraught
murmurs passed through the room.
Wiliam Derrnz, the Guardian of the Keepers,
answered in his quiet pensive tone, “They are
not yet ready. They know nothing of their
powers or of their destiny. There is much
training to be done; they are mere children in
the Terrane.” His gaze lost focus deep in
thought of another place and time. “I have been
watching them. Their essence is strong, powers
unknown to them course through their veins.
They must be taught to use the energy, to
channel its source. When the time is right….”
Clarion, the Emperor of the Elves protested.
“Can we trust the judgment of those so young?
Wisdom comes with age alone; history has
revealed this truth before. Surely you have not
forgotten the civil war of the second age! So
much bloodshed….so many lives lost in vain.
Our world will not withstand the carnage of
another massacre. There is much at stake
here.”
Demetrius, the Alpha of the centaurs, snarled at
the ancient Emperor. “This is why we must act
now. Time is not our ally. We cannot stand by
and allow Ares sen Feear to continue their
rampage. My race is being slaughtered as
insignificant half-breeds; in all honesty, do you
think the Elves will escape the same
annihilation?” The wind howled its agreement,
the tree whispers whooshed with excitement
amidst the cacophony of the replies of those
gathered.
“Silence!” The Emperor hissed. “Do not speak
to me of slaughter! Are elves not being
captured and tortured into servitude to the
Clan? Those who refuse are being
exterminated. The question is not if something
should be done, but of choosing the best path.
Should the fate of our world lie on the shoulders
of those so young? They are not of our world.
They do not know our traditions, our history.
That is the question before this council, my
dear Alpha. The Guardian himself has stated
these destineers of the Terrane have not as yet
been trained with the knowledge they will need
for a quest of this magnitude.”
“Nevertheless,” Myrrh interrupted “the time has
come. The Clan of Ares sen Feear is
slaughtering any who challenge them and are
the one true threat to the existence of our
world. The Netherscape needs the young ones.
They are our final hope. They must be brought
to our realm before it is too late, before we
cease to exist. Will they answer our call?” The
delegates of all nations weighed the impact of
the ancient sphinx’ words and a deafening
silence fell through the room as all eyes turned
to the Guardian.
| Cookie was eight years old. Her best friend was her magic bunny, Fudge, that Grandpa Jell-Roll had given her. Fudge had brown eyes just like hers and brown fur the same color as her hair. AFTER GRANDPA JELLY-ROLL DIED, GRANDMA SUGAR CAME TO LIVE WITH COOKIE AND HER DAD. SHE SPENT THE AFTERNOONS WITH GRANDMA SUGAR UNTIL DADDY CAME HOME. SOMETIMES GRANDMA SUGAR AND COOKIE BAKED TREATS, LIKE BROWNIES. COOKIE’S MOTHER LIVED ON A FARM WITH COOKIE’S STEPFATHER AND HER THREE LITTLE STEPBROTHERS. COOKIE LOVED HER MOTHER BECAUSE SHE WAS SO FUN AND SO PRETTY. BUT SHE DIDN’T LIKE THE FARM ALL THAT MUCH. THE COW POOP SMELLED AND THERE WASN’T MUCH TO DO. MOSTLY, SHE JUST PUT ON MAGIC SHOWS FOR HER LITTLE BROTHERS. SHE COULD EVEN MAKE FUDGE APPEAR IN A HAT AND THAT MADE THE LITTLE BROTHERS GIGGLE. In the city Cookie and Grandma Sugar sometimes took the bus to downtown for shopping trips. Cookie loved it. They always went to her dad’s restaurant, Cafe Stella, for a special treat. When Grandpa Jelly-Roll and Grandma Sugar owned the restaurant it was called the Magic Cafe. Now, Cookie had named it Cafe Stella because she thought Grandpa Jelly-Roll must be a star. She missed her Grandpa Jelly-Roll. He had taught her most of his magic tricks and Cookie wanted to be a magician when she grew up. Cookie had Grandpa’s sign hung up on the wall in her bedroom. It read: JELLY-ROLL THE MAGICIAN BIRTHDAY PARTIES AND Reunions! CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR PARTIES! At Cafe Stella, Dad was the cook and he wore a white cook’s coat and a cook’s hat. When he saw her Dad always yelled, “Here’s my little COOKIE!” Cookie especially liked holidays in the city. The beautiful decorations made her feel like the whole city was magic. Just after school started and the cold wind began to blow the gold leaves off the trees, the city began to have Halloween things with ghosts and goblins up in every store window. Then Thanksgiving turkeys and Pilgrims were everywhere. With the snows of December the Christmas trees and visits from Santa made the city into Magic Land. Every magic dream could be found in the windows of the stores. One afternoon just before Thanksgiving, Cookie sat down at her Dad’s computer to look up more magic tricks. Because she was thinking of Christmas, she accidentally typed in SANTA’S WORKSHOP. As she watched the picture load, Cookie got very excited. Santa had a live camera in his workshop! There were the elves and Santa, too. Santa wore red sweatpants and a shirt with big yellow flowers on it. Cookie nodded to herself. Sometimes she wanted to see flowers in the winter, too. Santa was looking in his huge bag. And in the other hand he was holding a list as long as an unrolled roll of toilet paper! Suddenly, Cookie noticed his bag had a big rip in it. Did Santa know? She looked at the little envelope blinking at the end bottom of the page. “To send Santa Claus an email, click here”, it said, and there was a little hand pointing to the email envelope. She clicked and a blank email appeared on her screen. Cookie wrote: DEAR SANTA, You have a hole in your magic bag. My grandpa taught me how to do magic before he died. Maybe I can use magic to fix your bag. LOVE AND HUGS, Cookie PS. ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS ANOTHER BOOK ABOUT MAGIC. COOKIE WAS VERY WORRIED ABOUT SANTA’S MAGIC BAG. WHEN HER DAD CAME HOME, SHE SAT ON HIS LAP TO TELL HIM ALL ABOUT IT. “Well, Cookie, after a nice big dinner you’ll be able to think on a full stomach,” Dad said. GRANDMA SUGAR SAT A BIG POT OF SOUP WITH ABOUT A MILLION VEGETABLES AND NOODLES ON THE TABLE. “This is a feast,” said Dad as he dipped his crusty bread in his bowl. “So, Cookie, how are you planning to fix Santa’s bag?” “OH, EASY. MAGIC GLUE.” COOKIE SAID, EATING A BIG NOODLE. “That won’t hold, Cookie. It will have to be stronger than that,” said Grandma Sugar. “MAYBE HOT GLUE OR SUPER GLUE,” DAD TOLD HER, SCRATCHING HIS HEAD. “BUT I DON’T KNOW -- IT HAS TO BE SOME KIND OF STUFF THAT STRETCHES WITH THE WEIGHT OF THE BAG.” “Oh, oh. What if Santa wants me to use magic to fix his bag and I can’t?” Cookie said. “What if all the kids on the planet don’t get their gifts?” SHE COULD JUST SEE SANTA ZOOMING OVER HAWAII WHILE BEHIND THE SLEIGH A TRAIL OF TOYS, EVEN HER MAGIC BOOK, FELL DRIBBLING OUT. Grandma Sugar put a dish of baked pears on the table. She smiled at Cookie and her face wrinkled up in joy. “You are such a good magician just like your Grandpa. I know you’ll come up with something.” “I JUST BET THAT YOU DO. YOU‘RE MY LITTLE SUGAR COOKIE OR ARE YOU A CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE TONIGHT?” DAD PULLED COOKIE INTO HIS ARMS TO GIVE HER A BIG HUG. Cookie giggled and said, “I’m a ginger snap! GR--rrrr!” DAD AND GRANDMA LAUGHED. COOKIE WENT TO DO HER HOMEWORK. DAD WENT TO THE COMPUTER TO DO HIS BOOKS FOR THE RESTAURANT. GRANDMA SUGAR WENT OFF TO HER ADULT CLASS. JUST BEFORE BED, SHE WENT TO DAD’S DESK AND LEANED AGAINST HIS SHOULDER. “Dad, can I see if Santa sent me an email? “Asked Cookie. “YES, I NEED A BREAK. JUST LET ME SAVE THIS FILE. I’M GOING AFTER MILK AND ALMOND COOKIES. WANT ONE?” “Oh, yes. Did you make them at the restaurant?” “I MADE THEM THIS MORNING. AND THEY’RE ALL GONE EXCEPT FOR SIX,” SAID HER DAD AS HE WENT INTO THE KITCHEN. “Yummy,” Cookie said. WHEN SHE LOOKED, THERE WAS NO MAIL FROM SANTA. THERE WAS AN EMAIL FROM HER MOM. HER OTHER GRANDPA AND GRANDMA WEISS WERE COMING TO THE FARM FOR THANKSGIVING. WOULD COOKIE SHARE THE TURKEY DINNER WITH THE FAMILY? COOKIE GOT EXCITED AND CLICKED THE REPLY BOX ON THE EMAIL. SHE WROTE, “YES! I LOVE YOU.” SEND! ZIP! IT WAS GONE. All the time Cookie was sleeping that night she tried to think of a magic trick that would fix Santa’s bag. She dreamed of sewing with cobwebs and silk. She dreamed of gluing with tree sap and jelly. Cookie woke up very tired. Cookie shook a few more Cheerios into her bowl. “I always have more milk than Cheerios. Why?” GRANDMA SUGAR SIPPED HER LTEA AND SAID, “I DON’T KNOW, COOKIE, BUT IT HAPPENS TO EVERYONE, JUST THAT WAY.” COOKIE ATE HER CHEERIOS FOR BIT. “GRAN, DO YOU REMEMBER WHAT GRANDPA JELLY-ROLL DID WHEN HE HAD A MAGICAL PROBLEM?” “WHEN YOUR GRANDPA HAD A PROBLEM, HE WROTE IT DOWN. ONCE HE TOLD ME THAT WRITING IT DOWN HELPED HIM TO THINK,” GRANDMA SUGAR SAID. “I MISS HIM, COOKIE. “I miss him, too.” Cookie ran around the table to give her grandmother a big hug. “I love you, Grandma Sugar.” ALL DAY AT SCHOOL SHE TRIED TO THINK ABOUT SCHOOL. BUT INSIDE, COOKIE THOUGHT ABOUT THE MAGIC BAG. SHE ATE HER LUNCH THINKING ABOUT GLUE AND THREAD. SHE PLAYED DODGE BALL THINKING OF THREAD AND GLUE. AND SHE TRIED TO THINK OF A MAGIC TRICK THAT WOULD KEEP THE BAG CLOSED. AFTER SCHOOL GRANDMA SUGAR TOOK HER TO THE DELI WITH HER TO BUY SANDWICH MAKINGS AND POTATO SALAD. WHEN THEY GOT HOME, COOKIE RAN TO THE COMPUTER TO SEE IF SANTA SENT HER AN EMAIL. GRANDMA SUGAR SAT DOWN ON A NEARBY CHAIR. SHE LIKED TO WATCH COOKIE AT THE COMPUTER. YES, AN EMAIL FROM SANTA! “Dear Cookie, I AM SO HAPPY TO MEET A MAGICIAN. THERE AREN’T MANY MAGICIANS ANY MORE. I ASKED THE ELVES AND THEY DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIX IT. I ASKED RUDOLPH AND THE REINDEER AND THEY DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIX IT. I’M VERY GLAD YOU ARE HELPING ME WITH THE BAG. IT’S SO IMPORTANT FOR CHRISTMAS DELIVERY. I WILL MEET YOU AT THE PARK WITH MY MAGIC BAG TOMORROW. PLEASE ASK YOUR GRANDMA TO BRING YOU TO THE PARK AFTER SCHOOL. BRING YOUR MAGIC WITH YOU. THANK YOU, DEAR COOKIE, FOR THIS HELP. HOHOHO, SANTA” Cookie only had one night to work on her magic trick to fix the bag. Dad sat with her while she typed in “glue” to the computer’s search box. There were lots of places to go on the Internet to find out about glue. She also looked for “thread”. Then Cookie went to the site for Magic, Incorporated. She was a member and had gone there before for information. Dad had to turn his head so he wouldn’t see the secret password. She put in her secret password, “candy”, and waited for her answer. WHEN THE BLACK WINDOW WITH A RED MAGIC CAME UP ON THE SCREEN COOKIE LOOKED FOR A SEARCH BOX. WHEN SHE FOUND IT SHE TYPED IN THE WORD, “HOLES”. TWO PLACES CAME UP. UNDER “HOLES”, IT HAD “RABBIT HOLES” AND “SOCK HOLES”. COOKIE CHOSE THE SECOND CLICKED ON “SOCK HOLES”. “I GUESS A SOCK HOLE IS SORT OF LIKE A SANTA CLAUSE’S BAG HOLE,” COOKIE SAID TO HER DAD. To use magic to repair holes in socks, and other items of fabric, use a mixture of silk threads, flour, salt and one part powdered magic dust. Grind slowly in the palm of the left hand and carefully rub along the edges of the ripped object. Hold for five minutes. Repeat seven times. “ICKY MICKEY