Angela’s story falls into the long and great tradition of tales of the fantastic. In tales of the fantastic everything is normal – almost. But this “almost” takes us to strange and even frightening worlds. The fantastic elements are not there just to scare or disturb us; they are there to challenge the characters. As we read how the characters respond to strange and unexpected challenges, we learn something about them, and, if we think about it, we can often learn something about ourselves as well.
John sees something out of the ordinary. He sees a girl sitting in an open field with a crow on her head. She is talking to the crow. What is his response? John’s response is hostile. He is threatened by what he sees. No, he isn’t in any physical danger. But in a deep way the girl and the crow threaten him – the way a bully blocking his path might. Think about it. Why is John so upset by what he sees? What does this tell us about John?

Project: Write a Story in Which the Fantastic Exists Alongside the Normal
The fantastic element, whatever it is – a ghost, the appearance of the past or future within the character’s normal life, a strange force or power, should pose a problem for your main character. The girl and  the crow pose a problem for John. It is a problem that John does not understand. What a different story this would be if John had been curious. If he had not been afraid. If he could have gone up to the girl and spoken kindly to her and to her crow!
When planning your story, think of a setting that is ordinary. A regular house.  A regular school. A regular city. A regular family. The appearance of the ghost, the past, the future, the animal with knowledge, the friend who turns out to have a special power, will seem all the more amazing for being placed, as Angela’s girl and crow are, in what otherwise seems like our normal world.

People of the Crow

by Angela Della Sala, age 11

Mountain View, Hawaii

Gale and John stepped into the musty old cedar house. The floor of the one hundred and fifty year old house creaked beneath their feet. Dust puffed out from the cracks as they walked. “This place smells,” complained Gale..

“Of course, what do you expect from a hundred and fifty year old house!” yelled John.

“Shut up or you’ll loosen the nails and the whole house will fall on us!” hissed Gale. Gale Ramsden and her cousin, John Harris, were visiting their grandparents in Cranford, New Jersey. Gale was a very careful person and very neat. John, on the other hand, was the opposite. He wasn’t very clean and loved to make trouble. Especially to Gale.

“Yodel le hee hoo!” John yelled as loud as he could. Gale was so quiet and concentrated that she nearly jumped out of her skin. She knew that if she pestered him about being quiet that would just encourage John more. But still she wanted to give him a piece of her mind. She walked up to him and whispered to him that if he didn’t shut up, she would punch his lights out. That didn’t work. “Don’t talk too loud!” yelled John.

“John,” Gale screamed, “you are so sarcastic!” At that moment Gale didn’t care whether or not the house fell on her.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but little Gale will not!” He sounded like a pre schooler sucking his thumb. Gale’s face was getting red with anger. She stomped out of the house and slammed the door in John’s face. She almost wished the house would fall on John. She decided to explore the woods behind the house. Gale called John to come with her. They walked around looking at plants and animals that were new to them.

They usually separated while exploring places, so by this time they weren’t even in seeing distance. Gale was so absorbed in the plants that she almost didn’t hear a distant yell. “Gale! Gale!” She knew right away that it was John.

She looked up and saw hundreds of black birds circling above one particular place. That must be where John is, Gale thought, since he was always in trouble. She made her way through the thick brush and looked up once in a while to see if she was going in the right direction.

She finally reached her destination and found that John was there. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Look,” said John flatly, pointing to the spot under the circling birds. A young girl, about Gale’s age, was sitting in the middle of a large opening.

Perched on her shoulder was a huge black bird. A crow. John always had to know everything so he didn’t waste any time stepping out into plain sight into the middle of the opening.

“No!” Gale hissed. But it was too late. The first sight of John sent some crows on the ground squawking and flying in all directions. The girl, who seemed to be meditating, looked up suddenly.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” she said.

“What’re you doing?” John was annoying that way; he never answered your questions, just asked them.

“Talking to the crows,” she answered calmly.

“Ha ha! That’s a laugh!” By now Gale was stand ing next to John.

“That happens to be true.” The voice came so suddenly that John jumped back a few feet.

“It. . . that. . . animal. . . talked, ” John stammered.

“So?” the girl said. “Crows happen to be very intelligent animals.”

“Make it say something else,” John commanded.

“No,” said Gale.

“You can’t make them talk,” the girl explained. “They talk whenever they want to.”

“Sure, I knew that!” said John, the smart aleck.

Gale hiccuped. “Right, ” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Would you believe it?” the girl asked suddenly.

“What?” asked John.

“I’m about to tell you something that I’ve kept secret all my life.”

“What?” asked Gale, curiously.

“I’m a. . . ,” she sighed, “. . . a witch.” The color dropped from Gale’s face.

“Yeah, sure!” yelped John. He laughed so hard that he fell to the ground and had to hold his stomach to keep it from bursting.

The girl had to yell over his laughing, “I’ll prove it to you.”

“I believe you!” yelled Gale. To tell you the truth,

she really didn’t know if she believed her or not. John stood up and wiped off his sleeves.

“How?” he asked.

“I’ll put a curse on you, that’s how!”

“Go ahead, see if I care. Probably won’t even work!” John gave a loud “Hah!” to end his sentence.

“We’ll see about that, smarty!” the girl remarked. She closed her eyes and concentrated hard.

“What a dweeb!” John yelled. “Meditating!”

“Shhhhhhhhhh!” hissed Gale.

“So, you actually believe this junk?” John said. The birds came again, circling above them. Gale was the first to notice, then John. They stared at the sky when finally the girl came back to normal.

“There,” she said.

“What was the curse?” asked Gale curiously.

“Gale!” yelled John.

“Sorry,” mumbled Gale.

“May your feet grow so big that you’ll have to wash them in a pool!” the girl yelled.

“Whhaaaat?” John said. “That’s all?”

“Yes, think of all the problems you’ll have.”

“Yeah, new shoes,” answered John.

“And odor,” muttered Gale under her breath. “C’mon,” she said, tugging at John’s jacket.

“O.K.” he said. He swerved around and started home.

“Bye,” said Gale, but the girl had disappeared. She ran to catch up with John. He looked away and snorted.

The next morning Gale woke up bright and early.

She shook the top bunk to wake up John. He finally woke up with a loud groan and dangled his big feet over the edge of the bunk. Big feet! Gale stared in horror. Had the curse that the girl with the crow put on John really worked?

