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Hope: A Story of True Friendship

                             1
Barney

In the mists of London, in the middle of the night, you can hear a dog bark.  That dog is Barney.  I am the only one that knows why he howls, and I have permission to tell you.
It all happened a few years ago, when Barney lived with the Millers.  Mrs. Miller was a pale, kind faced woman, who always wore some kind of polka dots.  She had pouffy red hair and blue eyes.  She was a beautiful woman, but the most beautiful part was her clothes.  She had red velvet dresses with white and brown polka dotted collars, which made her look like a red velvet cupcake, and blue satin dresses polka dotted with red or white.  She looked loving, but she was the exact opposite.  She was cruel.
Mr. Miller was also kind faced, but he actually brought kindness with it.  You would expect him to wear suits, since he had a wife with such vanity, but he was a gardener, and he wore casual plaid shirts and baggy jeans. He didn’t dress up for dinner, which his wife disliked.
Barney did not deserve to be treated the way he was, and he was not treated fairly.  He was fed one scoop of food a day, and, unfortunately, it was cat food.
Sometimes, when she was in a good mood, Mrs. Miller would say to herself hopefully, “If that impish dog would just behave…” then she would laugh at the thought.
Barney was really a very well behaved dog, but Mrs. Miller was harsh, and Barney was kept outside. The garbage was his only chance of survival because cat food would never satisfy his ongoing hunger.  He was strong and shaggy with matted black fur over his eyes, and he always seemed to smile even through the roughest of times.  His long fur and short schnauzer legs made him appear low to the ground, and they made it harder for him to move quickly.
The days passed and things went on as usual.  Mrs. Miller straightened the pictures that hung in elegant frames. Mr. Miller fed Barney and went off to work. Mrs. Miller usually stayed inside, watched fashion channels on TV, or stood in front of the mirror and did and redid her hair in preparation for dinner that night. When night came after their daily routine, Barney slept in the garage on the blanket that he had been sold with.  The garage was dark and dusty even in the daytime.  The Millers owned a red Mini Cooper, which took up most of the small garage and was really in no shape for driving.
Sundays were the best day of the week for Barney.  The Millers always went shopping for books, clothes, food, anything.  Barney could go sniffing through bright, red tulips in the spring, dig holes in the snow in the winter, or drink from the marble birdbath in the summer. The yard was a perfect place for a dog, but it had its boundaries, and Barney knew it. There was a paved walkway that led to a pleasant-looking, three story house. On either side were little garden gnomes placed neatly against the pavement. Right behind the rows of gnomes were wide, grassy lawns that stretched all the way around the house. On the lawn to the right was an antique marble birdbath. The Millers had won it at an auction and were very proud of it.
The best part about Sundays was that Barney could visit Queenie, the next-door neighbor’s pup. She was also black, but she was a tall Labrador retriever. She was proud-looking with her head held high, and she always strode with long, thin legs.
One rainy, autumn Sunday, Mr. and Mrs. Miller took the Rovers, Queenie’s owners, shopping. Mr. and Mrs. Rover were very pet friendly, and they adored their dog almost as much as a child, of which they had none.  As the four neighbors got into the car, Mrs. Miller asked,
“What do you plan buying today?”
“Dog food,” said Mr. Rover flatly.
“And a new dog bed,” added Mrs. Rover rather enthusiastically.
“How overly kind you are to Queenie!” exclaimed Mrs. Miller. “Cat food suits Barney fine.  Did you see how plump he is?”
“You sound like you were preparing to eat him,” remarked Mr. Rover.
“Oh, I could never do that,” Mrs. Miller laughed.
“He would make a fine feast if he didn’t smell like garbage,” she added to herself.
As the friends drove around the corner, Queenie pawed at a decaying fence panel.
Why didn’t she go around front and into my yard?  Barney wondered.
I was lost on that too, until he mentioned that Queenie had noticed both gates were locked.
When Queenie finally got the panel loose, Barney was impatient.  He was running around the antique marble birdbath, which was overflowing with rain.  Queenie just had to join in the fun, and soon it was a game of who could stay the closest to the other’s rear end.  A robin flew lightly onto the elegant birdbath to bathe, or rather to practice swimming.  Neither Barney nor Queenie noticed the bird’s helpless efforts to stay afloat as giant raindrops plopped into the yard.

Soon the dogs got tired of chasing each other. Many other birds had gathered in the birdbath, and the two furry friends decided to chase birds instead.  Queenie stuck her nose in the detailed bowl of the birdbath and scared away half the birds while others boldly struggled to stay afloat. Barney, following his friend, tried to jump into the birdbath. Being an inexperienced jumper, he was unable to propel himself off the ground, and crashed into the birdbath instead. To Barney’s surprise, the birdbath tipped! Barney had only intended to get the birds away from the birdbath. Barney knew he would get in trouble for the mess. All of a sudden the birdbath seemed so precious.
I am not supposed to touch it.  Why were the birds allowed in?  I didn’t mean to cause all this trouble, Barney thought to himself.
Suddenly, Barney’s thoughts turned completely away from the birdbath. There was a little, round garden gnome wearing a big smile, a red shirt, and over his little porcelain legs, blue pants.  It was lying on its side and could easily be destroyed by the rain.  Barney cautiously picked it up in his mouth.  Queenie went over to see her friend’s newfound discovery.  She bumped Barney’s shoulder and the porcelain figure fell to the ground with a thump.  Barney quickly scooped the gnome up again and went to find a safer place for it. Queenie was excited.  She took the gnome from her pal and ran all around the yard.  All her running splashed mud on the house.  Barney was frantic.  If Queenie dropped the gnome it would break, and Barney would be blamed. He was sure.
Barney ran as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.  Queenie whizzed around behind him and screeched to a halt.  Barney turned around and yapped at his naughty friend.  Queenie had no idea what was going on.  If only dogs would listen to each other.  Queenie opened her mouth.  The gnome fell to the ground.
It was like the worst part of a nightmare, and Barney’s nightmare didn’t end. As the precious figure fell to the ground, Barney winced. Queenie looked at him in curiosity. What was so bad?  The gnome fell to the ground.  Barney whimpered.

CRASH!

Although Barney’s eyes were closed he could tell that little splinters of porcelain scattered around the yard were remains of the precious garden gnome.
Furiously, Barney howled. It was a deep, sorrowful howl, a howl of longing, for he knew what would happen.

                              2
BARNEY’S FATE

One afternoon Mr. Miller went upstairs to find his wife posting a picture of Barney on a piece of paper that read:

TERRIBLY NAUGHTY
DOG
FREE

Mr. Miller looked at the floor.  There were at least twenty of the same flyers.
“You can’t do-,” he began.
“Yes I can.  Period.”  Mrs. Miller made it final.
Mr. Miller could have protested. Why he didn’t, I don’t know.  He could have been frightened.  I know I would have been.
“Um-uh-I—I-I’ll go h-h-hang these p-posters up.”  He stammered.
He wanted to go outside and just get rid of the flyers. No one would know Barney was supposed to leave, but Mrs. Miller saw the gears turning in his head, pieces of the plan fitting together like a puzzle in his mind. “I am fine, thank you very much,” she said as if there was no suspicion in the air. Disappointed, Mr. Miller went outside to say goodbye to Barney.
As Mr. Miller snuggled his dog, Barney thought back to when the Miller’s car pulled up the driveway. The terrible memory played in his mind like a movie. He remembered the distant rumbling of a most dreaded car, a sound he never wanted to hear again. He remembered how the color had drained from Mrs. Miller’s face when she got out of the car and saw the yard, how she had rushed inside with a flustered Mr. Miller following closely behind. He remembered the worst memory of all: How Queenie had jumped through the fence and betrayed Barney, leaving him with all the blame.
Mr. Miller stroked Barney’s back.
“You already know, don’t you old pal, you already know you have to leave.”
It was a very sad hug, but it comforted Mr. Miller and Barney, and they both wanted to stay there forever. Then Mrs. Miller stormed outside.
“Don’t tell that dog it’s all right!” Mrs. Miller screamed.
“It’s not all right! I will not let him get away with this! Now, John!” Mrs. Miller directed the last part of her fit towards her husband.
“Go check with everybody on the surrounding blocks if we can post fliers on their fences.”
When Mr. Miller had left, Mrs. Miller put an old collar around Barney’s neck, and using a dusty, moth-eaten leash, she tied him to the fence.
Then she taped a flier to the fence.
Meanwhile, Mr. Miller was talking with the Rovers.
“I can’t believe she’s doing this!” exclaimed Mrs. Rover.
“And you must make haste, you know how much your wife can do in a small amount of time. I would not like a poster on my fence,” Mr. Rover said gravely.
“Yes, I’ve noticed how quickly Jane can work when she’s determined,” Mr. Miller hurried off.
Next door, Mrs. Miller was busy, just as the Rovers had said. Mr. Miller came panting into the yard, just as his wife was tightening the collar around Barney’s neck. He had come home much too soon for Mrs. Miller. When she saw him, she quickly let go of the collar and pretended she was just petting Barney. It comforted her, just petting someone, even if she was furious at them. As Mrs. Miller ran her fingers through the thick, knotted fur, on Barney’s back, she felt no pity. It hadn’t been combed for two years, and now, more than ever, Mrs. Miller felt it should never be combed again.  Her heart was still pounding with fury.  Barney wished that Mrs. Miller would one day stroke his back with affection.  He knew that some wishes don’t come true in the blink of an eye, and this one wouldn’t come true in a million years.  He hoped one day he would feel the soft bristles of a brush on his back, the way he once had in a veterinary clinic years ago.  He hoped one day he would be welcomed into a warm house with someone to play with in the summer.  His heart pounded with the anxiety of the future.  Mr. Miller hoped Barney would find a good home before long, so a loving family would comb him and tend to all his cuts and bruises.  He was upset and grieving, for his wife had never revealed her dark side.  His heart was pounding with fear.  Weeks passed and no one wanted Barney.  Mrs. Miller refused to buy cat food, and she unknowingly removed Barney’s source of food when she moved the garbage inside.
During those weeks, the regular mailman took a vacation.  The substitute mailman hated dogs, especially small ones, such as Barney.  After one week, the mailman could not stand seeing that little terrier, who shied away each time he passed, whose eyes seemed to say, “Help me.” One day, as the substitute mailman passed the house he most dreaded, he saw a lady in her early fifties, with red hair pulled tightly back, wearing a brown dress with orange polka dots and sitting in a deck chair.  She was not dressed properly for the season, for her cherry trees were in full bloom, and she looked more like a dead oak.
“Hello ma’am,” the mailman said.  “You know that dog of yours,” he continued.
“Yes, he’s really been on my nerves lately,” said Mrs. Miller, sipping a glass of cold lemonade casually, very un-Mrs. Miller-ish.
“I highly suggest you get rid of that dog,” the substitute began formally.  “He disturbs me with howls, and I can see he is of no use to you.”  He finished as if he had planned the whole thing, like a short speech at a wedding.
That night, Mrs. Miller tossed and turned, thinking about what the mailman had said.  She listened to Barney’s howl, and when she could take it no longer, she sat up in her bed and screamed, “That dog is of no use to me!”
Mr. Miller mumbled in his sleep and resumed a gentle snore.
“You’re just as useless!” Mrs. Miller screamed again.
Barney stopped howling and picked up his ears, listening for more sounds in the bedroom.  After awhile, he decided to keep howling to comfort himself.  In the morning, Mrs. Miller’s mood had grown worse.  After she had rushed Mr. Miller out of the house, she scooped up Barney and rushed angrily out of the house.  Barney glanced longingly back at the house, it’s smooth, brick walls, the white door he never saw the other side of, the brass numbers, “246”, nailed in a straight row on its smooth, white surface.  As Mrs. Miller hastily turned the corner, Barney looked hopefully behind him at the street sign that read, Rosemary Road.
Rosemary Road, Barney thought to himself, the road with the homeliest homes. (Now the place of no return!)
Mrs. Miller walked and walked until her heels were blistered through long, thick, laced stockings.  When she could take it no longer and called for a taxi, Mrs. Miller was holding Barney by the scruff of his neck.  When the taxi came, Mrs. Miller walked in as if she were a princess, and then dropped Barney on the seat next to her.  The most Mrs. Miller could do was eye Barney with great distaste.
“Stones End Street, please.”  The driver gasped, but did not comment.
Stones End Street had a bad reputation.  When I told my friends at school I was moving there, they acted as if I were going to die.
“I heard no one lives there,” said my best friend, Tanya.
“My sister said somebody was killed there,” gasped Eleanor, whose sister used to know everything.
“There are monsters under every bed!” shrieked Sonya, who was terrified of anything under the bed.
Actually, I no longer regret living there.
As Mrs. Miller reached Stones End Street, she was delighted at how dismal it was.  “Perfect for you, stinker,” she muttered under her breath, a wicked smile on her face.  Evil was overcoming Mrs. Miller, but as soon as Barney was out of her sight for good, she would be back to her old, proper, straight-laced self. She dropped Barney, and suddenly she felt lighter. No, not exactly lighter, more empty. She felt as if a part of her had been taken away. To Mrs. Miller, Barney was like a burden she was very happy to get rid of. In fact, she wished no one would ever love Barney and that he would become so weak and unwanted that he would just disappear.
Now, I was watching all of this through my window, and I was very surprised to see a lady dressed in petticoats and white-laced stockings (and probably a layer of under skirts and pantyhose) on my street.  Mrs. Miller was particularly fancy that day.  She was wearing a reddish-brown dress and a brown and white polka dotted petticoat on top.  Her long, laced, white socks were pulled all the way up to her crisp, wrinkle-free pantaloons.  When I saw her drop Barney, I gasped, but did not say anything.  I was sure one of my family members would see to calling the cops or the pound.
“Beth Anne!  Finish your homework!  We haven’t got all day!” My mother scolded.
I quickly turned away from the window.  Who was that lady anyway?  What kind of dog was that?  Even though I concentrated as hard as I could, my thoughts kept straying from my spelling words.  That night I had a dream about the dog.  I had taken the dog into our apartment, but my parents didn’t like him.  They said I had to leave him outside, or they’d deal with him.  I didn’t know what they meant by “deal with him”, so I handed the dog over.  Then, I couldn’t believe what they did- they chopped him up and threw the pieces away!  The next morning, I thought better of mentioning the dog at all. However, when I got to school, I couldn’t contain myself any longer.  Before lunch my whole class knew about the strange lady that had left the forlorn-looking dog on my street.
“Did she look old fashioned, or just stuck up?” asked Jess, who was quite stuck up herself.
“Oh, that’s so sad,” Annabelle cooed.  “She left the dog all alone on the street!”

                                                        3
The Plan

I leaped off the bus as soon as the doors opened, and rushed down the block.
“Wait!” called Annabelle.  “Wait for me!”
“I can’t!” I called over my shoulder.  “I’ve got to get home!”
My feet pounded on the cement.  I nearly tripped over the black blur that dashed into the road.  I stopped short.
“Come here boy,” I called. The dog whimpered and shied away.
“Here, doggy, doggy, doggy!”  By this time, Annabelle had caught up with me, and she too, was calling to the dog. The forlorn looking creature edged farther away from us.
Annabelle lived in the apartment building too, but her apartment was much roomier than mine. She lived with only her mother, as I lived with my mother, father, and grandmother.
After Annabelle had left, I tiptoed across the street, and slowly approached the black fur ball. He ran to the other end of the block. I gave up at that point. Even getting near the dog would be a laborious task.
I walked into the apartment building.
“Good afternoon, Beth Anne,” said a maid, stepping out of the elevator. Silently, I walked into the elevator, just as the doors started to close. I pressed the number “5” button. The fifth floor was the highest level, but the windows didn’t give you much of a view, because of the run down streets below.
When the elevator doors opened, (after a ten second ride) I stepped out and started down the long, narrow hallway. I squeezed against the wall, as a maid puffed by pushing a large cart of cleaning supplies in front of her. I continued down the hall, and stopped at the door labeled “525”. I knocked, and after a series of mumbles and shuffling footsteps, the door opened. My grandmother, dressed in a nightgown, was standing in the doorway, half asleep. She hadn’t left the apartment for four years. In her ill condition, she had barely left her bed for the past four years.
“Hello, dear,” she said. My mother, who had been working in the kitchen, stepped in the doorway beside Grandma.
“Beth Anne,” my mother said calmly, “I would like to talk with you.”
I followed Mom through the apartment into my bedroom, which provided the best view of the cobblestone road. We both sat down on the bed and made ourselves comfortable.
“Beth Anne, there is an animal down there on our street.” My heart froze. What if she wants to give him to a pet store or an animal shelter that won’t treat him well?
“Do you know anything about that creature?” Mom asked.
“Well, no.” I replied nervously. I wanted tell her about the lady who left him, about the strange connection I felt I had with him, but something inside me told me not to.
“Are you sure?” Mom asked me. She could tell I was lying.
“I’m sure.” I tried to make my answer sound positive and definite.
“All right,” Mom sighed and left the room.
As the days passed, things got worse. Mom started to guess what was going on with Barney, and I started to fall behind in schoolwork, worrying about the dog. By the end of the next week, Mom had discovered that a strange lady had left him on our street, that I wanted to rescue him, and that he needed a home.
“Sorry, honey.” Mom said. “You know your grandmother is sick. We can’t afford to have a dog in the apartment. We’re making Grandma sicker as it is.” I sighed.
Rescuing Barney would be a lot harder than I thought.
“Besides, your dad isn’t a big dog person.”
Wow, I thought. This couldn’t get any harder. I thought in despair for a few seconds, while silly, impossible thoughts popped in and out of my mind. My thoughts drifted to my “London Ladies.”
“London Ladies” are ten-inch dolls that nearly every girl in London has. They all have different books written about them, and they’re always doing brave things, so they can do what they really feel passionate about. I could do something like that, not a miracle, but something.
“Mom, why has Grandma been sick for four years? I mean, if she was diagnosed with something, she would be given medicine, and she would have recovered, right?”
“You‘re right,” Mom chuckled. “That is exactly what should have happened. She was diagnosed with a terrible case of pneumonia, so terrible that she needed six weeks’ worth of medicine. The medicine was awful- it smelled terrible and apparently tasted terrible. After three weeks, she refused to take her medicine; she got sicker and sicker. Now she may be beyond recovery.”
I thought about what Mom had said about dad not being a big dog person. I wasn’t a big dog person either, or not until I saw what happened to ‘the dog on our street’ (now a commonly-used phrase in our household). In that case, by telling Dad this dog’s sad story, he might appreciate dogs more. But convincing Dad would have to wait until the weekend, when I actually could spend time with him. Until then, I would convince Grandma that a dog was good for our family. With both Dad and Grandma on my side, Mom would surely agree.
Finally, Saturday came. After lunch I pulled Dad aside. I told him everything I knew, (about Grandma) everything Mom knew, (everything) and everything Grandma knew. (Nothing) After I finished I asked Dad,
“What do you think we should do?”
“Gee, I don’t know. What I would do is take him in as our own- I’m just worried about Grandma’s heath.”
I grinned. This was working nearly perfectly.
“I talked to Grandma. She refuses to take any medicine at all, but she doesn’t want a dog because she’s sick.”
“Yeah,” Dad agreed. “Grandma’s strange that way. And, if we sneak her medicine into her drink, she won’t want him in the house because she won’t know she’s healthy.”
“Yup” I sighed.
Now, remember how I told you about how Barney got to this rundown street in the middle of London? And you’re probably wondering how I know that, right? And as you read this you say to yourself “Dogs can’t talk!” And you’re right, they can’t. But they have a sense of recognition, and they can understand what you say. That’s what happened between Barney and I.
This happened the Thursday before I talked with Dad. I was coming home from the bus stop, and the dog dashed across the road, and planted himself right in front of my feet. He looked up at me, his eyes more pitiful and empty than any dog’s eyes should be. They seemed to question me.
“I think I know where you came from,” I said in reply to his steady eyes.  I made up two crazy stories about how he had wound up here, on Stones End Street. One told how they had floated down from the sky in a terrible storm. The other described how they barely had enough money to survive, so Mrs. Toucan (aka Mrs. Miller) had to leave him here. He continued staring at me, obviously not impressed. That was when I came up with the most realistic, but still most wild story yet. It was the exact same story that I told you in the beginning of the story, if you can remember that far back. Barney’s stare had changed, and I knew that my story was 100% accurate, that I had told it word for word. That was the first time I noticed his collar. The words on the faded collar tag read:

BARNEY
246
ROSEMARY RD.

These words proved my story completely true.