WHACKY DOOR, BLAM, CLOSE FOR EVERMORE!” Cookie printed out the page and folded it up to put in her backpack. She knew she could save Santa’s bag now. The next day a cold wind was blowing in the city. Both Grandma Sugar and Cookie dressed warmly for their meeting with Santa. Cookie carried all of her magic ingredients in a plastic baggie. When they got to the park they looked around. No man in a red suit. Nor even a man with a long white beard. Cookie ran around under the spinning yellow and golden leaves while Grandma Sugar read from her electronic book. Suddenly, a loud WHOOSH blew through the park. EXCEPT FOR COOKIE ALL THE CHILDREN AND ALL THE PEOPLE IN THE PARK FROZEN IN THEIR PLACES. NO ONE COULD MOVE EXCEPT COOKIE. AS SHE LOOKED AROUND SHE SAW SOMETHING. SHE COULDN’T BELIEVE HER EYES. Santa Clause swooped over the trees in his sled pulled by Rudolph and the other reindeer. The sled screeched to a stop right in front of her. Cookie’s eyes opened wide. “Ho, ho, ho! Cookie! Thank you so much for this help. What a good girl you are to help me. You are helping all the other boys and girls who want a present from Santa. Ho, ho, ho. ” Santa said to her. He really WAS jolly. Cookie grinned at him. “I know how busy you are this time of year, Santa so I’ll get right to work.” Cookie told him, petting Rudolph’s red nose and patting Dancer on her side. COOKIE TOOK OUT HER BAGGIE WITH ITS SPECIAL INGREDIENTS. SANTA TOOK OUT HIS MAGIC BAG. “What can I do to HELP you to HELP me?” Santa asked Cookie. She put her finger over her lips; she had to have quiet to work magic. Santa nodded, knowing just what she meant. FIRST COOKIE POURED ALL THE THINGS IN THE BAG INTO HER LEFT HAND. SHE CAREFULLY RUBBED HER RIGHT THUMB BACK AND FORTH ON HER PALM UNTIL IT WAS ALL MIXED UP. SANTA HELD THE BAG AS SHE RUBBED THE GLUEY, STICKY STUFF ALONG THE TORN EDGES OF THE RIP IN THE MAGIC BAG. Holding the edges together Cookie said, “ICKY MICKEY WHACKY DOOR, BLAM, CLOSE FOR EVERMORE!” “Icky Mickey Whacky Door, Blam, close for evermore!” “ICKY MICKEY WHACKY DOOR, BLAM, CLOSE FOR EVERMORE!” “Icky Mickey Whacky Door, Blam, close for evermore!” “ICKY MICKEY WHACKY DOOR, BLAM, CLOSE FOR EVERMORE! “Icky Mickey Whacky Door, Blam, close for evermore!” “ICKY MICKEY WHACKY DOOR, BLAM, CLOSE FOR EVERMORE!” SHOUTED COOKIE. Santa took the bag and tugged at the spot where the rip had been. “IT LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE DONE THE TRICK, COOKIE. YOU SURELY ARE FOLLOWING YOUR GRANDPA’S MAGIC TRADITIONS. I’LL BE SURE TO FIND THE EXACT MAGIC BOOK FOR YOU ON CHRISTMAS EVE.” SANTA SAID GIVING HER A HUG. HE JUMPED IN HIS SLEIGH AND - SWHOOSH -HE WAS GONE IN AN INSTANT. All the people in the park melted and began to move again. Grandma Sugar sat up suddenly on the park bench. “Cookie, I don’t think he’s coming; it’s getting cold. We should walk back to the apartment." Grandma Sugar called. Cookie ran to her side. “GRANDMA, HE WAS HERE. SANTA WAS REALLY HERE AND I FIXED HIS BAG.” That night Cookie told Dad and Grandma over and over about her meeting with Santa and the magic bag. She got very excited. “AND I FIXED IT WITH MAGIC AND ALL THE KIDS WILL GET THEIR PRESENTS NOW.” COOKIE FELT VERY GROWN-UP. “I REALLY DID SOMETHING TO HELP WITH CHRISTMAS.” Dad chuckled and gave her a hug. “My sugar Cookie.” Grandma said, “I’m sorry that I didn’t get to meet Santa, but I am so proud of you.” “I’m proud of you too. You’re my little Christmas Cookie that’s what you are!” Dad told her as he gave her another big hug. The End |
My Will Be Done by Sean Slagle |
“I just don’t see a way,” Marissa’s mother said over the pile of bills and
forms on the table.
“But A.U. is a top Christian college. Don’t you want me to go to a
Christian college?”
“Of course, I do, but we can’t afford it.”
“What about financial aid and scholarships?” Marissa tried not to
whine, but she was having a hard time.
“It’s not enough. We make too much money for a lot of aid and the
scholarship covers very little of the cost.”
“There has to be a way. Jennie is going and we were going to room
together.” She pulled a chair out from under the table and sat down.
She wanted to cry, but refused to do so at the moment.
“Jennie’s parents are taking out a loan,” her mother said.
Marissa sat up. “Then let’s do that.”
Her mother shook her head. “I don’t see putting you into so much
debt when you’re out of school. A state school seems to be the best
fit.”
“But I don’t want to go to a state school.” Now Marissa was whining
and she didn’t care. Her mother was being completely unreasonable.
She felt as though it was God’s will for her to go to A.U. He wanted
her to get the best Christian education possible. Why couldn’t her
mother see that? There had to be a way to go. Marissa had been
taught to never give up. And this was one fight she would keep until
the end.
“We should pray about it and see what happens,” her mother said.
“I agree.” Marissa went straight to her room and shut the door. She
cleared a place by her bed and knelt. She knew she was doing the
right thing, so she began with a plea. “Please, Lord. A.U. has
everything I need. I know you want this for me as much as I do. Lord,
I don’t care what you have to do, but please make a way for me to go.”
* * * * * * * *
The next two months were a blur for Marissa. The police showed up
one night to announce that her mother had been in an accident.
Marissa and her father had to identify the body. Then came the
funeral arrangements, a flurry of people, the funeral, the graveyard,
the lonely nights, and the will. There really wasn’t much to the will.