She watched as John climbed down from his bed and tried to slip on his shoes. Lucky thing he was half asleep or he would’ve thrown a fit. Gale wasn’t about to tell him. She just stared at his feet as he dragged them down the stairs. A couple of minutes later she heard him call. “Gale,” he yelled, “break fast!” She pulled herself up slowly off her bed and stumbled down the steps. She sat down wearily, as if nothing was wrong. She was going to spill the beans when she got outside. But she also wanted him to find out by himself, when she wasn’t around.

After breakfast she rushed outside to the back of the house. She hesitated in front of a bunch of pine trees. She had to find the girl, if she was still there. John was right on her trail, again. Gale started off toward the opening. She wasn’t really used to the woods since she was a city girl. Still, she went on, but slowly, so as not to rip her new shirt. Finally she found the opening, and the girl was still sitting there, with the crow on her shoulder. She tiptoed to the girl and tapped her on the shoulder. The girl turned around slowly and glared at them.

John looked offended. “Wait a minute, why are we here?” he asked. He watched Gale’s eyes as they slowly turned down toward his feet. She didn’t want to give it away by words. John followed her movement. His mind went blank for a couple of seconds. .

“Better get your new shoes,” said the girl. John tried to run away as fast as he could, but he kept on stumbling over his feet. The girl laughed.

“Stop it!” screamed Gale. The girl stopped laughing and looked at Gale with a serious face.

“Sorry,” she said, “I was having fun.” Then she giggled. Gale was getting furious. She ran after John, but she couldn’t find him. So she went into the house. While she was looking for him, she had no idea that he was hiding in the bushes, with a gun!

He had an idea for getting back at Gale. No! No way! He wasn’t going to shoot Gale! Of course he was crazy, but not that crazy! He was going to shoot the crow.

The crow was perched on a tree. Gale just happened to look out the window and saw John aiming his gun in the direction of the girl. Gale’s eyes widened as she flew down the steps. She couldn’t believe what she saw. She pushed open the back door and ran toward John. But it was too late. There was a loud gunshot that was fired.

Gale stopped dead in her tracks. She listened as John crawled out of the bushes. “I can’t believe it,” she said, “I can’t believe it.” She slapped her forehead and walked toward John. She shook his shoulders furiously, saying, “What did you do? What did you do?” She looked toward the spot where the gun had been aimed. To her surprise, the girl was alive and well. But the crow lay dead cold on the ground.

She was glad the girl was all right, but she still couldn’t believe what happened. She turned around to scream at John, but he was gone. She walked up to the girl quietly and kneeled beside her. “John did it,” she whispered. The girl didn’t budge. Gale saw that her eyes were closed and small tears were running down her cheeks. It was such a sad sight that Gale started to cry.

She got up and walked home. The closer she got to the house, the madder she got. “C’mon, John,” she said, as soon as she caught sight of him. She dragged him by his jacket all the way to the girl. But she didn’t dare step out into the opening with him. She pushed him out of the bushes. “Apologize,” she whispered.

“O.K.,” he whispered back. He walked up to the girl. She was sitting down in the same place where the crow was. “Sorry,” he said.

“That won’t do,” she said.

“I am, I really am!” he said.

“Still,” she said, “that won’t do.”

“Why?” he asked.

“You have to do something.”

“For what?”

“To make up for it, and to take off your curse. Unless you already bought your shoes.”

“Sure, I’ll do it,” he said. “What do I have to do?”

“Come, follow me,” she said.

“Wait,” said John, “I have to tell Gale.”

But when John got there, Gale was gone. While she was listening, she had gotten the idea of what was going to happen. She couldn’t believe he went along with it so well.

When the girl stopped suddenly, John looked around her to see why she stopped. He saw they were at the entrance of a large cave. At the end of the cave was an eerie, glowing light. “Wait here,”

the girl said, and she walked toward the light.

So brave, thought John, as he watched her dis appear into the light. Then something long reached out of the light, beckoning John to come forward.

He tiptoed carefully toward the light, then hesitated. Something grabbed his arm and pulled him in. As soon as he stepped into where he was pulled, he looked up.

“No!” shouted a familiar voice. John couldn’t believe it. He was standing directly under the sun. And I mean directly under the sun. It was no more than a hundred feet away.

“No wonder it’s so bloody hot!” John exclaimed.

“Come,” the girl said, already rushing to the entrance of another cave. He rushed toward it, despite the sun’s heat. He stopped a few feet away from the exit of the cave. But the girl kept running. “Why are you stopping?” she yelled over her shoulder. He didn’t know why, so he started again and stopped when he felt a blast of icy wind slap him on the face.

“It’s cold!” he yelled.

“So what?!” the girl screamed. Her voice was swallowed up by the noise from the howling wind. “You made it through the hot and horrible; you can make it through the cold and terrible!” she yelled. John closed his eyes and started toward the cave, getting colder with every step. He knew it would be colder at the end, where everything was coming from. The girl was gone. Finally, he reached the end. He didn’t need to be reminded to run toward the entrance of another cave, but where was it?

“Over here!” the girl yelled. John turned to the left, where her call was coming from. He couldn’t see her because it was snowing. He walked toward her, even though he couldn’t see her. He walked on until the howling and the snow and coldness stopped, and he stopped with it. He was stunned by the sudden change.

“There,” called a voice from behind. He turned around slowly and saw the girl dusting her arms off. “Come,” she said, running toward a door.

Oh, no, thought John. But when he got there, and the girl had already opened the door, the opening was empty and dark. They sat down on a rock, just like the one the girl sat on.

“Copy me,” said the girl. She crossed her legs, rested her arms on her legs, and looked up into the darkness with closed eyes. John did the exact same thing for a couple of minutes. Then things started to change. The light came from one cave, and the snow came from the other cave. It was enough to make one sick, but it bothered neither John nor the girl, even though they still felt the cold and the hot.

“You can open your eyes, now,” the girl whispered. He opened his eyes, and through all the hubba jubba he saw millions of black figures flying toward them. Or, should I say, toward him. A shiver went through him as the black figures got closer to him. Finally, when they were close enough, he saw that the black figures were the crows that were circling above the girl when he first saw her.

“Whhhaaaat’s happening?” he said.

“They’re coming, for you,” she said, giving him a wicked smile.

