Hidden Pools
My shoes trudge up the path, caked with gooey mud. My shirt sticks to my body, and my hair clings to my flushed face. The winding path steeply curves on and on, taunting my burning...
Issue: <span>July/August 2012</span>
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My shoes trudge up the path, caked with gooey mud. My shirt sticks to my body, and my hair clings to my flushed face. The winding path steeply curves on and on, taunting my burning muscles. My eyelids droop, as my legs become more and more mechanical, moving up and down with no real motivation. I snag a strawberry guava off a tree and stuff it in my mouth to suppress the gnawing in my stomach.
A silver van pulls up the desert driveway
From sliding doors
Spill three cousins
Holding teddy bears and swords
Lonely fields are filled once more
Screams and hollers absorb the sun-baked summer air
We stumble together, reminding each other of our game
Played only near the overgrown grass
And where Christmas trees grow during summer
MONSTER TAG.
“It’s your turn, Quasar.”
I was shaken out of my self-induced funk by the lively sound of my mom’s voice. “Huh?”
“Come on,” said my dad. “Is the correct definition of cupidity a) unconditional and unbiased love, b) a type of Italian sausage, or c) greed?”
“Uh… A,” I mumbled.
“Nope,” said Dad. “It’s greed. Your mom wins the Dictionary Game again.
Steve Jobs, by Walter Isaacson; Simon &
Schuster: New York, 2011; $35
Almost everybody uses Apple products these days: the iPad, iPod, iPhone, iMac, etc. But do you know who the driving force behind these great inventions was? Steve Jobs! I am fascinated with technology and want to accomplish great things too when I grow up, so I decided to read Steve Jobs, a biography by Walter Isaacson.
Kate had floated in and out of consciousness for days after the accident. She would occasionally wake to hear her parents conversing nervously with the hospital doctors. The voices were hushed, the tones grave.
Kate dreamt of car crashes over and over again. She repeatedly saw the impact of the SUV smashing into her side of the car, and she remembered everything going black.
A carpet of sand melts into a sea of blue whipped cream
I inhale the golden scent of joy
Like syrup on my tongue
The seagulls’ voices are wind chimes in the warm
summer air
They call to the sea and the sky
I reach out my fingers to touch the sunset
And wrap it around my shoulders like a coat
A scream cut through the cool night air, but no one was around to hear it. A small boy of around five years old huddled against a tree trunk, crying desperately. His short brown hair was plastered against his brow, tears staining his freckled face.
“Mommy!” he screamed. “Mommy save me!” He stared fearfully at a dark cave from which a deep rumbling resounded.
Sean Griswold’s Head, by Lindsey Leavitt;
Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers:
New York, 2011; $16.99
Her parents lie about her father’s multiple sclerosis (MS), a potentially deadly disease of the central nervous system. Her best friend flirts with her older brother. A school counselor wants to meet with her. A boy’s head becomes the focus of her life.
The waves lapped rhythmlessly against the side of the boat as I hoisted the sail and started slowly out into the bay. Dark clouds were forming on the horizon and drops of rain were beginning to fall. I squinted, trying to see through the increasing downpour, and I realized that I could not tell sky from sea. As thunder started to boom, the waves grew bigger and more dangerous.
Our last night was a joyful one
Yet dread waited, a heavy fog
As we both knew it had to end.
The next sight of each other
Would be like
Pixilated building blocks.
Seated under the rosy sky
Her laugh the flutter of a jay’s wings
The wind’s small sigh.