Her mother didn’t own anything which Marissa’s father didn’t share
ownership. But the one thing she did have was a life insurance
policy. The money came and was used to pay off the funeral
expenses.
Marissa didn’t care about the money. She wanted her mother back.
She needed her. Many nights she cried herself sleep, praying that
God would take away the pain. In the morning she would wake and
hope that it all had been a dream. She rushed to see her mom in the
kitchen, but she was never there. The days were a daze as she tried
to find the strength to make it through. She also needed the strength
to help her father. She had even contemplated not going to college
for a while. She needed to stay and help him, but when she told him
her plans, he had a different idea.
“I’ve been looking over everything,” he said. “You got accepted to A.
U.”
Marissa sighed. “I also got into State. We can’t afford A.U.”
Her father shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that.” He leafed
through a stack of papers.
“What are you saying?” Marissa jumped up from the sofa and moved
to the kitchen table.
He smiled. “Well, I’ve been through everything and we have the
money to pay for A.U.”
“What?”
“Yeah. No loans or anything.”
“But how? Mom said . . .”
“Your mom had another life insurance policy with her work. She . . .”
Marissa didn’t hear the rest of what her father said. The enormity of
the moment caught her and she felt the room spin around her.
“Honey, are you okay?” her father asked, sounding miles away.
Marissa’s mind continued to spin. She saw her mom sitting at the
table, shaking her head. She saw herself by the bed, praying to
God. She saw her father smiling, ready to pay for A.U. with the extra
insurance money. Her legs buckled and she went limp.
“Marissa!” Her father grabbed her and held her up.
“I can’t go,” she stammered.
The last thing she heard before passing out was her father saying,
“But that’s what you wanted.”
Above is an excerpt from an unpublished YA novel "An Anchor for the
Soul." It’s still a work in progress. Here is the description: Marissa
blames herself for her mom’s death and races down the wrong path
where her life quickly spins out of control. She replaces her friends,
her father, and her faith with the things of the world. Only when life
seems the darkest does she realize she must regain the hope she
lost.
About the Author:
Sean Slagle is a teacher and writer from Indiana. He has been
published in drama, poetry, non-fiction, and fiction. He teaches high
school English and is an adjunct professor at Indiana Wesleyan
University.
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| ALEX the T-REX By C. Cortez |
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! Goes Alex
the T-Rex! “He goes like this, Mom!”
As he “Rrrrroars” with his little hands
clutched to his side to make for the
T-Rex’s little hands. “Rrrrroooaaar!”...Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! …
He stomps to the swamp to tease the little stegosaurus at the lake!
“Rrrroaarr!” He goes with his horrible roar! “It’s my turn for water,
stegosaurus! I’m the king of the jungle, out of the way!” Stegosaurus
steps aside to let him take his drink because he knows that Alex T-Rex IS
the king.
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!....He stomps to the tallest tree in the jungle and
sees the Brontasaurus taking a bite of leaves. “Give me those leaves,
Brontosaurus! I’m the king of the jungle, out of the way!” Brontosaurus
offers his branch to Alex T-Rex because he knows he truly is the king.
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!.....He makes his way into a large cave at the side
of the mountain. Inside veloceraptor is sleeping on her soft nest of leaves
that she picked the day before. “Move over and let me rest, veloceraptor!
I’m the king of the jungle, out of the way!” Veloceraptor gives up her nest
because she knows Alex T-Rex is the king.
Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!....the vines begin to vanish, the trees begin to
shrivel. The daylight begins to fade into darkness. Alex T-Rex stomps into
his Mom’s kitchen…”Give me some chocolate milk! I’m the king of the
jungle, out of my way!” His Mama sweeps him off the floor, and says….I’m
the queen of this kitchen, little man! Put those claws up and stomp yourself
to bed!” as she gives him a hug and kiss. “You are the king of my world,
little man!”
Alex lays in his bed…stomp, stomp, stomping in his dreams!
| Wicked’s Way by Stephanie McGregor |
My sister, Reagan, has really gotten herself in over her head. She’
s only five, so most things are over her head quite literally, but this
is no joke. Reagan has been playing with the devil! To be honest I
think he was always there in the house, waiting, watching, taking
notes, making plans.
We moved into the house on Reagan’s second birthday. As
always, I was stuck with her while my aunt and uncle helped my
parents unload the moving van.
“But I’m ten! I’m in double digits now, almost a teenager. I can
carry the heavy stuff. Can’t Mom or Aunt Molly watch her?” I asked.
Uncle Paul just had to say something, he always does. “Reagan’s
pretty heavy if you ask me. Why don’t you try carrying her up the
stairs so she’s out of the way?” He thinks he’s funny. He’s not
though.
“You’re ten, Michael, and your birthday was only last month,” Mom
reminded me, as if I couldn’t remember my own birthday! “I don’t
want you scratching the furniture. Now shoo!” She said.
After a long and exasperated sigh, I carried Reagan up to my
bedroom. I dragged one of the boxes of baby toys out of her room
and into mine. She now sat in the corner pulling stuff out of it and
dropping it haphazardly on the floor, giving me time to set up my
computer, and have some fun. She had just started talking in
complete sentences and I was having a great time getting her to
say things she shouldn’t.
“Hey, Reagan, uncle Paul is a dork, isn’t he?” I asked.
She stopped mid pull and looked up at me as Loppsy the bunny
dangled in one hand, neither in, nor fully out of the box. “Paul is a
dork,” she repeated.
“Good, Reagie! I don’t think aunt Molly knows yet. We’ll be sure to
tell her, won’t we?” I said nodding my head at Reagan.
“Humph,” she sighed and nodded her head back. “Micyuel, you
will help? Loppsy can’t get out.” She couldn’t say my name right so
in her world, I was “Micyuel”.
“Yeah, just a minute till I get this computer cable untangled.”
“You got Loppsy!” she squealed out of nowhere.
“I have a cable, Reag, I’ll get Loppsy in a minute,” I told her,
turning around. She stood there holding Loppsy above her head
with one triumphant, outstretched arm. “Oh, I see, you got Loppsy,
well done,” I told her.
She looked at me with big eyes and shook her head, “I didn’t get
Loppsy, it was that Mister,” like I should know what in the world she
was talking about.
“Okay then, tell ‘Mister’ thank you,” I said playing along, turning
back to the computer as she thanked “Mister” and continued the
conversation as she introduced Loppsy. Geesh!