                                                     4
The Action

I called Mom quickly before taking off.
“I going to the drugstore to get something for Grandma.” I said. I heard Mom sigh on the other end.
“Honey, she’ll never take it.”
“It’s worth a try,” I tried to sound optimistic, but Mom was right, Grandma would never take any medicine. I hurried off to the drugstore. I stepped through the door and nearly collided with another girl, just my age. She too, seemed lost in thought. The lady at the front desk seemed eager to help me.
“What can I do for you, Ma’am?” she asked.
“Um, can you help me find some medicine for a terrible, terrible case of pneumonia?” We walked silently down the aisles. Finally, the lady asked,
“How old is this person?”
“About seventy, I suppose,” I answered.
She scanned the shelf, then silently handed me a bottle. I gave her the correct amount of cash, after glancing at the medicine.
“Good luck!” the lady called after me. I hurried home to Grandma’s bedside.
“Hello dear,” she said.
“Grandma, do you ever get lonely?”
“Why yes I do, honey. Ah, it would be nice to have company while everyone was away.”
“I wish we could have a dog.” I said. “A dog would surely keep you company.”
“Yes, I agree. Wouldn’t a dog be wonderful? But my health truly stands in the way. If only somebody would give me a second chance, get me some medicine…”
“Grandma,” I had to interrupt her thoughts in order to get a chance to speak.
“Grandma, I got you some medicine. It says…” I paused. “It says it’s naturally flavored. You should like it.”
“I should like to have my first dose right now.”

 

 

Mikaela Finlay is a fourth grader at Germantown Friends School. This story is not her first, but this is the first time Mikaela has had her work published. When not writing, she likes to spend her time crocheting and illustrating. When Mikaela read an excerpt from this story at the November 10 Philadelphia Stories, Junior release party at the Arden Theatre’s Hamilton Family Arts Center in Old City, she was cheered on by her parents, her grandparents, and her sister, Anya.

Dear Jeannette

I don’t think I will ever get over that day, May 1, 2006. It is the day I lost a piece of my heart, a piece of myself. Why did you have to die in that car accident? Why do these things have to happen? It’s not fair that I had to lose you that day. You were someone so special to me.

I don’t remember that horrible day so much. I was in kindergarten. So I was too young, or I blocked it all out. I’m not sure. I don’t really want to remember that day. I recall my parents picking me up from school early and then sitting at my kitchen table. Then I remember them telling me the worst thing they could have ever said to me. The rest is a blur.

It changed my life in an instant. You were my best friend and cousin. You made me laugh. You dressed me up in costumes and took my picture. You fed me stuff my mom wouldn’t let me have, like soda and candy. And you made me feel so good about myself. Then you were gone…forever. And things changed forever. It’s just not fair. You should never have died.
I can’t explain how much I miss you. I can’t seem to get the words out of my heart and onto this paper. It hurts me so bad! Life without you is just not the same. Sometimes I feel so sad and lonely. I lost the confidence you instilled in me because I don’t remember what it feels like to be completely happy with myself. Why should I be happy? You aren’t here. I sure don’t feel like that same happy six year old who felt like a princess when you were around. I am heartbroken. I am lost. I am sad without you.

You were like my big sister and I miss you more and more as I get older. I’m a teenager now and I need you more than ever. I need my best friend. It’s been almost seven years and it still hurts that you’re gone. I don’t think it will ever get easier, but I know I can’t bring you back even though I would give anything for that to happen.

I’m so mad that you’re not here to paint my nails, pick out my clothes, and talk with me about girly things. I’m angry that you won’t be here to see me graduate. I’m mad that you won’t see me go on my first date. I wish you could be here to give me advice on life and friends. You were supposed to be here for these things.

I know you’re always with me in spirit, but I wish I could see you, talk to you, and laugh with you like we used to. I hope you hear me when I tell you my thoughts and fears and problems. I hope that you’ll listen when I finally let out my feelings. I hope that you smile when you see me from heaven. I hope that you see that I’m growing up. I hope that I make you proud. Help me to be more like you. Help me to be confident and fun-loving and full of life like I remember you. Help me to allow myself to be happy without you. Help me to be strong.

I believe that things happen for a reason. I believe that you will guide me. I believe that you’re in heaven. I believe that you’re happy. I believe in angels, Jeannette, and I believe that you’re mine.

Love,
Taressa
 

Taressa Belle Toto is in 7th grade at Visitation BVM School in Norristown, Pennsylvania. She plays volleyball, basketball, and softball. Taressa lives with her mom and dad, her sister Ava, and her dog Snickers.

Scary Scouting

On a dark, chilly, scary Halloween night, four little Tiger Scouts named Greg, George, Dragon, and Bob were camping in a graveyard. Normally, they were quite brave little scouts, but the spooky, eerie Halloween night was really creeping them out! It would have been fine if they’d chosen to trick or treat like all the other little kids, but these boys had decided to be brave and camp in a graveyard under a full moon.

The boys were worried that vampires, werewolves, ghosts, pumpkin-heads, mummies, wizards, witches, and other scary creatures might come to get them, but most of all they were worried about a zombie invasion.

The scouts tried to calm down by eating their hamburgers, hotdogs, and spaghetti, but nothing could calm them down.

It turned out the boys were pretty smart for being scared, because all of a sudden the ground started to shake, the dirt loosened up, the tombstones crumbled, and the dead no longer rested in peace!

Green, smelly, dirty arms with the bones poking through started to come out of the ground.

The boys were super terrified that their worst nightmare had come true. But, just as they started to scream, lightning struck and dance music started blaring. The zombies had woken up to have a wild and crazy Halloween dance party!

Werewolves, vampires, ghosts, witches and more came to this crazy Halloween party. The scouts realized that the monsters were not so scary after all. They all became friends, danced the night away, and ate a lot of candy!

 

Short story from the writing workshop for the Pack 48 Tiger Den, Medford Lakes, NJ.

Benjamin Potatohead

Behind the sloping hill, the one with sandy patches of grass and rabbit holes, yellow dandelions and light purple wildflowers, there was a village. The tiny village was a merry place with colors everywhere: on kites sailing through the sky, on little toys that bounced and made noise, on the doors of small houses built into the ground. A stream gurgled under a sturdy wooden bridge.

The people of this little town were very unusual. They wore strange hats: propeller hats, beach umbrella hats, bowling pins, chef hats, and other headwear. Some wore hydrangeas or bowling pins on their heads. They spent all day outside, inventing games and activities, and they went to school in the red schoolhouse on the other side of the creek.

“A lovely town,” said a resident wearing a Ferris wheel hat. “But that boy, Benjamin Potatohead…he’s no good.”

“I’ll live here forever!” said another. She was sporting a monkey hat with arms that Velcroed around the neck. “But with Benjamin causing so much trouble, I don’t enjoy it as much.”

“I try to play with Benjamin,” said a child, “but he only steals my toys and laughs at me.”

Mr. and Mrs. Potatohead had lots to deal with. They loved Benjamin, but he caused all the trouble he could muster in the village and in their house, which was a giant hollowed-out potato.

Benjamin was light-ish brown with little holes for his rubbery arms, eyes, and other body parts. His parents looked almost exactly like him, but they were larger. Mrs. Potatohead wore a white felt hat with a daisy, and Mr. Potatohead’s was a black top hat. Benjamin had an eraser hat and was so poorly behaved that you probably can’t imagine how misbehaved he was. He had a remarkable quality: when he lied, his nose popped off, and it only fit back on once he told the truth.

One sunny morning, Benjamin woke up ready to cause trouble. The moment he awoke on his mushy potato peel bed, his fingers tingled and his eyes sparkled, ready for a day of utmost madness.

His mother ushered him off to the schoolhouse and watched him enter, but Benjamin snuck out the back when no one was looking. He stole ice cream and went swimming, and he also peed in the stream. Then he went to the gingerbread house and ate every gumdrop and peanut butter cup. Satisfied, he burped loudly and proceeded to rip flowers out of the ground.

“Oh, kibbets!” cried Benjamin, dropping several uprooted daffodils as he looked in the direction of the giant potato. Mrs. Potatohead was fetching the mail. Darnit, thought Benjamin. I forgot to bury the mail.

Mrs. Doodropping was walking by the Potatohead house, carrying a basket of strawberries. She stopped to chat with Mrs. Potatohead. Benjamin rubbed his rubbery hands together, an unmistakable sign of trouble ahead.
Benjamin bounced from house to house, hiding behind mailboxes. Finally, he reached his own and snuck up behind Mrs. Potatohead.

“…ashamed of Benjamin?” Mrs. Doodropping was asking. “My poor Charlie never has good things to say about him.”

“Benjamin is a troublemaker,” Mrs. Potatohead agreed, “but he is a child. That’s what kids do.”

“But he wreaks havoc in the village,” protested Mrs. Doodropping. “That is not alright. Charlie, for instance, never causes an ounce of trouble—”

Benjamin made his move. Quick as lightning, he ripped his mother’s heavily lip-sticked mouth from its hole and tore down the path, her muffled voice attempting to scream at him.

“Well, I never!” huffed Mrs. Doodropping as she wheeled and rushed down the path in the opposite direction. “What nerve! Stealing somebody’s mouth!”

Benjamin chuckled as he stuffed Mrs. Potatohead’s lips into his pear-shaped body. They rattled around as he gobbled Mrs. Doodropping’s stolen strawberries.

Yes, Benjamin was naughty. Wherever he went, a surprising amount of trouble followed. Nothing would stop him.

One day, though, when Annie Fergusen’s house caught fire, people were glad Benjamin was there to help.

Annie was always a perfect girl. She did well in school and pleased everyone except Benjamin, who wasn’t fond of girls. Annie was cute, but like a little doll: she had rosy cheeks and lips, curly golden hair, and petite dresses with white stockings. She was too clean for Benjamin; he was the muddy type.

Benjamin was yanking a girl’s hair when smoke started to drift over the village. He knew the smell of smoke from the time he set a teacher’s dress on fire. He began to rub his dirty hands together and even let go of the girl’s ponytail to see what was happening.

The little people of the town were fetching buckets of water and hoses to put out the fire at the Fergusen’s house. Benjamin ran to his mother, who had recently shaken her mouth out of his potato body.

“Linda Fergusen was cooking eggs and forgot the pan was on the stove,” said Mrs. Potatohead.

“Awesome!” cried Benjamin.

Mrs. Potatohead gave him a stern look.

Out of the house stumbled a panting Linda Fergusen, followed by her husband. Annie did not appear.

Moments later, Benjamin heard weeping. The townspeople ceased tossing water.

“We can’t find Annie,” explained Mr. Potatohead gravely.

Benjamin rubbed his hands together. This, though, was not a gesture for trouble. Instead, it was an idea.