“Why?” he whispered. He was thinking about Gale and what she was doing and thinking at that very moment. I bet she doesn’t know about all the misery I’m going through, now, he thought.

“Just wait and see,” the girl answered.

That girl, thought John, she never gives any direct answer, just like me! He looked at her admiringly. She was looking at the ground where the crows had settled. They were pecking at the ground.

“They’re practicing,” she said.

“For what?” He didn’t really want to know, but he was a very curious person. The girl was meditating again. John thought that if she was, he should.

And, almost as though she were reading his mind, she said, “Don’t bother.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you have nothing to say.”

“Well, I had nothing to say the first time!” he snapped.

“Yes, you did,” she said, “all those thoughts floating around in the back of your mind, the ones you didn’t even know were there.” She went on meditating.

When finally the crows fluttered off the ground, they circled around John and then made a straight line up into the sky, one on top of the other. Then, one after another, they shot down out of the sky and pecked John on the head.

He felt very little of it at first, and then he didn’t feel it at all. Actually, what the crows were doing was taking out all of the thoughts and happenings from the time John and Gale met the girl to the present moment. The farther away they flew, the farther back in time John went.

Then John found himself peering out into an opening at a young girl about Gale’s age. Perched on her shoulder was a huge black bird….

“Hey! What’s the big idea?” she was asking.

“What’re you. . . ?” then he stopped. “Uh, sorry,” he said, and backed into the bushes. He tripped over Gale.

“Let’s go!” said Gale. They ran back to the house and didn’t say one word about the girl and the crow.

Saturday, they finally got to go home. Their week at their grandparents’ had been miserable. For start ers, it had been rainy half the week, and the house was too far out in the country for neighbors, so they didn’t have anyone to play with except their dog, Jemaima, who was a happa.

The first thing John’s mother said when they got home was, “How was your week?”

“Oh, the usual,” said John. “Rainy half the week. No one to play with the rest of the week.”

(From the January/February 1991 issue of Stone Soup.)
Copyright 1991 Children’s Art Foundation

As you read the stories, and they deserve reading more than once, pay particular attention to the two boys. The boys have a very strong presence. And they are quite different from each other. Notice how the differences are revealed. In “Clam Sushi,” for example, the two characters display quite different ideas about what should be done with the starfish. In both stories, however, it is clear that the two boys are very close friends. They seem to enjoy just being together.

Project: Write a Very Short Story
Your story should be no longer than one or two pages. The action should take place in a single location. Include two characters, as Daniel does. Show us how different they are different.

You might think of yourself as writing a scene for a play – just one scene. The scene may be at the beginning of the play, in the middle, or at the end. Both of Daniel’s stories are clearly placed in the middle of a day, although he doesn’t tell us what happens before or after.

Like Daniel, make your scene a “slice of life.” If you want to write several short pieces, consider writing scenes that reveal different moments in what is really a long and complicated story. You might even try to tell a long story by just writing the highlights in the form of brief sketches.

There are different ways you can show us how your characters act and respond to each other. In one of Daniel’s stories there is dialogue. In the other there isn’t. If there is dialogue in your scene, remember to make it as realistic as possible. The language of spoken English is not as precise as the language of written English. Let your characters tell us who they are by the natural way they talk.

Friends and Fireworks

by Daniel Bethea, age 12

Batam, Indonesia

On Sunday afternoon my Irian Jayan friend Fanda and I walked to the deserted lot full of kalimunteng bushes near our Batam house, on the paved road going to our church. When we arrived we played with fireworks. Their bright flames looked like spotlights in a circus. Sparks that fell to the sand reminded me of Expo ’86. My friend started roasting ants with his fireworks. The sizzling ants sounded like corned beef cooking in an iron skillet. The handles of the fireworks warned but didn’t burn up. Smoke and the odor of burnt plastic filled my nostrils as Fanda melted rubber. I saw a train of ants leading to a squashed berry. I felt in my pocket for the smooth surface of my last big kalimunteng. I didn’t want the ants to get it. I could still taste my second to last big berry..

Suddenly my dog, Santan, started barking his head off at a baby. The infant screamed back at Santan so he ran to me for help. I stroked his fur and told him to hush.

As we left I heard rocks crunching and popping. They were brittle and dry because there hadn’t been any rain for a while. We ran home, the rocks grinding together under our feet.

Clam Sushi

by Naomi Wendland, age 12

Lusaka, Zambia

Batam Island’s fierce tropical sun glared down at me on that Sunday afternoon, the day of Fanda’s birthday party. As I walked down the mud flats at low tide, I nonchalantly flipped a starfish over. Suddenly I stopped and yelled, “Fanda, come quick! There’s something green in the middle of this starfish!”.

He ran up and questioned eagerly, “Where? I want to see!”

“This easy-going starfish is turning his stomach inside out to eat this unfortunate clam,” I told Fanda as I moved the starfish to uncover just that.

The clam lay there, apparently dead. The pow erful suction cups of the starfish had pried open its shell. About half of the juicy pink flesh remained in the shell.

“Hey, Daniel, go get your knife and we’ll see how much he’s eaten,” Fanda suggested shrilly.

“No, that’s mean. How would you like it if a starfish came and cut you open to see what you ate?” I retorted.

“Well,” Fanda replied, “he could see I’m eating cake, so he wouldn’t need to saw on me.”

“You can see that he’s eating clam,” I replied.

In the end, we left the greenish brown starfish to finish his living clam chowder alone.

(From the January/February 1991 issue of Stone Soup.)
Copyright 1991 Children’s Art Foundation

Project: Write a Play with at Least Four Characters.

The best way to develop an appreciation for how narratvie helps you develop your characters is by writing a play. Go back through stories you have written and find the one with the most dialogue. Transform this story into a play. You will probably need to re-imagine the story because you may find that, once the dialogue is stripped of the accompanying narrative, it no longer makes sense. Your challenge as a playwright is to tell your story exclusively through the words spoken by your characters!

Go to the library and look at plays to learn what format to use when writing your play. You will see that at the beginning of a play playwrights list the characters and tell how they relate to each other. Also, at the beginning of each scence the characters present in the scene are listed. Character are listed whether they talk or not. The beginning of a scene is also the place to include a short narrative description of where the action for the scene takes place. When writing your play you should follow these customary practices.

