No Simple Thank You
I didn't know
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Issue: <span>May/June 2001</span>
I didn't know
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It wasn't the best night for the race. Earlier that afternoon, a torrential downpour had drenched the ground. The air was thick and humid and the sky a murky gray soup. Dense fog was beginning to envelop the landscape. The tote board flashed the condition of the track—SLOPPY.
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Mind's Eye by Paul Fleischman; Henry Holt
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I'm spinning, spinning, spinning, my eyes closed. My hair brushes against the soft mossy grass and the sounds of traffic are distant, but I'm aware of them. Two arms—are they mine?—are holding onto the tire swing comfortably, not gripping but giving me a feeling that if I fall I'm not falling too far. It doesn't feel like my eyes are closed. It feels like they're not there at all. The feeling is bliss.
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Toly hid among the tall grasses of the tropical forest. He could feel the cold sweat trickling down his face. The tiger was standing close now, so close Toly could feel its pulsing breath. The vibrant black and orange of the tiger's coat hurt his eyes. It couldn't see him; only the tiger's keen sense of smell told it Toly was there. Toly waited for just the right moment and then in an instant, with one smooth liquid movement, Toly found himself mounted on the beast's back. The tiger was growing more obedient now; Toly felt its warm fur beneath him. "Run!" Toly told the tiger and it ran. Ran fast over crannies and ditches, carrying Toly further and further away from the city. Toly felt the wind ruffling his hair, violently blowing in his eyes, forcing tears to form. He had done it! He was riding the tiger. He was the conqueror. He was . . .
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It was a freezing cold winter day in China. My family and I were visiting my beloved paternal grandmother who lives in ZhengZhou, a city in China. And this time we were celebrating the Chinese New Year with her.
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At first misty
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Our power was gone again. The house was at least sixty years old, I say sesenta, but we moved in a few weeks ago. The rain was slamming into the earth like a fist. Trees outside bent their heads in awe of the storm. I thought, this was the kind of weather when my abuela, or grandmother, once sang songs and drank hot black coffee. But in the family room my parents and two older brothers sat around the newspaper like mosquitoes to a light with no words shared between them.
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I had never had anyone my age who lived on my street. All of my friends lived at least ten minutes away. I had always envied those who could call up their friends whenever they were bored and say, "Hey, want to get together?" My mom told many fond stories of her adventures with neighborhood kids when she was little.
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Frightful's Mountain by Jean Craighead George;
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