We finally got everything moved in and unpacked. The house was
amazing! It was bigger than our last house. There were loads of
places to play hide and seek where Reagan couldn’t find me, but it
didn’t matter how big the house was, Reagan never far from where
I was.
Everything was pretty good for a while. Reagan was getting a bit
better at playing by herself, as she had several imaginary friends
now. Mom had to go back to work, but she only worked part-time.
That meant she was still able to take me to school in the mornings
and pick me up after, too. I really liked life in our house. It was
great, up until Reagan’s fifth birthday, then all hell broke loose,
literally.
Stephanie McGregor
Children's Author
www.stephaniemcgregor.com
s only five, so most things are over her head quite literally, but this
is no joke. Reagan has been playing with the devil! To be honest I
think he was always there in the house, waiting, watching, taking
notes, making plans.
We moved into the house on Reagan’s second birthday. As
always, I was stuck with her while my aunt and uncle helped my
parents unload the moving van.
“But I’m ten! I’m in double digits now, almost a teenager. I can
carry the heavy stuff. Can’t Mom or Aunt Molly watch her?” I asked.
Uncle Paul just had to say something, he always does. “Reagan’s
pretty heavy if you ask me. Why don’t you try carrying her up the
stairs so she’s out of the way?” He thinks he’s funny. He’s not
though.
“You’re ten, Michael, and your birthday was only last month,” Mom
reminded me, as if I couldn’t remember my own birthday! “I don’t
want you scratching the furniture. Now shoo!” She said.
After a long and exasperated sigh, I carried Reagan up to my
bedroom. I dragged one of the boxes of baby toys out of her room
and into mine. She now sat in the corner pulling stuff out of it and
dropping it haphazardly on the floor, giving me time to set up my
computer, and have some fun. She had just started talking in
complete sentences and I was having a great time getting her to
say things she shouldn’t.
“Hey, Reagan, uncle Paul is a dork, isn’t he?” I asked.
She stopped mid pull and looked up at me as Loppsy the bunny
dangled in one hand, neither in, nor fully out of the box. “Paul is a
dork,” she repeated.
“Good, Reagie! I don’t think aunt Molly knows yet. We’ll be sure to
tell her, won’t we?” I said nodding my head at Reagan.
“Humph,” she sighed and nodded her head back. “Micyuel, you
will help? Loppsy can’t get out.” She couldn’t say my name right so
in her world, I was “Micyuel”.
“Yeah, just a minute till I get this computer cable untangled.”
“You got Loppsy!” she squealed out of nowhere.
“I have a cable, Reag, I’ll get Loppsy in a minute,” I told her,
turning around. She stood there holding Loppsy above her head
with one triumphant, outstretched arm. “Oh, I see, you got Loppsy,
well done,” I told her.
She looked at me with big eyes and shook her head, “I didn’t get
Loppsy, it was that Mister,” like I should know what in the world she
was talking about.
“Okay then, tell ‘Mister’ thank you,” I said playing along, turning
back to the computer as she thanked “Mister” and continued the
conversation as she introduced Loppsy. Geesh!
We finally got everything moved in and unpacked. The house was
amazing! It was bigger than our last house. There were loads of
places to play hide and seek where Reagan couldn’t find me, but it
didn’t matter how big the house was, Reagan never far from where
I was.
Everything was pretty good for a while. Reagan was getting a bit
better at playing by herself, as she had several imaginary friends
now. Mom had to go back to work, but she only worked part-time.
That meant she was still able to take me to school in the mornings
and pick me up after, too. I really liked life in our house. It was
great, up until Reagan’s fifth birthday, then all hell broke loose,
literally.
Stephanie McGregor
Children's Author
www.stephaniemcgregor.com
| Excerpt from: The Trouble with Follow the Leader by Barbara Ehrentreu |
"Move it, you flat leaver," Charlie poked Terry in the back forcing her to
move faster. "Follow the line or we'll lose them."
Terry felt the sharp pain from Charlie's finger and the worse pain caused
by the words he said. Flat leaver, that stupid expression they called you
when you left the game too early. Gee, it was only follow the leader and she
couldn't always do the stupid things the gang decided.
"See they're climbing onto the ledge and we're not there." Charlie said.
Terry hoped Charlie wouldn't poke her again. She turned to tell him not to
poke her, but his size made her shiver and she kept quiet.
"Terry, follow me," Sally the girl in front of her said. Sally's hands were up in
the air and she was getting ready to climb onto the ledge. In the distance
Steven, the leader, was jumping down and running through the alley.
Everyone else did the same thing.
"Come on, Terry, jump after me," Sally called out to her as she jumped.
Terry gritted her teeth and leaped. Her feet hit the hard cement and for a
second it hurt a lot, but she ran through the alley behind Sally.
"Run, Terry, or we'll miss them," Sally said panting and turning around to
see Terry.
Sally ran onto the sidewalk and there in front of them was the whole gang.
They had stopped in front of the scary apartment house in the middle of
the street. The house had a big iron gate in front of it with sharp spikes on
top of each railing. The kids played "Red Light, Green Light", and "Giant
Steps" inside the gate all the time. Terry remembered the day she was
walking by this place alone. An old woman who looked creepy had stuck
her head out of the first floor window. She had straggly gray hair and a big
sharp nose. Terry quivered and waited for her to go back inside before she
walked past.
Why were they stopping at the gate? Terry hoped the game would stop so
she could have lunch. Her stomach was rumbling and she wanted a tuna
fish sandwich from Jake's on the corner. She looked up at the first floor
window. It was closed. She let out her breath. There was an opening with a
gate to let them in. But today they didn't use that gate.
"Hey, Terry, hurry up," Sally said as she ran to catch up with the rest of the
line.
"What are we doing?" Terry couldn't see anything at all. She worried that
her turn would come and she wouldn't be able to do what everyone else
was doing. She wanted to leave, but then everyone would call after her,
"Flat leaver, flat leaver," like the last time when she left before the game
was over and the whole gang had yelled at her so loudly she could hear
them halfway up the street. Today it had been her turn to be the leader, but
the rest of the kids wouldn't let her go to the front of the line. So here she
was stuck between Sally, the new girl, and Charlie, the loudest and
toughest boy in the group.
"Hey, flat leaver, move it, the line is moving," Charlie was pushing her to go.