The Bear

by Lena Boesser-Koschmann

THE MORNING WAS cool. It wasn’t cold, but not warm enough to go without a jacket. Sandy and I were walking toward the field where Chipper, my seven-year-old pony, was staked. I was swinging the reins, and Sandy was walking beside me. We didn’t talk to each other, and it was quiet. A bird chirped, singing out a strange melody. When we arrived, I softly called to Chipper. He lifted his head and walked slowly over to me. He nuzzled my pocket to see if I had any treats for him. I laughed and slipped the bit into his mouth. He jerked his head a little at the coldness of the bit. I unhooked the rope from his halter and, grabbing the reins in my hand, jumped up onto his back. Since Sandy was taking the road, I decided to canter Chipper in the field.

As I neared the road that separates Chipper’s field and Timer’s field (Timer is Chipper’s brother), I noticed a guest from the Goldhill Inn. He was taking a video of the inn. He nodded a friendly hello to me, and I decided to show off a little. Maybe he’d videotape me. I clicked Chipper again and gave him a little kick. He loped faster. When he came to the edge of the field where Timer was staked, I stopped him and let him walk.

Timer was going crazy. He was running around in circles, bucking and kicking his legs. I thought his unusual behavior was just in his excitement to see Chipper. I let Chipper walk up to him, and Timer kicked him. Timer was acting really weird. It was then that I noticed the bear. He was sitting in the berry patch no more than sixty yards away. I gasped. Chipper jumped. Quickly, I leapt off Chipper and tried to pull him away from Timer. It was impossible.

Just then Sandy called, “What’s wrong?”

“Bear.” I spoke that one simple word.

“What?”

“Bear,” I repeated.

“Where?”

“In the berry patch, right over there!” I pointed over toward the raspberries that were around one side of the garden. I was talking fast and calmly to Chipper, pulling at his head a little at a time. Finally, we were walking away from Timer, who was as wild as ever.

All the time I have had Chipper, I have never actually come within sight of a bear while riding (unless you count the time I heard snuffling in the woods and saw fresh droppings). Chipper was getting excited by now. He was hard to control from the ground. I ran him to the nearest tree and tied him quickly to it. It was only then that I relaxed and looked closely at the bear. It wasn’t a big bear, but I’m not too good at telling what age animals are. Maybe he was the one year old that had been hanging around the town.

“He’s so cute,” I said to Sandy, who was looking at the small bear also.

“I know. That might be the one we saw in our yard the other day.”

Just then Mrs. Hall shouted out her window at us, “There’s a bear right there, ya known

“We know,” I shouted back and then untied the reins and started walking back toward my house.

Once we were out on the road, I leapt up onto Chipper once again.

“What are you doing?” Sandy asked.

“I’m going to put Chipper back in the pasture. Then we can come back to see the bear some more.”

“Thank you for your permission, oh great one,” she said.

I giggled. Then I loped Chipper down the short path way to our house. He seemed to know where we were going. He automatically went to the gate of the big pas ture. I opened the gate and he trotted inside. I slipped off his reins, and he loped across the pasture to scratch on a stake. Then I ran to tell my mom about the bear.

When I reached the porch, I didn’t bother to use the steps—I never did—but vaulted up onto the porch.

When I opened the door, Carrie, my sister, greeted me with a questioning look.

“I thought you were going riding,” my mom said.

“We were, but the horses are all hyped up because there’s a bear in Mrs. Hall’s berry patch,” I answered.

And at the same time Sandy said, “There’s a bear over at Mrs. Hall’s.”

I laughed. “I think it’s the same one that was in our yard the other day,n I said. “Sandy and I are going over to see what it does.”

“Well, Carrie and I are going down to the school in about fifteen minutes. I have some work I need to do before tomorrow. Tell me about the bear when I get back.”

“Sure.”

Then Sandy and I walked back across the road to Mrs. Hall’s place. She was yelling and screaming and banging pans at the bear.

“She’s mad,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Very good,” Sandy said sarcastically.

“I can’t see the bear,” I said, standing on my toes and trying to see it.

“Let’s go over where we were before.” But we didn’t get a chance to because just then we saw Bill slowly walking, gun in hand, toward the bear.

“No!n I gasped. Why would anyone shoot a baby bear? A bear without its mother. A bear with nowhere to go. Bill aimed. Then a shot rang out.

“God,” Sandy said, obviously mad. I couldn’t speak. I was boiling over with anger—a steam pot that can’t stop boiling, even when the burner beneath it is off. Maybe it wasn’t dead. Maybe he had just shot to scare it. Then why had he aimed the gun? I argued with my self. “I am never speaking to him again,” I said under my breath.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just feel sorry for the bear.”

“I know. I mean, it couldn’t defend itself. They didn’t have to shoot it,” Sandy said in a sarcastic voice.

“No kidding!”

Then, we walked wordlessly back toward my house. Mom and Carrie were just leaving. They had these looks on their faces. They had heard the gunshot, obviously. “It’s dead.” My voice cracked as I said it.

“Who shot it?” my mom asked.

“Bill Hall.” Sandy spoke his name in disgust. Just then we saw Mrs. Hall walking toward the Jones’ place, her kids hanging on her.

“Is it dead?” my mom called to Mrs. Hall, even though she knew the answer.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hall called back matter of factly.

“Why did you shoot it?”

“I didn’t shoot it, Bill did!”

Great, Mrs. Hall, blame it on Bill. Mrs. Hall went on, “You know what happened yesterday? He was growling at me from behind the woodpile.” Then Silvie started crying, and Mrs. Hall continued walking.

All my mom said was, “Come on, Carrie, let’s go.” And they rode off.

I slowly walked over to Chipper. He looked at me with his big brown eyes and yawned. I forced a smile. “He’s dead, Chipper, dead.” And I buried my face in his strong neck.

In “The  Clay Pot,” Sashi gives in to this temptation and lies. In “The Mother’s Day Gift,” Mathew resists temptation and tells the truth. Fiction is often used by authors to explore difficult human problems, and few human problems are as difficult as the ones dealt with in these two stories. Mathew’s test, in “The Mother’s Day Gift,” is not as severe as Sashi’s. Mathew was careless and broke a window on a rebound, but his mother’s life wasn’t bound up with the window in any way.  His mistake was in the form of an accident.