“WAIT!” he screamed. “I think I can save Annie.” All eyes turned to him doubtfully, expecting his nose to pop off. Benjamin, the major troublemaker? Benjamin, save Annie Fergusen?

But his nose stayed put. Benjamin grabbed his eye and ripped it off his head, which is perfectly fine for a potatohead to do. Then, he threw it through a window.

“Annie is in her room!” he yelled as the eye landed on Annie’s carpet and saw the girl unconscious. Her father climbed up and heaved her out the window, wheezing.
Benjamin Potatohead still remained a troublemaker of the worst kind, stealing and playing hooky. But, from that day on, nobody forgot his cleverness when he saved Annie Fergusen from what everyone thought was her finish.

 

 

 

Ella Spencer is 12 years old. She says, “Writing has always been something that I loved, but I also enjoy drawing and reading. When I grow up, I would love to be a writer and have children of my own. I live in Merion, Pennsylvania with my parents, my brother, and my two pets: Willy (dog) and Violet (rabbit). I am excited to have joined this contest and be as creative as I can with it.” This story was one of the winners of the Pinocchio Writing contest co-sponsored by PS Jr. and the Arden Theatre.

Tolya

In the fading light of the setting sun, Luka Yeshevsky sketched a face.
Luka drew the model’s lips, so carefully pursed around a smoldering cigarette, aligned to the curves of his chin. His pencil marked the contours and peaks of the quaint little nose, which rested plainly above the philtrum. He even captured the sagging lines beneath his model’s eyes, no doubt a result of the weary journey from St. Petersburg to Petrushka.
But his hand was having difficulty with the eyes. They were a tempest, he noted, because the gray flecks in the brown mirrored a summer storm. Their shape was odd: cat-like, and squinted, with creases and folds in places there normally weren’t.
His model exhaled and watched the smoke drift up to the rafters.
“Eyes down, would you?” Luka reprimanded, reaching for his eraser. “I’m not finished yet.”
The boy smirked, his mouth molding into a lopsided grin. “Sorry.” He placed the cigarette back in his mouth and took a puff. “I’ve been sitting here for a while. It’s quite hard to keep myself from getting restless.” Another breath, except this time he thrust open the small side window and let the smoke escape into the August fog.
Luka took a moment to glance out the open window. It was the time of eternal twilight, the unsettling period in midsummer when the sun, much like an incorrigible child, refused to sleep until the fading hours of the night. It wouldn’t be black until eleven-thirty. This meant he had more light to work by, but it also meant another night wracked by insomnia.
Curse the impossible eyes! He wiped away his most recent attempt at an eyelash. If he weren’t a perpetual perfectionist, he would just leave them out. But he was. So the picture had to look perfect.
“I didn’t mean to complain,” the model apologized, crossing his right leg over his left. He seemed quite aware of Luka’s frustration. “I lied. I like this. It’s relaxing. Petrushka is a nice break from the city.”
Luka grunted a response, his fingers rubbing in the shading beneath the eyes.
“I hadn’t even heard of this place before,” the boy continued. “It’s quite different from St. Petersburg. I’d imagine the people here are very humble, yes?”
“Some.” Luka blinked and lifted his pencil to the finely-combed hair, which he intended to capture in wispy fragments as opposed to the cartoonish strands his instructor was so fond of mocking. Most of the people here were simple folk—fishermen, retired farmers, church men—but he’d never bothered to get to know them. “It’s not uncommon to dislike Petrushka. Why should you like a town named after a marionette, anyway?”
The model gestured for an ashtray in which he could dispose of his cigarette. “Any village seems comforting compared to where I grew up. Are you going to color in my face?”
Luka begrudgingly fetched the ashtray from the side desk and handed it over. Ordinarily, he didn’t speak more than a word to his creations, and when he did, it was a direct command: sit straight, eyes forward, for the love of God, stop slouching. “Only charcoal. Where did you grow up? Eyes up, please.”
The model obediently lifted his eyes but said hesitantly, “I’m not entirely sure of its name.”
“You said you were from Kiev.”
There was an awful pause. The youth shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps…” Then he buried his face in his hands. “Oh, I lied, Sir. I’m an orphan.”
Luka set down his pencil. “Oh. How sad.”
“My parents died of typhus when I was young, so I was brought to the orphanage by a stranger.” He set the ashtray on the floor. “My mind caused me trouble, so I made trouble.”
Luka stopped for a moment. “Oh?”
“The fat old village doctor proclaimed that I thought frightful things. Overwhelming for a boy of my ‘tender age.’”
“What ideas did you think?”
He licked his lips. “Well…I’ve never confessed this before, because it’s odd. Marxist things, you know. I recited Engle before I’d memorized my Latin. One set of prospective parents asked me to sing them a beloved old Bible verse, and you know what I did? I said, ‘religion is the opiate of the masses.’”
Luka glared at him. “They must have been horrified.”
“Oh, yes,” the boy said, “The headmaster kicked me out onto the streets shortly after. And then I answered your advertisement, because I’m starving and should find a bride soon.”
“Ah, yes, my advertisement,” Luka echoed, hoping the conversation would shift back to something less blasphemous. The model seemed wholly unaware of the gilded crucifix nailed to Luka’s doorway. “The ‘Common Man.’ It’s a little project I’m going to submit to a gallery.”
“Where is the gallery?”
Luka hesitated. If the boy found out, he would probably rip the portrait to shreds and begin to spew Bolshevik banter. But another glance at the cross reminded Luka of his sin: he should not lie. “Peterhof.” He quickly coughed into his sleeve so the boy wouldn’t have time to process the location. Perhaps he was unaware of the czar’s summer residence. He was uneducated after all, wasn’t he?
Not a glimmer of recognition passed his eyes. “Oh. What a lovely town. Perhaps I’ll visit it when I have money for train fare. May I see the painting?”
Luka turned back to the infernal eyes. It was odd, he thought suddenly, how the two-dimensional portrait of this stranger had transformed into something much greater—much more real—than a boy on a page. He was proud of his creation.
“What did you say your name was?” he asked.
The model smiled. “I didn’t. It’s Tolya.”
“It’s funny,” he remarked, inscribing the name on the top. “Portraits often reveal what the ordinary face does not. They reveal truth and dispel lies.”
“Then it is not a sketch of a face,” Tolya responded. “It is a real face.” He smiled. “It is Tolya.”


Catherine Mosier-Mills is a senior at Radnor High School in Radnor, PA. She says, “In my spare time, I love playing jazz and classical piano, participating in Model United Nations, and taking pictures of my cats. My work has appeared locally in Apiary Magazine and I recently was awarded honorable mention in the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. This story was one of the winners of the Pinocchio Writing contest co-sponsored by PS Jr. and the Arden Theatre.

The Modern Gift of the Magi

Five dollars and eighty-three cents. That was all. And three of those dollars were in nickels. Cents and dollars saved one and four at a time by searching under the cushions and in the hospital kitchen. Five times Cassidy counted it. Five dollars and eighty-three cents. And the next day would be Cassidy and James’s one-year anniversary.

There was clearly nothing to do but to flop down on the hospital bed and scream into a pillow. So naturally, Cassidy did just that, which brings you to the conclusion that the moral reflection of life is full of sobs, storms of rage, and smiles, with the storms predominating.

While the young teenage girl passes through the first stage to the second, take a look around the dreary setting. A hospital room furnished like all the other 245 rooms in the building. It did not exactly have a description of wealth, but who needs luxuries in a patient room?

In the waiting room below, was a nurse who had yet today (and yesterday) let a family visit the poor teenage girl. The mother and father bearing the last name of “O’Leary.”

The name “O’Leary” had never been full of wealth, but the household at one point was close to making the average American income. When their one and only daughter was diagnosed with Leukemia hard times fell upon the family. Mr. and Mrs. O’Leary both had to get two jobs. Then Mr. O’Leary lost his first job. So, Mrs. O’Leary had to get a third job while her husband was looking for another source of income. But whenever Mr. Dean O’Leary came home to his wife, the financial worries were lost in a sea of certainty.

Now Cassidy had a man to call her own, a man named James Abbott. They met in tenth grade and had been dating for almost a year. This was why she needed a gift for her boyfriend. Cassidy finished her tantrum (which the nurses would later scold her for because it was not good for her condition) and wiped her two waterfalls with the back of her hand. Her heavy crying had created red, puffy marks under her eyes. The tears had spilled over her eyes like waves and surfed her face until they reached the sand or the pillow, which was pressed against her sullen face. She moved into a sitting position and looked around her room, which she had resided in for the past few months. Her parents could barely afford the grey wall, which she stared at, the grey tiles the nurses claimed she was not allowed to walk alone on, and the dull grey sheets of her even more grey bed that she had to be in every hour of every day. The only time she was allowed to leave her uncomfortable bed (which gave her a stiff back) was when she was going to another room to get poked at with shiny utensils that reeked of disinfectant spray. The nurses, doctors, and even her parents tried to hide the fact that she was dying. But she knew; it was her body after all.

Her mother and father felt guilty because they could not provide the money to keep her alive. Cassidy felt bad about this, because it really was not their fault.

Cassidy looked to her left and saw the IV that peeked from under her pale skin. Her reflection shined in the metal tube that held the bag. Her eyes were shining brightly, but her face had lost color weeks and weeks ago. Rapidly she looked down at a charm bracelet resting on her wrist.

Now there is one possession that Cassidy was proud of. It was a bracelet that her great grandmother, grandmother, and her mother had sported before it was passed down to her. It was a diamond-encrusted chain with four small charms on it. A charm had been added by each owner, except for Cassidy. Had Queen Elizabeth II of Great Britain checked into the room next door, every time she was wheeled to surgery Cass would make sure to dangle her charms just to depreciate Her Majesty’s numerous articles of jewels.

Now James had a possession of his own. His father had given him the extravagant and expensive family ring. James would joke that if Bill Gates were his housemaid, he would drool at the idea of how much money that ring costs.

So now as the dying teen dangled her charms, she knew what she had to do. She faltered for a minute, but she knew the consequences. She picked up her ancient iPhone 3 (which was her first and only phone) and dialed up someone who would take her into town.

Thirty minutes later, James’s mom entered her room. Her parents were working their multiple jobs so they could not come. But Mrs. Abbott would do anything for Cass (who she claimed was her daughter) and going into town was a wish she would grant. The reluctant and skeptical nurses signed Cassidy out but warned her to sit and rest if she felt out of breath. Cass rolled her eyes and promised with little to none enthusiasm.