They were almost up to the gate and Terry still didn't know what they were
doing. Then she saw one of the kids slide through the corner part of the
iron gate. It looked easy. You slipped yourself through the little space and
got into the inside of the gate where there was plenty of room for the whole
gang. It was Sally's turn and Terry tried to watch, but Charlie kept poking
her in the back to move and she had to turn around to tell him to stop.
Again, no words came out of her mouth when she looked back at Charlie.
But this time she managed to scrunch up her eyes and glare at him.
It was Terry's turn and she walked up to the corner of the gate. Almost all
the kids were inside the gate except her and Charlie.
"Let's go already. " Charlie pushed her up to the gate. Terry could feel the
scratchy metal on her fingers as she gripped the bars. How can I get
through this little space? Terry thought in a panic.
Terry tried while everyone inside the gate yelled at her to get through.
She put her head through first and it just fit. Terry tried moving it a little
more so she could get her body through too, but it wouldn't budge. She
tried getting her head out of the gate, but nothing moved. Her head was
stuck there.
"What's taking you so long, loser?" Charlie sounded angry and Terry was
silent. The gang would never let her play with them again if she didn't do
this and left.
The kids inside the gate continued to shout to her.
"Come on, you can do it. Just get your body in. You're almost there."
Terry wiggled her body as much as could, but she couldn't get through the
bars. She was stuck. The iron bars were on both sides of her head and she
could smell the bitter iron. Her stomach growled more. Her heart was
pounding.
"No, I can't do it," Terry yelled to the crowd.
"You're just a big baby," Charlie mumbled to her and tried pushing her
through to the other side.
"Leave me alone," Terry finally said to Charlie. Now that she was stuck in
this gate, she wasn't as afraid of him. She had more important things to
think about than Charlie.
"Why can't you move?" Charlie sounded angry and frustrated at the same
time.
Terry's heart started beating faster. The kids inside the gate were looking
scared too. What if she was stuck here forever?
copyright 2003 by Barbara Ehrentreu
Please see the rest of the story at:
http://viatouch.com/learn/storystation/stories/troublefollowleader.jsp
Barbara
http://barbaraehrentreu.blogspot.com/
Red RiverWriters Live Tales from the Pages
| “Remember the Future” BOOK 1 “Children of the Moon” by L.M. Brickwood |
Chapter 1
A Trip To Remember
It was cool and fine on this spring morning. A pale half moon stood
still high in the sky, unworried by the progressing sunrise and the
noise on the ground. The parking lot at the little country inn in
Carter Valley was packed with restless school children. Dr.
Broadbent spoke with a clipped Boston accent. He was the
principal of the ‘Pemberton Academy for Advanced Learning’, a
famous American school for gifted children. “Remember Tom
Fraser, ladies and gentlemen, under no circumstances is anyone
to go near the escarpment. Stay on the footpath, please. Yes, you
over there!”
The culprit quickly stepped back onto the footpath. They all knew
that somebody called Tom Fraser had fallen off the cliff years ago
and nearly killed himself.
“I fully expect to see everyone safe and sound on top of the hill by
lunchtime. The junior grades follow Dr. Naidoo and Mr. Van
Straten please. The senior grades line up to my left, right here.
You will walk with Mrs. Meyer and Dr. Wilkins.”
Dr. Naidoo was so short that she almost disappeared between the
students in the ensuing chaos, but soon everybody stood in their
place and the columns started to move uphill.
Three grade seven children hung back right from the start.
Chryseis Cromwell, Katherine MacDougal and Trevor Huxley sat
down on a bench and watched the other kids file past. Chryseis
had lots of freckles on her cute nose and her blonde hair that was
tied up in a ponytail. Katherine was rather pretty with her long,
auburn hair. She came from England and was as shy as a
dormouse according to the self-confident Chryseis. Dark-haired
Trevor was from Chicago and twelve like Katherine. Both were a
year older than Chryseis and her best friends. Trevor was mature
for his age and a typical nerd. He attended Pemberton on a
scholarship. Although his parents didn’t pay particular attention to
his abilities, a scholarship meant that they did not have to pay for
their son’s education. Since they were divorced, it was more
practical that he went to boarding school anyway. Trevor was a
quiet boy. He loved to daydream when his thoughts would fly on
sunrays beyond the gray Chicago clouds to the African jungle. In
his mind he worked on an alternative to washing machines,
cruised the Mediterranean Sea or traveled back in time to ancient
Rome. Just things people daydream about.
Chryseis was faking a sore ankle now with a suffering expression,
not forgetting the occasional ‘ouch’ and ‘oh, oh, oh’. They had
never done anything like this before, but had a good reason for it.
They would carry out an experiment!
The three of them had been on the bench for only a few minutes,
when one of the teachers approached with a stern face. Katherine
grew nervous and started to fidget. Would Dr. Wilkins buy the sore
ankle?
They explained Chryseis’ supposed dilemma and his expression
softened.
“It just happened, Dr. Wilkins. My foot rolled off that stone over
there.” Chryseis pointed to a random stone on the ground. The
teacher frowned; there was nothing unusual on the ground, but
thankfully Dr. Wilkins liked Chryseis. Excellent student and her
mother, Professor Cromwell, wrote such interesting articles in the
scientific magazine he enjoyed as a bit of light reading at bedtime.
So Dr. Wilkins gave the girl the benefit of the doubt.
“I see.” He said simply and scratched his long nose.
The three conspirators turned down the teacher’s offer to stay at
the inn and wait for the other children to come back in the
afternoon.
“I’d really like to make it for our picnic on the hill, sir.” Chryseis
screwed her face up in quiet suffering. “Maybe I should just take it
slowly. Ouch.” She smiled bravely and whimpered a little. “It’s
getting better already.”
It worked. Dr. Wilkins gave Chryseis his most sympathetic look and
made it clear to her friends that they were to look after her and
especially not to stray from the footpath into the hills - or the cliff.
Then he quickly caught up with his group to help a breathless Mrs.
Meyer herd some students back onto the path. Dr. Wilkins
intended to keep an eye on the three kids, who now began to
crawl up the hill well behind the others. Chryseis Cromwell was
limping a little and had to lean on Trevor Huxley’s arm. This was to
be expected. Satisfied with their progress, the teacher went to the
front of the senior column and soon disappeared behind some
large boulders.
“Phew.” Katherine was relieved. So far so good.
“Okay, so what now?” Chryseis rubbed her ankle and recovered
remarkably fast. “I’m going to get lame for real, if I keep this up
much longer.”
Trevor squinted at the hill and pointed with his chin to the right. He
had already mapped out the ideal site for their experiment.