Sashi’s mistake was more serious. She purposely, out of laziness, did something she was prohibited from doing. In both stories the mothers responded to what their children did by seeing it as an opportunity to strenghten their bond with their child. They both understood that the most valuable object between mother and child is something that cannot be touched but can be broken, and that is trust. Both mothers used the actions of their child to lovingly nurture trust so the bond of trust would be made stronger.

Project: Write a story about trust and lying

It is easy to be honest when there are no consequences to telling the truth! But it is not easy to tell the truth when you think that your words may get you in trouble. There are many famous stories and novels written for adults that explore the difficulty of telling the truth when lying seems safer or easier.

Create a test of trust for your character.  Your character might, for example, want to go out to play before finishing his or her homework. A friend offers a solution: lie about the homework  and finish it later. A bigger test might be that your character borrows something and either loses it or breaks it. An even bigger test of trust would be one where your character is actually tempted to steal something, does steal it, and then lies about stealing it.

Show us how your character responds to the test you create. Show us what, if anything, your character learns from his or her experience. Of course, there will always be at least two people involved in a story about trust. Show, as Naomi and Mathew do, what the other person expected of your main character and how that person responds to what happens.

In order to test your character’s trustworthiness you need to build up the significance of the trouble your character thinks he or she could get into by being found out. Naomi and Mathew took different approaches to building up their characters’ problems. Naomi builds up the significance of Sashi’s problem by showing us how important that one clay pot was to her mother. “It wasn’t the beauty of the pot, it was that it was part of her mother.” Mathew builds up the significance of his character’s problem by showing us how upset he was by what he had done. “My stomach immediately pole-vaulted into my throat . . . I could feel my body beginning to sweat and I felt sick.” Mathew’s character clearly thinks he will get in big trouble for what he did, and this is what makes his response courageous.

When you tell your story, you have a choice of voices — the “I” (first person) voice that Mathew uses, or the “he/she/it” (third person) voice that Naomi uses. The first-person voice emphasizes the experience and feelings of the central character, while the third-person voice emphasizes the larger world in which the tale takes place.

Whichever perspective you choose as the author of your piece, be sure, like Naomi and Mathew, to tell us the whole story, from the beginning — the whole “who, what, where, why,  and when” of what happened to test your character’s honesty.

The Clay Pot

by Naomi Wendland, age 12

Lusaka, Zambia

It was a cool, dusky morning in a village by a river bank. A mother and her daughter sat and watched the sky above the horizon change colors—from blue to purple to pink to orange-red. It was a good start to a new day.

It was only when the sun peaked over the horizon that the other people of the village emerged. Sashi knew then that her mother would have to start the fire. Sashi and her mother, Betra, had sat and watched the sun every morning since Sashi could remember, but once the families started to awaken, the chores would have to be started.

Her mother would usually start up a hot fire for the porridge to be cooked. Once she had done that, the task of feeding the family would be under way. It was Sashi’s job to make sure there was enough wood for the fire and that her two younger sisters and younger brother were ready and awake for the new day ahead of them.

Sashi and her mother had a special relationship between them—unlike any other relationship between a mother and daughter in the village. They could always share feelings and jobs. But there was something that they never did together—pot making. Her mother was a well-known potter. She specialized in her pots. Betra’s pots were sold in the city, and the money from the pots was used to support the family, for the father of Sashi had gone away and not returned. There was a strange feeling and look about Betra’s pots that lured people to them. Sashi thought it was partially because Betra spent so much time on them, but mostly because Betra would talk to the pots and the pot would talk to her. While Betra would be making the pot, she would have to be alone. Not even the little child, Chachala, could talk to her. Betra would make sure that she didn’t spend too much time on the pot instead of being outside with her family.

Out of all the pots Betra made, there was one that Sashi had seen all her life. It was the only one that Betra ever kept. It was a big pot with many small designs on it. This pot was not as pretty as the pots that were sold in the city, but it was said that it was Betra’s first pot that she had made with her mother. It wasn’t the beauty of the pot, it was that it was a part of her mother. It sat to the right of the doorway of the small hut and had never been moved. Betra had told the children since they were babies that they were never to touch it.

Soon the porridge had been eaten. Two of the three older children ran off screaming with laughter to go play with the other children of the village. Chachala, the youngest, who hadn’t learned to walk yet, started to play in the dirt. Her dark skin had been lightened by the tan dirt from the earth. Betra and Sashi both knew it was time for bathing her, but Betra needed to make her pots, so it was obvious that Sashi would be stuck with it. Betra staggered away behind some bushes with the heavy bag of clay on her head to do her pot. Sashi and Chachala were left alone.

Sashi went to fetch the big tin tub from inside the hut. She dragged it out beside the ashes left from the fire. She looked around for the bucket that was used to haul water, but it was nowhere in sight. She checked inside the hut. Then she remembered that Mrs. Tembo from the western side of the village had borrowed it to water her garden. She looked around her. The only other things to carry water were a small dried gourd and the old pot. It was logical, the pot was bigger so it could carry more water. If she used the pot, it would take a much shorter time. She went over to the pot and held it in her hands. Then she remembered what her mother had said. She was just going to put it down when she remembered that she wanted to play with Lyan.

At first on her way to the river bank, she held the pot tightly in her hands. As she walked further, she found it easier to put it on her head. She held a tight grip with her hands, one hand on each side of the pot. As she walked further, she found it easier to put it on her head. She held a tight grip on it with both hands. However, both hands soon reduced to one; then she slowly let go and balanced it on her head. It wobbled a bit, but it was a light pot for its size. Finally, she reached the cool water. The water was soothing to her hard dry hand, and when she sipped the water, she could feel it go down her throat. Sashi dipped the pot in the water and the water filled to the brim. She found the pot surprisingly heavy and had great difficulty lifting it out of the river. Once she had placed it on her head, it felt as if a ton of bricks swayed down on her. Her steps were slow strides. The water splashed over the sides and got Sashi wet. Slowly the pot started to slip off her head. She felt it when it was too late. As her hand went up to catch it, it slipped, plummeting to the ground, smashing into hundreds of pieces. She cupped her mouth as she stared at the scattered pot pieces. Sashi fell on her knees and started to cry. She held a few broken pieces in her hands and began to wail louder. It hurt her to know that she had just broken something that meant so much to her mother. It was her mother’s history. Still sobbing, she swept up all the pieces with her shaking hand. She scooped the pieces into her dress and started home. Chachala watched as Sashi poured them into a small gourd cup. She then hid it under her blankets. Meanwhile she swept the ground around the hut.