Cassidy relished the smell of fresh air as she stepped outside. She never feels the direct daylight anymore, but a distorted version shines through the old windows that never seems to cheer her up. She could have jumped for joy at the sight of the sun, but she did not have the energy. In other words, this was the best day ever.

“Cass, dear, where do you want to go first?” asked the older woman.

“A place where I can sell this…” the teenager pulled out the box in which a familiar bracelet was kept.

“Honey! You cannot sell that! You love that thing!”

“I do not care, I have to get something nice for your son. And I do whatever it takes to get something for loved ones!”

When they arrived at the store a dingy sign read “I SELL CASH FOR GOLD”. Cass sighed and opened the door. A middle-aged man sat on a stool behind the glass cage. His hair as greasy as a deep fryer. His eyes flashing with excitement at the box in her hands. Cass summoned all the courage she had in her weak body and walked all the way into the shop.

“Hello, I would like to sell my bracelet,” she stated.

“Well, you came to the right place. Now let me see,” he rubs his hands as she takes it out, “Ah, this is very nice. I will give you four hundred dollars for it.”

“Four hundred? I will take that!” Cass exclaims.

For the next hour or so, Cass enters shop after shop, but cannot find anything for her dear James. James’s mother convinces her to rest before they head to another store. Cassidy stresses that time is running out, but the older woman will not hear it. As they sit on a bench the younger girl wants to cry in frustration. She surveys her surroundings for something to buy. She is losing daylight and she knows it. An adorable toddler waddles by, clinging onto his mother like she is a lifeline. Cassidy watches the child until he passes a store she never saw. There it was, the perfect gift for James. It was a simple but had a quietness and value that was much like her boyfriend. It was perfect. James always complained that his ring was going to fall off when he played a sport but never got around to getting a chain so he could put it around his neck. She had finally found a good chain for him. Upon further inspection, she realized that she could add a message on a thin metal circle that attached to the silver chain. She quickly bought the gift and the two women hurried to the hospital.

The next day James walked eagerly into the room. He surveyed the dull room until he saw the spark that was Cassidy. She looked as radiant as the stars to James. But one thing looked off to him, she was not wearing her bracelet.

“James!” She smiled, “you are here!”

“Hi Cassidy,” he walked over and gave her a hug.

“Open this…” she shoved a velvety purple box at him. James opened the box to find the chain. He knew what it was for and it really was perfect, but his eyes held regret.

“What is there something wrong? Is the engraving wrong? I can return it if you do not want it,” Cass rapidly exclaimed when she saw his face.

“No, it is perfect, thank you,” he smiled, “but I sold my ring to buy you a charm for your bracelet and to…”

“Oh, James! That is super nice and all, but I sold my bracelet to buy you your present.”

James enfolded Cassidy in a tight hug anyway. For ten seconds, they stare at a trivial object that faces the other way. Five dollars and eighty-three cents or a million dollars- what is the difference? A mathematician or genius would give the logical, yet wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This will be explained later.

James handed Cassidy her present and she opened it. It was a beautiful charm that Cassidy had told James she wanted. It was diamond-encrusted heart and on the back was the letters “C+J”.

“This is beautiful,” Cassidy cried, “but I no longer have my bracelet.”

“And your chain you gave me was beautiful, but I no longer have a ring,” James replied, “Cass let’s put our presents away for now and keep them for a while. They are too nice to use at the present. But I have to tell you something.”

“Alright I will save my present. But please tell me!”

“I had extra money from the ring…I am going to pay for your medical bills!”
At this moment Cass bursts into tears. Instead of sobs and storms of rage, smiles are predominating. She was going to be alright. She pulled James into a hug and they cried for a long time.

Years before you, Cass, James, and I were put on the earth, there were three men who brought gifts to baby Jesus in the manger. The three men are known as wise men or the magi. Because of them, the art of exchanging Christmas presents was born. The magi’s gifts were sensible and caring indeed. The point of this story is to retell the modern tale of two children who are in love that most unwisely gave away their greatest possessions for each other’s happiness. But let the most experienced of them hear this. Cass and James are the wisest when it comes to giving and receiving gifts. In every situation, time, place, or hospital room they are the wisest. Cass and James are your modern magi.

 

 

Emily Mahaffy is in seventh grade and loves to read. Her favorite book series include Harry Potter and The Mysterious Benedict Society. She also spends most of her free time playing field hockey. She lives with her younger sister in Haddon Heights, NJ.

The Saga of Sir Marcdalf the Valiant Part I: The Math Menace

Once upon a time, in a land that is not as far away as it seems, there was the Kingdom of Cramalot. Cramalot was ruled by King Sinderon the Strong. In the city of Monolinth, the capital of Cramalot, there lived a young squire named Marcdalf. Marcdalf was the squire of Sir Renald Shiningsword, who was a knight of the Octagon Table: a group of seven of King Sinderon’s most trusted knights. “One day,” said Sir Renald as Marcdalf helped him into his armor. “You will become a knight and replace me when I step down from my place at the Octagon Table.” This was an encouraging thought to Marcdalf, but he needed to train in order to become a knight.

One day, as Marcdalf and the other squires were sword training in the castle courtyard, the King himself walked in! With him was a cloaked figure. The squires knelt when they saw the King was present. “You may rise,” said King Sinderon. “I would like to introduce the Math Queen to you. She is a traveler from distant lands, and is here to help further our Kingdom’s technology and knowledge. I was just showing her around. Carry on.”

That evening as Marcdalf was walking home, a strange light glowed from the windows of the tallest tower of the King’s keep.

Over the next month, Marcdalf noticed strange things happening in the city. Some people were getting sick. But this sickness caused numbers and symbols to appear on people’s skin. Marcdalf suspected the Math Queen had something to do with it, but no one believed him. So he took matters into his own hands. He climbed the steps to the tower.

When he reached the top he knocked on the door. No response. “Hello?” Marcdalf called. No answer. He tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. No going back now, thought Marcdalf. He opened the door. It opened with a slight “C-R-E-E-E-A-K…” Before him was a dark room. He drew his sword. In the dim light he could make out bookshelves lining the walls. In the center of the room there was a small table with a book on it. The book was opened, and numbers and symbols seemed to be floating out of it! The source of the sickness! thought Marcdalf.

“Well, well, well, it looks like you have seen too much,” a voice echoed throughout the tower. “We can’t have you telling anyone now, can we?” The Math Queen stepped out of the shadows, sword raised. There was a strange light in her eyes. Marcdalf leapt forward and shut the book! There was a blast that knocked them both to the ground!

As the smoke cleared, two guards walked into the room. “What happened? One of them asked Marcdalf.

“I came to investigate the sickness,” Marcdalf explained. “I think that book may have been the source. I closed it, and there was some sort of explosion.”

“Well, whatever you did worked,” said the other guard. “The sickness has disappeared!” The Math Queen rose to her feet. The strange glow was gone from her eyes. “Now what’s your story?” the guard asked her.

“I opened that book,” she said. “I don’t remember much after that.”

Marcdalf and the Math Queen were summoned by King Sinderon. He held the book before him. It was now bound in chains to ensure it was not opened. “This can only have come from one place,” he said. “The dark land of Math-dor.” He looked up, his face grave. “We are being attacked. We must fight back.”

“One does not simply walk into Math-dor,” said Sir Morgan Freeman, the King’s advisor and knight of the Octagon Table. “That land is filled with fouler things than just equations. They say the very air you breathe is toxic there. The math there does not sleep.”

Suddenly, a cry of: “To arms! The city is being attacked!” was heard. It was a terrible battle. Monsters, whose skin was covered with numbers and symbols, ruthlessly attacked the city. But in the end, the attackers took the city. The survivors had barricaded themselves inside the keep. It seemed all hope was lost. But there was a secret exit that only the King and the Knights of the Octagon Table knew of. King Sinderon approached his throne, pushed a hidden button on its side, and the throne slid away, revealing a staircase into the depths of the city!

Marcdalf walked beside Sir Morgan Freeman down a tunnel lit by torches. “This,” Sir Morgan Freeman said, “is the Chunnel. It was built long ago as an escape route for times of crisis such as this.” Soon, the tunnel ended at a cave in the Foresty Forest. It was here that the survivors set up camp. “There is a way to stop the attacks and reclaim Cramalot,” said Sir Morgan Freeman as they sat by the fire, eating a stew that they had made with ingredients from the forest. Everyone eagerly looked up at him. A gloom seemed to have lifted from the camp. “In this forest,” Sir Morgan Freeman explained, “is an ancient ruin that houses the Sword of Alevan-Fiften, which means “math’s end” in an ancient language. It is said that only the Hero of Cramalot can draw the sword from the stone it is set in. The hero, with this sword, can then defeat the Dark Lord Saxon, who commands the math monsters from the land of Math-dor.”

“Well then,” said King Sinderon, “tomorrow, we will go to this ruin.”

The next day, they trekked to the ruin. And there was the Sword of Alevan-Fiften! One by one the survivors of the attack on Cramalot tried to pull the sword out of the stone, but to no avail. All hope seemed to be lost. Every single person there had tried to pull the sword out, except for one: Marcdalf. He stepped up to the sword. He gripped the handle. His hands were sweating. And then he pulled.

With a sudden “SHWING” it came out! The sunlight glinted off of the gleaming sword. Everyone was amazed. And they were relieved, for the Hero had ended up being one of them! Hope was not lost!

So it was decided that Marcdalf would then set out to Math-dor. With him would go Sir Morgan Freeman, for he was very wise, a great warrior, and knew much about Math-dor. They traveled through plains, into woods, over mountains, and across rivers. Finally they made it to the dark land of Math-dor. It was barren and desolate. But there was a tower in the middle of Math-dor. “That is where the Dark Lord Saxon is,” said Sir Morgan Freeman to Marcdalf. They set off across the land to the tower.

They reached it and climbed to the top. There, was the Dark Lord Saxon himself! He stood, looking over the land, in armor and a dark cloak. In the center of the top of the tower there was a table with a book on it, just like the one in back in Cramalot. “I knew you were coming,” said the Dark Lord Saxon, not turning at first, but he knew they were there. He turned to look at them. “I see the book I planted in Cramalot was useful.” Indeed, when the Math Queen opened the book, Saxon got a hold on her. She really was a nice person after all. The Dark Lord Saxon used confusing math, not basic math.

“You will not defeat us!” shouted Marcdalf, drawing the Sword of Alevan-Fiften. Sir Morgan Freeman drew his sword. Saxon drew his sword as well. They engaged in an epic sword fight on the top of the tower. When Saxon turned his attention to Morgan Freeman, Marcdalf saw his chance. Saxon furiously attacked Morgan Freeman, but the knight blocked each blow. Marcdalf then grabbed the book and cut it in half with the sword! A blast of light shot from the tower. Saxon fell to his knees. He laughed.