Unfortunately rather close to the edge they were not allowed to go
near. It couldn’t be helped.
“See, how the path kind of forks over there?”
“Yes?!”
“There are a few rocks on that platform. Good for cover.”
“We aren’t supposed to go anywhere near the escarpment!”
Katherine felt a knot in her stomach. Detention was so
embarrassing and it was just wrong.
“What about Tom Fraser?”
“What about him? He was a silly dork, who’d fall over his own feet.”
A Trip To Remember
It was cool and fine on this spring morning. A pale half moon stood
still high in the sky, unworried by the progressing sunrise and the
noise on the ground. The parking lot at the little country inn in
Carter Valley was packed with restless school children. Dr.
Broadbent spoke with a clipped Boston accent. He was the
principal of the ‘Pemberton Academy for Advanced Learning’, a
famous American school for gifted children. “Remember Tom
Fraser, ladies and gentlemen, under no circumstances is anyone
to go near the escarpment. Stay on the footpath, please. Yes, you
over there!”
The culprit quickly stepped back onto the footpath. They all knew
that somebody called Tom Fraser had fallen off the cliff years ago
and nearly killed himself.
“I fully expect to see everyone safe and sound on top of the hill by
lunchtime. The junior grades follow Dr. Naidoo and Mr. Van
Straten please. The senior grades line up to my left, right here.
You will walk with Mrs. Meyer and Dr. Wilkins.”
Dr. Naidoo was so short that she almost disappeared between the
students in the ensuing chaos, but soon everybody stood in their
place and the columns started to move uphill.
Three grade seven children hung back right from the start.
Chryseis Cromwell, Katherine MacDougal and Trevor Huxley sat
down on a bench and watched the other kids file past. Chryseis
had lots of freckles on her cute nose and her blonde hair that was
tied up in a ponytail. Katherine was rather pretty with her long,
auburn hair. She came from England and was as shy as a
dormouse according to the self-confident Chryseis. Dark-haired
Trevor was from Chicago and twelve like Katherine. Both were a
year older than Chryseis and her best friends. Trevor was mature
for his age and a typical nerd. He attended Pemberton on a
scholarship. Although his parents didn’t pay particular attention to
his abilities, a scholarship meant that they did not have to pay for
their son’s education. Since they were divorced, it was more
practical that he went to boarding school anyway. Trevor was a
quiet boy. He loved to daydream when his thoughts would fly on
sunrays beyond the gray Chicago clouds to the African jungle. In
his mind he worked on an alternative to washing machines,
cruised the Mediterranean Sea or traveled back in time to ancient
Rome. Just things people daydream about.
Chryseis was faking a sore ankle now with a suffering expression,
not forgetting the occasional ‘ouch’ and ‘oh, oh, oh’. They had
never done anything like this before, but had a good reason for it.
They would carry out an experiment!
The three of them had been on the bench for only a few minutes,
when one of the teachers approached with a stern face. Katherine
grew nervous and started to fidget. Would Dr. Wilkins buy the sore
ankle?
They explained Chryseis’ supposed dilemma and his expression
softened.
“It just happened, Dr. Wilkins. My foot rolled off that stone over
there.” Chryseis pointed to a random stone on the ground. The
teacher frowned; there was nothing unusual on the ground, but
thankfully Dr. Wilkins liked Chryseis. Excellent student and her
mother, Professor Cromwell, wrote such interesting articles in the
scientific magazine he enjoyed as a bit of light reading at bedtime.
So Dr. Wilkins gave the girl the benefit of the doubt.
“I see.” He said simply and scratched his long nose.
The three conspirators turned down the teacher’s offer to stay at
the inn and wait for the other children to come back in the
afternoon.
“I’d really like to make it for our picnic on the hill, sir.” Chryseis
screwed her face up in quiet suffering. “Maybe I should just take it
slowly. Ouch.” She smiled bravely and whimpered a little. “It’s
getting better already.”
It worked. Dr. Wilkins gave Chryseis his most sympathetic look and
made it clear to her friends that they were to look after her and
especially not to stray from the footpath into the hills - or the cliff.
Then he quickly caught up with his group to help a breathless Mrs.
Meyer herd some students back onto the path. Dr. Wilkins
intended to keep an eye on the three kids, who now began to
crawl up the hill well behind the others. Chryseis Cromwell was
limping a little and had to lean on Trevor Huxley’s arm. This was to
be expected. Satisfied with their progress, the teacher went to the
front of the senior column and soon disappeared behind some
large boulders.
“Phew.” Katherine was relieved. So far so good.
“Okay, so what now?” Chryseis rubbed her ankle and recovered
remarkably fast. “I’m going to get lame for real, if I keep this up
much longer.”
Trevor squinted at the hill and pointed with his chin to the right. He
had already mapped out the ideal site for their experiment.
Unfortunately rather close to the edge they were not allowed to go
near. It couldn’t be helped.
“See, how the path kind of forks over there?”
“Yes?!”
“There are a few rocks on that platform. Good for cover.”
“We aren’t supposed to go anywhere near the escarpment!”
Katherine felt a knot in her stomach. Detention was so
embarrassing and it was just wrong.
“What about Tom Fraser?”
“What about him? He was a silly dork, who’d fall over his own feet.”
| 13 TO LIFE (releasing with St. Martin’s Griffin in June 2010) by Shannon Delany http://13toLife.us |
Prologue
Rio stiffened beneath my touch, striking a glossy hoof against the floor.
“What, girl?” I asked, still fighting the tangle that snarled her ebony mane.
She snorted, nostrils turning the red of fresh blood. She shook, her long
neck yanking the brush out of my fingers. It bounced off the opposite stall
wall with a thump.
“Rio!” Keeping a hand on her, I walked around to her other side and leaned
down to search for the brush. For a moment everything was eerily still —
completely quiet. Then my dogs, Maggie and Hunter, leaped up from where
they’d been dozing, snouts propped on a bag of feed. They rushed the
barn door, exploding in a fit of barking.
The other horses whickered, voices filled with equal parts concern and
frustration. Hooves stomped, crackling hay.
“What the--?” My fingers danced down Rio’s velvety nose. “Shhh. It’s okay,
girl.” Slipping out of her stall, the fine hairs on my arms stood as if lightning
charged the autumn air. “Everything’s okay,” I insisted as I marched over to
Maggie and Hunter.