Soon after, Betra returned. Her first sight was Chachala’s face. “Why is she not clean?” Betra questioned.

“I forgot and played with Lyan,” Sashi lied.

“Well, you better fetch some water. I will help you wash her.” She looked around as if looking for the bucket to hand to Sashi. As she scanned the room, she noticed her pot wasn’t in its place. “Where is my pot?” she spoke angrily. She walked over and touched the spot where it used to be.

“Well, Mother, while I was gone, Chachala rolled it over and cracked it by hitting it with stones.”

“Tell me how she could have turned that pot over and hit it with such force that it broke. Besides, you know to take her with you,” Betra said fiercely.

Sashi looked aside, for she could say nothing. Tears filled her eyes as she thought of what happened. Betra’s face was tight. Her eyes flamed red with anger. Sashi felt so small in front of her mother. She thought, Will we never watch the sun together again?

Sashi was ready to be yelled at, but instead, her mother said in a soft weak voice, “You lied, you lied to me. Can’t I trust my own daughter?” She covered her face and wept sorrowfully. She collapsed on her knees and began to cry. Sashi ran into the hut and got the pieces. She placed them before her mother. Betra took her hand from her face and stared at the small gourd shell. “How can a big pot be in a small gourd?” Betra asked slowly as she reached for the gourd and poured out the pieces. Then she put two of the pieces in her hand. She stared at them for a long time. Suddenly, she began to gather all the broken pieces in her torn dress and walked behind some bushes. Sashi knew that she wouldn’t return for a long time so she started to make a fire for the porridge at mealtime. By the time the two children returned from play, the porridge was ready to be eaten. Although the children didn’t see their mother, they didn’t ask any questions. That meal was a quiet one.

The sun was nearing the horizon when the mother appeared from the bushes. She called for Sashi, and Sashi followed her as she walked on a dusty path. It was the same path her mother would take when she was going pot making. Finally, they came to a spot with a lighted fire and clay pots scattered all around. She and her mother sat down. “We are going to make your first pot. This will be no ordinary pot. It will be the pot that reassures us both that we will never lie to each other. It will be like the pot my mother and I made.”

So Sashi and Betra made that pot from the remains of the former pot, and it stood at the right of the hut. It always was a reminder that they should be true to their word and never lie.

The Mother’s Day Gift

by Mathew Thompson, age 11

Dallas, Oregon

IT WAS MOTHER’S DAY, 1993. My friend Adam had come over to spend the night on Saturday. We watched old movies until about eleven p.m. and then camped out on the living room floor. Sunday morning Adam and I got up early and made pancakes. After breakfast we went outside to play cops and robbers and ride bikes.

Dad came home from work for lunch at noon and we ate with him. After Dad left, Adam and I decided to go out and play ball. We live on top of a hill, and the only field nearby is behind a big metal water tower. The city uses a little building beside that for a pump station, so everyone up here will have good water pressure. We pitched the ball back and forth to each other and took turns batting. Beginning to tire of this, Adam went in the house to get my Super Soaker Fifty squirt guns and I stayed outside, bouncing the ball off the water tower to practice my pitching.

Pitch—THUNK—catch it. Pitch—THUNK—catch it. Then, bouncing the ball, I threw it extra hard against the water tower. What a mistake! The ball bounced back off the water tower, almost hitting me, then flew through the window of the water pump station. CRASH!!! Did I mention that the window was not open? Well, it was now!

My stomach immediately pole-vaulted into my throat! Just then Adam came around the corner. Seeing my pale stare he said, “Close your mouth or you will catch bugs. Hey, what’s wrong?”

My stomach in a knot, I blurted out, “I accidentally broke the window.” I pointed to the water shed. The ball had made a perfect round hole through the glass, with rays shattered around it.

“Uh-oh,” Adam said. “Just walk away and nobody will ever notice. You’re gonna get in trouble if you tell!”

I pushed Adam aside and walked to the front yard where Mom was working. I could feel my body beginning to sweat and I felt sick. Swallowing hard, I told Mom about the window. Mom said, “Let’s go take a look.” I felt like a doomed man walking back toward that building. Mom looked at the window. Nothing magic had happened — that window still had a big hole in it. “Well,” asked Mom, “have you learned anything from this?” We talked about angles and glass strength and throwing things against the water tower. (My mom can make a math lesson out of almost anything!) I could feel my eyes beginning to burn, and two big tears snuck out and dripped down my cheeks. I’m telling you, I felt just awful! I leaned my head against Mom’s shoulder and she put her arms around me.

“Son,” she said, “everyone has accidents, but it is how you deal with those accidents that makes the difference between honesty and dishonesty. I know that telling me about this wasn’t easy, especially when your friend said he thought you shouldn’t, so that makes me very proud of you.” She gave me a big hug and Adam reached out and touched my arm. “The only time you’d be in trouble with me over something like this is if you didn’t tell me, or if you lied to me about it. And besides that, if you lie or try to hide these things, you get black, ugly-feeling places inside because you still know what really happened. You cannot cover up the truth of your actions from yourself.”

I sniffed and tried to clear my throat. “I will pay for the window,” I said, even though a picture of the tent I had been saving for floated through my mind. . . .

On Monday morning, before school, I went down to the city shops and told the water people about my accident. I told them I wanted to pay for my mistake. I said to fix the window and send me the bill. They did. It cost me forty-eight dollars and sixty-two cents. It certainly wasn’t a very fun way to spend my money! So my pockets are empty, but my conscience is clear.

The funny thing is that my mom says telling her was the best Mother’s Day present I could have ever given her.

(From the Summer 1999 issue of Stone Soup.)
Copyright 1999 Children’s Art Foundation

How does Piper do it? She does it by immediately making us feel our own body – “My palms are sweaty. My whole body is tense, waiting. I’m up next.” These are the feelings we can all relate to, whether or not we have ever participated in a music competition, and the direct language makes us relate to the feelings immediately.

Piper creates an almost dream-like state in which we are acutely aware of our body but also of external events, like the leaves falling. She creates a psychological place where we hear sounds differently – “My name dives down upon me, echoing as it comes.” This is a work of great creative power, on in which the experience of tension and tension released is thoroughly imagined and then translated into powerful word-images and word-feelings.
Project: Write a short short story about a tense moment.