“You may have defeated confusing math, but you have not won that easily!” Saxon said. Suddenly, the earth around them began to shake. There was a roar of thunder. Lighting shot down from the sky.

“Oh no!” Marcdalf shouted. “We haven’t only destroyed confusing math, but math itself!” You see, the world needs math.

“There must be some way to restore math!” Sir Morgan Freeman said. Then, Marcdalf saw it: a slot in the table where the book had been. He took the Sword of Alevan-Fiften and slid it into the table!

Somehow, the power of the sword restored math. The world went back to normal.

Later, there was a great ceremony in the King’s keep of the now reclaimed city of Cramalot. Marcdalf knelt before King Sinderon. “Today,” King Sinderon said. “We honor this hero who has saved our kingdom. He traveled far and fought bravely to save the land.” He drew his sword, and as he knighted Marcdalf, he said, “Today, I proclaim him: Sir Marcdalf the Valiant!”

End of Part I


M. G. Sherman is in the seventh grade at Tall Oaks Classical School in Delaware and likes creative writing, drawing and writing song lyrics. He also likes playing piano, running cross-country, and playing video games. He lives with his parents, older brother and rescue dog, Nydia, in Newark, Delaware. Some of his favorite books include The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, and The Hunger Game series. He is currently writing three novels and hopes to be a famous author before high school graduation. His disdain for math inspired this creative short story.

Slipper

Bradley walked into his hotel room at precisely 11 a.m. and started his search. He peered into the wooden closet that smelled of fresh paint and found no forgotten items. The drawer to the modern desk made a scraping sound when he pulled it open. In the desk, there was a box of matches with the hotel logo printed on it. He pushed away the white shower curtain, disappointed to find no left over shampoo bottles or unique smelling soaps like vanilla bean or citrus punch. He tugged open the short bedside table drawer to find a crisp Bible with no annotations that would give Bradley any information about the type of person who read it last. He bent down onto his knees and the green scratchy Berber carpet prickled his bare, white skin leaving a dotted rash pattern. Quickly, with hope and anticipation, he pushed away the bed skirt and peered under the dark chestnut frame. And that’s when he found something.

***********

Bradley was ready to become someone. He was sick and tired of having no friends and having no personality. He was sick of being alone. But, as much has he hated being lonely, he didn’t know how to be anything else. All of his life his parents were his only friends. They were the only people he could talk to, the only people that thought he had a personality. But they were gone now. They moved out of Garland, Utah and out of the country when Bradley found a job at the post office and moved into his own apartment. That was three years ago, and he was 26 at that time. So, Bradley’s parents left their 29-year-old son behind on his own, hoping he’d be able to find his way.

For the past three years, Bradley has not spoken a word to his co-worker in the mail sorting office, has not smiled at one person in his apartment building, and has not left his room unless it was absolutely necessary. So, this trip he took cross country to Philadelphia must have been absolutely necessary for him as it forced him to talk to strangers in order to get his plane ticket and get out of the isolated, stony little country town of Garland. All of this made Bradley very antsy and uncomfortable, but he knew he had to do it. He decided it was time to get away when his mother arranged a get together for him.

“Bradley, it’s important for you to get out a little,” his mom told him over the phone. “My old friend’s daughter, Steph, is very kind and I’ve set up a time for you to meet with her over dinner next weekend about a half hour from the center of Garland at the Brick Star Restaurant.”

Upon hearing this, Bradley’s first thought was whether he should tell Steph that his name was Bradley or Brad. So, Bradley left on the next flight out of Garland to find his name. He left to find a personality, to be interesting for Steph. Steph could potentially be his first friend and he wanted a friend. But, he knew no one would like him if he didn’t have any spunk. So, he left to find some spunk.

***********

Bradley grabbed the old, black striped slipper with white fur inside from under the hotel bed. He decided that since he didn’t know who he was, he would try to be somebody else. He kicked off his left gray sneaker and slipped his foot into the slipper. Without unpacking his boxy suitcase with his drab, cheap T-shirts, he headed out to the social city of Philadelphia walking in someone else’s shoe, and letting it lead him.

South Street was the first place the slipper took him. His feet told him that he was hungry, so he walked right into a pizza shop with some newfound, surprising confidence and ordered two slices of the largest pizza in the world. The creamy mozzarella stuck to his throat and the crust coated the inside of his stomach making him feel comfy and secure. Right then and there he decided that his most favorite food in the world is that particular pizza. Tomato sauce never tasted so sweet.
Across the gum-bathed street, Bradley noticed a short green building with black bubbly letters. It was a record store. Bradley’s feet led him there and guided him right to the punk section where he stood next to a shapely girl with short, hot pink hair and tall black lace-up boots. She must have been about 20.

“Hey, man,” she spat through chewing bubblegum, “nice shoe.”

Bradley gulped for a second but was soon able to spit that gulp out into words.

“Yeah, ya know. We all have days like this.”

“I don’t,” she said and kicked her heel up, bending her leg and showing off her rebel attributes.

Crap, Bradley thought. Here I go again. Not fitting in. Being the weirdo.

“But, I know what you mean,” she added obviously sensing she hurt him a little.

“Here, try this.”

The pink punk handed him a CD entitled American Idiot by a band called Green Day, and Bradley couldn’t help but think she gave it to him to send him a message. Well, he wasn’t going to stand for that. He was about to let his slipper talk. It was time for him to speak up.

“Hey. That’s not very nice.”

“Haha, dude chill. Just listen to it. Ya know, put in a player. You seem like a pretty chill guy. You need a little spice in your life. This will put spice in your life,” she answered.

Pink punk grabbed the CD from Bradley and took it up to the register and paid the ninety- nine cents for it.

“On me,” she said and handed it back to him. “Just promise me you’ll listen to it.”

“I promise,” Bradley answered, and his awkward mind-body connection told him to walk away, before he made more of a fool out of himself.

And his feet kept leading him. He went from the record shop to the hippie incense store. This shop smelled like cinnamon and licorice mixed with lavender and rose. There were lots of dangling wind chimes and miniature Buddha statues.

“Would you like a new set of slippers, sir?” A woman with long braids and a tie-dyed headband composed of browns and creams asked him. “You seem to be missing one and that can’t be very peaceful and enjoyable at night.”

“Oh, no,” Bradley mumbled. He eyed the “Zen Scents” section of the store and shuffled away from the woman. She followed him.

“Looking for anything particular?”

“No,” he faintly replied.

“You seem like you could use an energy boosting scent. You know you can never be too ‘Zen’ but it is possible to be like a walking zombie. There is a difference you know,” she proposed pronouncing the word energy as it was some mystical gift from heaven above. “Try this one.”

The scent was called Uplift and it smelled like PB&J sandwich jelly mixed with a pine tree. It was a unique combination. However, all Bradley could think about was the fact that he had bored yet another person with his “dead” personality. He suddenly questioned the slipper’s power.

“Twenty-five cents a stick or five for a dollar,” she informed him.

Bradley scooped up four sticks and went to the counter to pay. The woman grabbed another one as she could tell he obviously wasn’t listening. Bradley just wanted to get away so he wouldn’t feel like he was wasting her time anymore.

After buying a dollar’s worth of incense and leaving with barely a goodbye to the hippie woman, his feet brought him to the sneaker store. Now, he had some trouble there. Peppy workers kept shoving new kicks in his face telling him he definitely needed them. Somehow, Bradley got out of the sneaker store without saying a word, but with a fresh pair of blue and yellow sneakers, a matching windbreaker, and a lighter wallet.

As the day turned into night and the sky started to look musty and dingy, Bradley didn’t have much time left for his expedition. His second to last stop brought him back in the punk scene to an edgy, rock star fashion store. A man sat behind the counter and he briefly looked up to acknowledge Bradley when he entered through the glass door covered with showy posters advertising upcoming events. Bradley was the only customer in the store at the time. Inside the clear counter, there was an orderly arrangement of multiple colors of hair dye that only a unique, secure person could pull off. There was Poppin’ Pink matching the record store girl’s hair and her bubblegum. There was Rock ‘n Roll Red like pizza sauce. There was Pasty Purple matching the lavender incense sticks at the hippie store. There was Breathtaking Blue and Yummy Yellow, which matched Bradley’s new color scheme. Grasshopper Green stood out to Bradley as well because of its tie to the band the pink-haired punk told him about. He was mesmerized by all the colors but then started to question the sanity of some peoples’ desires to look a certain way. He redirected his thoughts though, remembering that he was the boring one with no friends and therefore telling himself that he had no right to judge.
Haha, he thought. As if I would know what’s cool. As if I would know anything about the pleasure of standing out and being an individual.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the hair dye display asked, obviously a little freaked out by Bradley’s bipolar facial contortions.

Bradley glanced up and noticed an array of T-Shirts plastered to the wall behind the man. They resembled posters. He didn’t know what they all meant. One said Sonic Youth and another spelled out No Doubt.

No doubt about what? Bradley wondered.

Another shirt read The Cure and had a picture of a boy with untamed hair. Bradley thought that the boy looked like a mad scientist but instead of holding a beaker, the boy held an electric guitar.

The cure for what? Cancer? Diabetes? Bradley questioned again. He decided to ask the man. He figured it could be a good conversation starter.

So, out loud, Bradley asked, “The cure for what?” and pointed at the mad scientist.

The man looked over his shoulder and crunched his eyebrows. He laughed, thinking Bradley was joking. When he could tell Bradley was absolutely serious, the man said, “Oh, no son…”

Quickly and spasmodically, Bradley looked down at the floor, embarrassed. Stupid, get with the program, Bradley thought, calling himself names inside of his head. When he lifted his head back up, his eyes landed on a Green Day T-Shirt and then he suddenly realized what all these shirts were representing. “Oh…”

His slipper gave him the confidence to try to regain himself in front of the man. Bradley put on his “cool” and said, “I’ll take the Green Day one.”

“Size?” the man asked.

“Uhh…um…what? Oh… large,” Bradley finally decided on.

The man stood up with reluctance, obviously interrupting his relaxation. He searched through the tags and found a large. He unfolded it and held it out, modeling it for Bradley. When Bradley didn’t nod or say anything the man asked, “Good?” and Bradley rapidly nodded as if it were routine.
“Twenty-five,” the man told him with a demanding edge.