They were not convinced. Wedging myself in the middle of the two of them,
I snaked my hands around their collars and peered through the narrow
opening separating the barn’s huge doors. The barnyard was strangely
silent, as if everything simultaneously shut its mouth to stare with fearful
wonder at whatever stalked the shadows. The dogs pulled, pawing and
growling.
The unnaturally white expanse where the barnyard spotlight flooded the
space between the first barn and the house stretched out like a broad scar
before me. Never before had it seemed so ugly and bare — or such a great
distance. A cool night breeze pushed the faint noise of television to me.
Dad was watching reruns of that crazy video show. Would he hear us over
the blare of television if we needed help? The answer hit like a rock
dropping into my stomach as Dad’s laugh punctuated the suddenly calm air
and he cranked up the volume.
I glanced down at the dogs. Crap. I was on my own with only Dumb and
Dumber to help.
My gaze scraped across the yard from the reassuring glow of my home’s
windows to the tall spotlight. I whispered calming words to the dogs —
vague promises of tasty snacks. Huh. Usually gobs of moths fluttered in the
glare of the spotlight, bats darting in and out to catch dinner. Tonight there
was nothing. The air had gone still, but my apprehension made it seem to
buzz with electricity.
I swallowed. A shadow sliced across my field of vision, briefly blotting out
the light and I stumbled back, fingers slipping free of the dogs’ collars.
Maggie and Hunter’s voices blended into a single thin and wavering whine. I
grabbed a pitchfork leaning against the wall and held it before me.
Something shoved at the other side of the door. Nudged the giant door so
it wobbled. The creature whuffled the airlike a hound searching for a trail.
Its nose, nearly broad as my palm and black as the shadow its body cast,
thrust between the doors, nostrils stretching as it sucked down our scent.
The dogs slinked back to me, tails tucked and bodies trembling as I
brandished the pitchfork.
But far more frightening than the huge nose (at the height of my chest, I
realized) was the line of teeth visible between dark rubbery lips. Long and
jagged, they left no doubt they were designed to shred
I sat on my grandmother’s bed holding her wrinkled hand. The skin was spotted with age and
felt like dry paper. Her face, framed with short, thinning, gray hair, seemed serene in sleep. A
few tears trickled down my face. She didn’t have long to live, and I would miss her. On my lap
sat a shoe box filled with Christmas cookies.
I opened the box lid and as the aroma wafted up, memories flooded my mind, and I felt myself
transported back to her kitchen when I was a young child.
“Can we bake cookies, Babshi?” I asked, giving her a hug. It was hard to get my hands around
her. She was almost as wide as she was tall.
“Yes,” she said, one of her few English words. She wiped her hands on a large white apron
which covered her soft, flowered, cotton house dress and shuffled in her slippered feet into the
pantry. I followed.
The old house had only four rooms plus the pantry. Off the kitchen was the pantry, a large
storage room lined with shelves. Here Babshi kept her flour, sugar, canned fruits and
vegetables, and spices like cinnamon, oregano, caraway, and others.
“Here,” Babshi said, handing me the sugar and flour canisters.
I carefully carried them out to the huge kitchen table. She followed with her special spices.
“Cellar,” she said, and I knew what else I needed to do.
Although I hated the root cellar, I took a basket and headed out the door and down the porch
steps to the huge cellar door. Despite the hot muggy summer heat, the cellar was cool and
damp, with its own smells. The sunlight gave enough light for me to walk down the six stairs.
Tall for an six year old, I had to crouch to go through the door and into the basement.
I pulled the string hanging down, and the light blazed. Here, too, were shelves and upon them
sat food which needed to be kept cool. In bins, were potatoes, carrots, and cabbage. In the
corner sat a crock of sauerkraut fermenting. Grandpa’s home made beer was brewing in
another corner. I screwed my nose up as I collected the eggs, milk, and butter, doused the
light and ran back upstairs to the kitchen where Babshi went to work.
Babshi didn’t follow any particular recipe. She kept her Christmas cookie recipe in her head
and added a handful of this and a pinch of that. Year after year, I watched her and never
could figure out how she knew exactly how much of what to add, but the cookies always came
out the same.
She made one oven sized batch one day a week. When they cooled, she put them lovingly
into shoe boxes. Sometimes, she would let me help, but I couldn’t sample them. Babshi never
ate them either. "Christmas," she would say, and close the lid with a soft whoosh of air. Then
she would hide the box. She had shoe boxes filled with Christmas cookies hiding all over her
small house. By the time Christmas came, the cookies were rock hard.
Over the years, I watched Babshi make thousands of cookies. No one else in the family
seemed to care as she got older and had trouble baking those cookies. Each year there were
fewer and fewer shoe boxes stashed away. Last year, I asked her to tell me how to make the
cookies, and she said, “Watch me.” I’d been watching, and it hadn’t helped. That year, I took
notes and tried to translate her “pinches” and “handfuls” into teaspoons and cupfuls. That
was the last year Babshi made cookies. She had her stroke on January 5th.
I made cookies, but they weren’t like hers. Some ingredient always seemed to be missing.
This year, however, I was sure I had them just right. That’s why I was sitting on the bed
holding my box of cookies. I made them just that morning, and I wanted Babshi’s blessing
before I shared them with the rest of the family.
Babshi snorted in her sleep. One cloudy blue eye opened then the other, and she smiled. I
bent down and kissed her brow.
“Hi, Babshi,” I said. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.”
“I brought you a special treat, Babshi. All those years I watched you bake your Christmas
cookies, and you couldn’t tell me how to make them, so I started experimenting. I tried to
make my cookies taste like yours, and I think I’ve finally done it.”
“I try,” she said, holding out her withered hand.
I reached into the box and the smell of fresh baked cookies made my mouth water. I held a
cookie out to her. She took it with her good hand and brought it up to her nose for a quick
sniff. Then she held it close to her failing eyes and examined it. Finally, she took a small bite.
I watched her every move expecting praise at any moment.
“A little dry,” she said at last and handed back the unfinished cookie.
Tears welled in the corners of my eyes. Dry? She thought my cookies were dry! Her cookies
were so stale they were like rocks by Christmas, and she thought mine were dry! I couldn’t
believe it.
“Next Christmas, you do better,” Babshi said. She smiled and patted my hand.
I brushed the tears from my eyes and smiled back. “You’re right. Next Christmas the cookies
will be better.” In my head, I started to plan where I would hide all the shoe boxes filled with
cookies that I would begin making next June.
Santa's Bag by RD Larson |
to send a Kiss
 |  |  |  |  |  |  |
to Robin Falls