Start your story, as Piper does, when you are already in the midst of the tension. Use the first person, the “I” and the “me” voice, to help your readers identify with the moment. Think of your story as a spring being wound tighter and tighter to finally, suddenly, at the end, in a tremendous release of tension, unwind.

Tension has its physical effects, like sweaty palms and difficult breathing, and it also creates dream-like states where we get focused on certain sights and sounds. Write the first draft of this story in one sitting. After first imagining a super-tense situation, let the feelings pour out, like a flood. Think of this as a story written in one breath.

Will They Like Me?

By Piper Dorrance, age 12

Danville, Pennsylvania

MY PALMS ARE sweaty. My whole body is tense, waiting. I’m up next. At ten years old, my six years of fiddle-training are being put to the test. The Ligonier Highland Games, more specifically, the Fiddle Competition, has begun. Winning last year gives me a speck more confidence, but it also means I have more to lose.

As I wait, the cold morning air blows itself out and the warm air of the afternoon replaces it. It is a sunny autumn day and the brassy- and rusty-colored fallen leaves dance crazily to the music of the fiddler in the soft breeze outside of the sturdy gray pavilion. I look longingly out and wish that I could be out dancing with those leaves instead of sitting still, waiting for the last note of the person ahead of me. That note comes. I get ready, setting my fiddle on my lap.

My name seems to be floating above my head, hover-ing, waiting to strike. My name dives down upon me, echoing as it comes. I take a deep breath and get up. I mechanically walk up the steps to the stage, almost in a trance. I look down. The ground is miles away and the silence, oh the silence! It gives me chills. The judge looks at me and goes back to her work. She finishes. Her papers are put aside and a fresh one passed to her. She looks at me and motions for me to start. I let go a long, deep breath. I walk up to the microphone and adjust it. I open my mouth and somehow my song titles come pouring out. The silence roars over me and tears me apart. I raise my instrument up to my chin and play like I’ve never played before.

My air is slow and full of love. My march pounds out a booming pace. And last, but not least, my strathspey runs along merrily with a dancing melody. I am done! Never in my life will I forget this moment!

A great clapping soon covers over me. It feels sensa-tional! The judge is clapping and my teacher beside her is doing the same! My parents are clapping! Suddenly, my cousins are there clapping too! People I don’t even know are clapping! They liked me! They really liked me!

(Originally published in the January/February 1994 issue of Stone Soup)
Copyright 1994 Children’s Art Foundation

Nicholas gives substance to Julie’s horse obsession by showing us that the she is surrounded by images of horses – prints on the curtains, horse stickers on the VCR, horse posters, and, very importantly, her own drawings of horses. Through all these details we are let outside of the time frame of the story to imagine Julie drawing horses and looking for horse images when she goes shopping and talking about horses with her family and friends.

Nicholas is also good at relationships. Julie doesn’t live along. We see from the beginning when her mother calls her to breakfast that she lives within a family. When Julie loses the peaches, she thinks of her father and, when she sees him, very simply and realistically says, “Sorry.”

The weather plays an important role in this story, as it often does in fiction writing. The storm brings dangers that develop tensions and emotions that would otherwise remain untested and unexplored.

Project: Write about a Character Who is Obsessed with an Interest.

Some children love horses, others trains, others collect rocks, others just junk. Some children read all the time, while others play football. Show us through details how your character is fully involved with his or her interest.

To make your portrait more interesting, confront your character with a problem that would make sense in the context of your character’s interests: the football player might lose a very special game, the rock collector might lose a very special rock, the child who reads all the time might become obsessed, not just with books in general but with a particular character, and start pretending that he or she is someone else.
As you both imagine and write your story, keep in mind that your character has friends and lives within a family. In addition to showing your main character and his or her obsession, show how this character interacts with family and friends.

The Horse’s Reins

by Nicholas La Cortiglia, age 10

Cincinnati, Ohio

IN A QUAINT little farm at the edge of town, in Kansas, there lived a family of four: Julie, the youngest, and Jeremy, the eldest, along with their fa-ther and mother, Frank and Clara.

One morning in July, the air was brisk, Julie Harris climbed out of bed on account of the rooster. She glanced at her model of a teak horse that was propped up against her row of horse books. Julie loved horses. She would do anything to have a real one. Her room was filled with horses. At one end of her room she had a VCR that her grandparents had given her for Christmas. She had stuck horse stickers all over it! Over by the window, that overlooked the river, she had horse curtains! All over her walls were horse posters, pho-tographs, drawings, and pictures!

Julie strode toward her dresser and opened the draw-er, revealing a numerous amount of horse clothing. She had T-shirts, sweatshirts, sweaters, and blouses, all that had some kind of horse picture on it. She picked one out and slipped it on, as well as her jeans. She walked into the kitchen, snatching a book off of her shelf on the way.

She sat herself down at the breakfast table and began to read. “Oh, for goodness sakes, Julie! Stop reading! C’mon, eat your breakfast!” Mrs. Harris scolded.

Julie set the book down and began eating. After finishing, she put her plate in the sink and walked to the door to go outside.

No sooner did she open the door than a ray of sun-light burst into her face. She squinted and looked around. The orange-beaked woodpeckers tapped their beaks on a tree. Julie could hear the mockingbirds singing a sweet tune. The chipmunks scampered about, cracking twigs and crunching leaves as they went. The sun continued to shine. It shot straight into the old oak tree that wilted over the lawn. The light seemed to shoot in a million directions when it reached the branches. She quickly chose a spot on the grass to sit down and began playing with her toy horses.

Her father came walking past her. “Julie, stop playing around! Make yourself useful, go pick some peaches or something!”

“All right.” Julie walked into the garage and got a peach bushel. She began skipping along the bank of the creek. Sometimes water trickled over her shoes. Julie soon reached the stretch of fruit trees that encircled a small pond. Her father had planted the trees when they first moved to the farm. Julie started to climb up the tree. Branch by branch she climbed higher and higher, until she was mid-way up. Julie scanned the tree. She reached out and pricked a very small peach off of the branch. Then she spotted a very big peach that stood out from all the rest. But it was just out of her reach. So she stretched as much as she could. But just as she was about to grab it, her fingers slipped and she fell out of the tree. She landed on the meadow and couldn’t help herself from rolling into the pond. She bolted out of the pond, gasping for air. The bushel and the one peach had sunk. Julie trudged home, picking seaweed off of her on the way.