Bradley counted out his money and gave him exactly $25. He grabbed his shirt and left the store walking as fast as humanly possible without running.
The bookstore in Old City his feet took him to last was unlike any other bookstore he has ever been in, not like he has been in many at all. Its shelves were looming high above, and he could not stop sneezing. There was an odd silence that filled the bookstore though, and Bradley kind of liked that. All day he had been going back and forth between people talking at him, him trying to reply, and trying to be somewhat entertaining for all the city folks. It was nice to just be able to think for a moment. He traced the shelves with his finger and collected a thin layer of a gray mix. It reminded him of himself. He was as gray and dull as dust. And dust was useless.  Bradley thought he was useless. He wrote his name in the dust and put three dots next to it.

“BRADLEY…” it read, and he let the other books finish his story.

From this journey on South Street in Philadelphia, Bradley learned that pizza is tasty, pink haired girls know what’s best, hippie women can change your entire outlook on life, sneaker store workers love to make people look cool, mad scientists now make up bands, T-Shirts are too expensive, and a bookstore can tell you a story in itself.

But, he ultimately learned nothing about the person whose slipper he was wearing, except that they had many different interests. The slipper took him and all his new stuff back to the hotel but not without stopping at his favorite pizza shop to buy two more monster slices for dinner. When he got to the room he took off all his clothes and lay on the bed, bare and naked. The hot summer day wore him out and he needed to cool off.

After a few minutes of just breathing, he got back up. He put back on his jeans and tried on his new T-Shirt. Cool, he thought, spicy. Next he put on his windbreaker. He tied his new sneakers onto his feet and smiled at his obnoxious appearance. In a way, he kind of liked it, though. He was interesting looking. He had never seen such a bright blue and yellow on him before. Bradley hopped back on the bed and started looking through the lyric book that came with the American Idiot CD. He liked the lyrics. They were catchy and straightforward. He liked that they were such an exclamation. Since he was trying out all his new items, he lit the incense with the box of matches he got from the desk drawer and stuck them in a flowerpot. Feeling that he needed more than just energy from the Uplift scent, he dug into his pizza.  Now that he had enough energy, he put on the Green Day CD and started singing along, lyrics in hand.

“Don’t wanna be an American idiot. Don’t wanna nation under the new media. And can you hear the sound of hysteria?”

For this second, Bradley felt unique. Who else gets to sit in a punky, but at the same time, flashy outfit while getting energy from hippie spirits and rocking out to Green Day while swallowing large globs of mozzarella cheese? And suddenly, Bradley realized that he was in his own shoes. Right now, he was no one but himself. He told himself, I am different, as he smiled at himself.

Bradley grabbed the Bible from the bedside table and began annotating it, learning more about the story behind life. Bradley believed in the gift of life. He believed that God will always be his friend, even when he is drab, even when he feels boring and uninteresting.

It only took one day for Bradley to feel like he found something in Philadelphia and he headed back to Garland the next day. He felt ready to embrace his job and his neighbors. He felt ready to walk down the streets of Garland just because he wanted to get out. He felt ready to pet strangers’ dogs and smile just because he could. Bradley was ready to meet Steph and he promised himself that he was good enough.

***********
The next weekend, Bradley put on his Green Day top and blue and yellow getup and blasted “American Idiot” while he got ready to meet Steph. Unfortunately, he had already used up all of his incense.  When he arrived at the “five-star” restaurant right on time, he was annoyed to find that he was underdressed.

I can’t do anything right. I’m so strange, he told himself. But Steph walked into the waiting area before he could even think about going home to change.

“Hi,” she said to the hostess. “There are two of us. Under the name Steph, I think.”

“Alright, looks like you are the only one here right now. I can seat you while you wait for the other to arrive,” the hostess explained.

Bradley knew he needed to stand up and introduce himself to Steph. He admired her beauty from the second she walked in. The way her long blue dress flowed as she rushed in. The way her knuckles turned pale as she grasped her fat black pocketbook. She’s perfect, he thought. And couldn’t help but think that she was going to be much more interesting than him. But, Bradley now had the ability to smile at himself. So, Bradley smiled at himself, stood up, and smiled at Steph. Steph smiled back.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Br…”

 

 

Hannah is a junior at Central Bucks West High School and is part of the science research club and the school literary magazine club. She works at Doylestown Hospital. She loves to sing, and has been writing song lyrics and stories ever since she was really young. Her interests include psychology, surfing, and forensic science. Her favorite book is Skate by Michael Harmon, and she and her mother enjoy Rachel Field’s “Something Told the Wild Geese” poem. She admires Dorothy Parker’s writing, and has a collection of her poems and stories. Hannah and her father love visiting Philadelphia together so that is why she decided to write a story about the city!

The Meaning of Life

While the wind whistled through the trees, Jaya and her best friend, Austin, lay in her backyard. Beep, beep, beep went the door as Jaya’s mom, Mrs. Nallark, entered the house, so both kids got up and ran into the house.
“Mom, did I get any mail today?” Jaya asked. She had been waiting for another letter from her French pen pal.

“Is that all I get? No ‘hellos’ or even a ‘hey’?” Jaya’s mom replied.

“Hi, Mrs. Nallark. Did you have a good day?” Austin said cheerfully.

“See, Jaya? That is what I want when I get home from work. You did get a letter, but it’s not from your pen pal. It’s from your Great Uncle Timothy and it is addressed to Jaya and Austin!” exclaimed Mrs. Nallark.

Immediately, Jaya ran into the dining room, grabbed the letter, and ran back into the kitchen. She and Austin ripped open the unexpected letter and took it out. It read:

My dearest Jaya, and her best friend, Austin,

Your great, great, great grandmother owned a very special box. In it was “the meaning of life”. She instructed her heirs to pass on this box until it reached the fifth generation after her. That is you. She also instructed whoever had the box when the fifth generation was of age, to put the special keys in a secret place that they must find. I have already done that for you. Now you must find the keys to inherit “the meaning of life”.  Your first clue is” Look for a tile on your number____ eye”.
Love,
Your Great Uncle Timothy Wilkins

P.S. I have included three tickets to London so that one of your parents can go with you. London is where you will find your next clue.
Mrs. Nallark read the letter and took out the tickets. “I will go with you on your adventure,” she declared. “I haven’t had good fun in a while!”

After telling Austin’s parents about the trip and getting permission for him to go, Mrs. Nallark, Jaya, and Austin set out on their journey.

On the plane to London, Austin and Jaya were discussing where the key might be hidden. “‘Look for a tile on your number ___ eye.’ That’s what the clue is,” Austin stated.

“Yeah, it’s really confusing.”

“Well, we know it has something to do with… oof. The person sitting next to me keeps trying to sleep on me!” Austin exclaimed as he pushed his seat partner away from him. “Anyway, it has to do with an eye. Do you know of any famous London eyes?”

“That’s it! The next clue is at the London Eye! Good job!” Jaya said excitedly. “Now we just need to figure out the number part.”

Austin replied, “When we get to the London Eye, we might be able to see something with numbers.” The threesome got off the plane, checked in at the hotel, which was called Covent Garden Hotel, and then went to the London Eye.

When they got there, Austin explained to Jaya’s mom that they needed to look for numbers. Looking for numbers wasn’t very hard because soon after they started searching, Jaya called out, “There are numbers on the Ferris Wheel!”

“Now we just need to figure out what to do with the numbers. Maybe we need to look for a specific number,” Austin told Jaya and her mom.
“My father always told me that ‘the best way to find answers is by asking questions’ so that is what we should do. Maybe we should ask the ride operator,” suggested Mrs. Nallark. So, they all went over to the operator and asked him if he knew Timothy Wilkins. Saying that he did indeed know Timothy Wilkins, the operator told them that the number was 23 and that they needed to figure out what to do with it. Then he gave them all tickets to ride the Ferris wheel.

Soon they soon realized that the number 23 was referring to the Ferris wheel car and that they probably needed to ride in that car. So, using the tickets that they had just gotten, they got into the car. There they found a little glass tile with the word “Meaning” on it, a clue, and three plane tickets to Egypt.

“This must be the first key,” Jaya said excitedly.  “Let’s read the next clue!”

To find your next tile, you need to go to the great place that points to the sky.

“There are tickets to Egypt! I’ve always wanted to go to Egypt! What in Egypt points to the sky?” Asked Austin. All three sat on the Ferris wheel thinking. “Ooh! Ooh! I got it! The Great Pyramid at Giza! It’s a pyramid, so it ‘points to the sky’!” Austin said, quoting from the clue.

“No. It’s obviously the Heliopolis Obelisk in Cairo. It’s the oldest obelisk in Egypt,” explained Jaya.

“NO!” yelled Austin. “Why would they italicize the GREAT, if the clue led to the OLD obelisk?”

“It’s at the Obelisk!”

“Pyramid!”

“Obelisk!” And just like that the friends, who had been friends for forever and always, stopped being friends.

On day two of their adventure, Jaya, her mom, and her best friend got on a plane to Egypt. “I’m so excited! I’ve always dreamed of going to Egypt!” said Austin to Ms. Nallark, jittering with excitement.

When they landed, they didn’t even bother checking into their hotel, they went straight to the Great Pyramid because Mrs. Nallark had sided with Austin and agreed that the clue probably was at the Great Pyramid at Giza. When the not-friend kids and Mrs. Nallark got to the pyramid, they once again used the asking-questions tactic. The tour guide at the bottom of the pyramid seemed like a good person to talk to, so they went over to him.

Since neither of the children wanted to talk, Jaya’s mom asked the guide, “Do you know a Timothy Wilkins? We need to know if you have anything from him.”

“Hmmm. Timothy Wilkins, you say? Oh! Yes! I am supposed to give you this,” the guide said as she pulled out a trio of tickets to Paris, a glass tile with the word “of,” and a note, which read:

Up, up and up. I have many stairs. Up, up, up.

“We need to go to the Eiffel Tower,” Jaya and Austin said in unison and then they both turned away.

“I said it first and I thought you were my friend and you would be nice to me!” shouted Jaya.

“We are not friends!” Austin angrily screamed.

“I guess we can just skip going to the hotel and head to the airport because our plane is in two hours,” Mrs. Nallark stated. That being said, the mom and the still-fighting kids were on their way to Paris.

In Paris, the group yet again skipped the hotel and headed to the Eiffel Tower in a taxi smelling of dead fish. Near the Eiffel Tower were a lot of shops, so Jaya and her opposite-of-a-best-friend co-traveler went to a bakery and got croissants.  After their quick snack break, the trio started to try to figure out what to do next. “Mom, I think we need to go up to the top of the Eiffel Tower,” Jaya said matter-of-factly.

“I think you’re right, Jaya. Up we go!” said Mrs. Nallark. And up they did go. At the top, they searched for anything that might be helpful.

Finally, Austin shouted, “I found something I think it is the next clue!”
“I could have easily found that,” said Jaya, annoyed at her used-to-be friend, but she went over to him and read the note.

You have found your last tile. Now you have to go to 2839 Scaford Lane, Albany, NY 12212. I have enclosed three tickets to New York. There you will meet me and I will give you “the meaning of life.” I must warn you, when you open the box there is one last puzzle to complete. Your adult supervisor/helper cannot assist you in any way while you put together the last puzzle.
Love,
Your Great Uncle Timothy Wilkins

Inside the envelope, was the last glass tile, which said, “Life.” “Oh, I get it! The tiles spell out ‘Meaning of Life’,” explained Jaya. “We stayed in one out of three of our hotels. Can we stay in this last one? Please.”

“Sure we can, Jaya,” replied her mom.

“Finally, we’re going back home to the U.S.A. where I can hang out with my real friends,” said Austin exhaustedly.  After sleeping the night in the hotel at Jaya’s request, the tired-from-adventuring group went to New York, their last destination.

When they arrived at 2839 Scaford Lane, they were greeted by a woman in a maid’s uniform.

“Hello! Welcome to the Wilkins Estate. I am Mary, Mr. Wilkins’ housemaid. Please come in. He has been expecting you,” she explained and then took us up to the top of the grand house. There, Jaya, Austin, and Mrs. Nallark met Mr. Wilkins for the first time.

“Jaya.  Austin. Mrs. Nallark. Good afternoon,” he greeted the group as he noticed that something was wrong with how the kids were acting with each other the kids.

“What is going on? Is something wrong?”

“Umm, well, Jaya and Austin had a fight, and now they aren’t friends,” Mrs. Nallark explained to her uncle. He looked concerned for a second, but then he smiled. It wasn’t a big smile. You couldn’t see it unless you were trying to look for it, but it was there.

“Well, let’s get straight down to business. I presume you have all three tiles. May I see them?” he asked calmly. As Austin showed him the delicate glass tiles, he nodded as if in deep thought. “Well then, I guess it is time for me to give you my great grandma’s box.” He went into the next room and came back carrying an intricately designed box about the size of a small tissue box. On the box were three, square holes. “Please put your tiles in place.”

Jaya did as he said and put the three tiles in the holes, so that they read out “Meaning of Life.”  When she set the last tile in place, the box slowly glided open. Inside the beautiful box sat two crystal puzzle pieces.

“Where’s the ‘Meaning of life’?” Austin asked.

“Oh, you will find it when you put the pieces together. My niece cannot help you. You and Jaya have to do it yourselves, and I know that you’re not friends anymore, but you will just have to be able to stay in the same room as her. Do you think you can handle that to get the ‘Meaning of Life’?” Austin grunted in reply.

“Well, we’ll leave you to it. Goodbye! If you need anything just push that little button over there and someone will come. Have fun! And remember, ‘The end lies in the beginning’,” Mr. Wilkins said as he ushered everybody, except the two kids, out of the room.

“Now what do we do?” asked Jaya.

“I don’t know about you, but I really want to figure out what the meaning of life is. And you can do what you want to, but I am putting these pieces together, whether you like it or not!” said Austin in annoyance. He tried to jam the pieces together, but it didn’t work. After a while, Austin let Jaya try and she did to no avail. They quarreled and argued and fought, but eventually they realized that they were really best friends all along and that friends are one of the most important things in life.

“We don’t need to open some lame box to figure out that the meaning of life is having true friends, like you, Austin,” Jaya said as they put the two pieces together, each holding one piece. As they did, words carved themselves into the crystal. They read:

Life has many meanings, but one of the most important is friendship.

Smiling, Austin said, “Wow. That was a little bit of magic, but I didn’t need magic puzzle pieces to tell me that all I needed was a true friend because I already figured that out when I met you, Jaya.”

“’The end lies in the beginning’. That’s what he said, and it is true. We were great friends in the beginning, and we are great friends now,” replied Jaya.  The true friends realized that they had always needed each other and would always need each other, no matter what.

Aya’s Story

“Grandmother, what is this painting supposed to be about? It’s so, um, grey,” Anna says to me. She is pointing to a bleak grey painting of a broken down shack with a tin bucket on the doorstep I had made many years ago.

“Oh, Anna, it is such a long story, I am not sure you will want to hear it,” I tell her.

“Oh, but Grandmother, I love stories!” she says eagerly. I can never resist her joy. It makes me warm inside to know she is happy.

“Alright Anna, I will tell you about the painting.” I sit down on my favorite green armchair, and Anna sits on the worn red rug in front of me. She rests her head on her hands, and I can tell she is ready to listen to my story.

“When I was 13 years old, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Do you know about that?” I begin.

“Yeah, we learned about that last year,” Anna says. “It was during WWII when the Japanese launched a surprise attack on Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. It forced the United States to declare war on the Japanese, entering the U.S. into WWII.”

“Right, well after that, the President made a law that all Japanese Americans had to go to internment camps, places to hold enemy aliens and prisoners of war. I found this out when mother and I were making dinner. I remember that we were making my favorite dish, Hayashi rice, rice with beef stew on top. Father came home from work with a pained look on his face. I remember that he sat his worn leather briefcase down on the kitchen table and hung up his hat and coat like he did every night. But this time, he sat down at the table and put his head in his hands.

‘Hiroki! What is the matter?’ Mother asked him.

‘Oh, Yuna, Aya, this news pains me so much. Two months ago, the Japanese bombed a place called Pearl Harbor. Now, because the government is scared, and the Japanese are their enemy…’ He paused and sighed. ‘Right after the bombing they began construction on internment camps, places where all of the Japanese Americans will be forced to go to. We, too, must go and can only bring one suitcase each.’

‘But Hiroki, we do not even own any suitcases!’ Mother said.

‘We will make do. I can find some at the thrift shop. We only can pack what we will absolutely need.’ I burst into tears and thought to myself, ‘Oh, no, I must leave all of my precious painting supplies behind.’ Painting was my passion, even then. I would have to leave behind all of the paintings that I had labored over and been so proud of throughout my life.  Father let me take one tin of paints and two brushes because he knew of my sorrows. With that tin of paints I made the painting you are holding right now, Anna,” I said.
“Really, Wow?!” Anna exclaimed.

“Yes, I created many more, but I had to leave most of them behind, and all of the others except for that one were lost one way or another.

We had to leave the next evening so I went to pack up some clothes. I only took what was necessary. When I brought my small pile of clothing and tin of paints to stuff into the new, but very worn suitcases, I found Mother hunched over with a pile of clothing in her hands.  At first I thought she was trying to fit more things in, but when I saw her shoulders shaking, I realized, my mother was crying. I’ll never forget that moment because it was the first and only time I saw my mother cry.

We arrived at the camp to find a partially built building. Father approached the guard who was standing outside of the tall barbed-wire fence. I could see the uniformed man was heavily armed with a machine gun. I could not hear what he said but when Father returned, he shook his head and said, ‘We will be in a room with a family of five; their name is Sasaki, and they have a daughter named, May, who is Aya’s age.’ Father said with a wink. Secretly, I hoped that I could find a friend at this camp and Father seemed to know how I felt.

When we found our room, the Sasaki family was already there. The room was small and cramped. There were eight small, rickety cots with mattresses so thin they were almost invisible. From the ceiling, a single light bulb hung by a thin black wire. The floor was hard and bare, and the room was icy cold. Outside there was a shared bathroom for about 20-30 rooms.

My parents were trying to get to know our new roommates. They kept beckoning me to come over from my spot on my cot, but I pretended I didn’t notice. I sank my face into the musty pillow and started to cry. I hated that new place and I hated the government for forcing us to go there.

When the bell rang for dinner the hallway outside our door was suddenly filled with other Japanese families. We filed into a long mess hall and everybody started to gravitate towards the food. I had no appetite, but I took some potato salad, so I would have something in my stomach. The whole meal I was silent and picked at the potatoes. One of the Sasaki’s children, May, kept on staring at me. May, you remember, was the girl Father told me about, who was my age. In any other circumstance I would have introduced myself right away and gotten to know her, but I had no desire to do anything right then. The camp, that place, seemed to take the friendly part of me away.

Finally, May spoke up and said, ‘So, your name is Aya.’

‘Yes,’ I said and looked back down at my potato salad.

‘I’m May,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I replied. May must have gotten the clue that I wasn’t in the mood to talk so she gazed back to the fish on her plate and sighed.

Our room was cold, and my head hurt from crying. The thin mattress felt like I was sleeping on a board and I could not find a position that was comfortable. I guess I must have fallen asleep, eventually, because the next thing I knew, the sun shone in the small window and I awoke to seven other people moving around. I looked for a clock to see what time it was, but there was none. As soon as I got out of bed the bell for breakfast rang.

Sleeping must have given me a new appetite because I devoured a slice of French toast and a bowl of cereal. I felt bad about how cold I was with May so I said, ‘Do you like to paint?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she said, ‘do you?’

‘Yes, I even brought some paints and brushes,’ I replied.

‘You did? So did I!’ she exclaimed.

‘Would you like to paint with me this afternoon?’ I asked.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘see you then.’ Her family got up from the table to go say hello to the Sumiko family.

May and I met outside the building with our paints, and some paper we had found. She immediately started to paint a herd of rainbow horses. ‘Do you like horses?’ I asked her.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘my family owned a farm outside of Poston with many beautiful horses. We had to sell it because of this place,’ May sighed.

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, ‘That is so sad, I’m sorry.’ May kept on adding more and more horses until her paper was filled with color and horse shapes. My paper remained blank with the exception of a tin bucket painted in watery grey.

May looked at the painting, then away at her watch and said, ‘Dinner is soon, we should go back to our room.’

The rest of our time spent in the Poston internment camp was spent together. Eventually a school was built and May and I entered the eighth grade. We made more friends, but May and I remained the closest.”

“Wow, Grandmother,” Anna says, “that is an amazing story. I mean that’s so cool!”
“Yes, Anna,” I reply, “I suppose it is. Now help me set up for when May comes for tea.”

 

 

Lili May Muntean is in eighth grade at the Friends Select School and enjoys reading and writing realistic fiction. She also likes playing field hockey, swimming, and playing the piano. She lives with her mom and dad in Center City Philadelphia. In her spare time, she likes watching British mysteries with her family.