When she got home her father was disappointed. “Oh, no! What happened?”

“Sorry, Father,” was all Julie could say. She made her way to her room and changed clothes. After dinner it was soon time for bed. In her sleep she had a wonderful dream that she had gotten a horse. But when morning came she did her usual things: got dressed, ate break-fast, did her chores, and fed her pets. As she was feeding the ducks, she felt a nudge on her shoulder. She whirled around and there was a horse! A real, live horse! Julie’s whole family was standing next to it. “Surprise!” they all shouted.

Julie jumped with delight. She ran to pet it. “A horse! I got a horse!” Julie was speechless.

“She’s already been washed,” her mother said.

“Oh, she’s beautiful! Where did you get her?”

“Well, Mr. Bailyup the street was going to sell his, so we bought her for you,” her father explained.

“Show me how to ride her! Please?” Julie pleaded.

“Of course, let’s bring her out in the field.”

Julie, holding the reins tight, led her new horse into the field.

“What’s her name?” Julie asked.

“You get to name her!” Jeremy replied, beating his parents to the answer.

“Oh, well, I’ll have to think about it. In the mean-time, show me how to ride her.”

Julie’s father leaped up onto the brown horse.

“You get up like this,” Julie’s father explained, “and if you want her to go, give her a little nudge like this, and if you want her to stop, pull the reins like this, got it?”

“Got it.” Julie climbed up. But she must have nudged the horse too much because when she did, the horse took off into a full gallop. Julie’s hair blew wildly.

“Stop! Stop!” she pleaded. But the horse kept on going. Julie had to close her eyes to avoid the gale of wind that was blowing fiercely at her face. The horse jumped the white picket fence that encircled the field. But when the pond came into view, the horse stopped abruptly. Julie was thrown from the horse and landed gruffly on the dry ground. Her family ran to her aid.

“Julie, Julie, wake up!” Jeremy shook her. Finally, Julie fluttered her eyes and stood up.

“I think that horse needs more training,” was all she could say.

Days passed and soon Julie knew how to ride her horse just like any old pro. (She let Jeremy ride it too, of course.) Julie named the horse Windfall. Julie would brush and wash Windfall every day. She would feed her, too, mostly hay, oats, and water, sometimes an apple or carrot for a treat.

When Julie went to school, she would always day-dream about riding Windfall over a rainbow, and when her teacher called her name, she wouldn’t answer.

One day, Julie got up and went straight outside to ride Windfall. She climbed up on her and started to ride. Windfall wandered deep into the brush. Then she wandered farther into the forest, near the storm sewer, where the water from the creek went into. Soon Jeremy came running.

“Oh, Julie, I finally found you! Mom and Dad are looking for you!” Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, while I’m here, can I ride Windfall?”

“All right.” Julie leaped off and Jeremy leaped on. Windfall trotted at a slow pace. Julie followed behind. There was a rustle in the bushes, but they paid no attention. Then Julie spotted some dark rain clouds.

“C’mon, we’d better go home. It looks like it’s going to rain,” Julie warned. The clouds got closer.

“All right,” Jeremy replied, leading Windfall the other way. There was another rustle in the bushes. But this time a snake slithered out, right under Windfall’s hoofs.

“A snake!! Look out!” Julie screamed. Windfall whin-nied and reared. She shook and neighed. Then, Wind-fall stepped on a rock and lost her footing. She tumbled into the storm sewer, along with Jeremy. “Windfall! Jeremy!” Julie held Windfall’s reins and Jeremy’s hands.

“Don’t let go!” Julie yelled.

The sky darkened. It began to rain. Lightning danced across the sky. Huge raindrops splattered onto the ground, gathering into puddles. You could probably hear Julie and Jeremy’s screams a mile away. Lightning flashed. The thunder cracked and boomed. Water gushed out of the sky. The rain fell in such torrents that Julie and Jeremy couldn’t see anything. It was all gray. A flash of lightning shot out of the cloud and struck a tree. It smoked, split, and fell to the ground on fire.

The storm sewer filled up fast. The water gushed over the brim in a blink of an eye.

“Julie! Help!” Jeremy gasped and gulped. Julie’s arms couldn’t hold Windfall and Jeremy at the same time. The rain churned against Julie’s face like a hammer hit-ting a nail. Windfall shook. Water was rising up farther and farther on her neck. Julie’s gold necklace snapped off of Windfall and got caught on a rock that was stick-ing out of the water. Windfall let out the loudest whinny Julie had ever heard.

“I’ll get it, Julie!” Jeremy yelled over the pouring rain.

“Jeremy, no!” Julie tried to get him to stop. But it was too late. Jeremy had let go of Julie’s hand and he was now clinging to the rock…. Julie finally pulled Windfall out of the water. She shook herself dry, but the rain kept on pounding on her. Julie reached her hand out into the water. “Grab my hand!” she screamed. But then, she got pulled into the rushing water.

It began to rain more. Water was everywhere. Julie gripped Jeremy’s feet. “Don’t let go, Julie!” Jeremy screamed, water pouring into his mouth. Just as Julie was about to let go and be sucked into the tube, Windfall knelt down on her knees and threw her reins out to the children. Jeremy grasped hold of them. He pulled himself out of the storm sewer and then pulled Julie out just before the water burst into a giant whirlpool and started being sucked into the tube.

The clouds drizzled and stopped giving rain. They rumbled and started to clear. The sun came out and shone brightly. There was a rainbow. Julie and Jeremy staggered to the bank. They lay down. Julie got up and went over to Windfall. “You saved us, Windfall. You and your reins saved us.” Julie knelt by Windfall.

The birds began to sing again. The raindrops dripped off the leaves. The animals began to come out of their homes.

Julie, Jeremy, and Windfall walked back to their house. Their mother and father came running to them.

“What happened?”

Jeremy told them the story. From now on, Julie and Jeremy were only allowed to take Windfall into the field.

Jeremy stuck his hand into his pocket. “Julie?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Here.” Jeremy handed Julie her gold necklace.

“Thanks, Jeremy.”

(This was first published in the January/February 1994 issue of Stone Soup)