The river was my refuge. It was more of a stream, really, a tiny but powerful stream tucked into a corner of the Cascade Mountains. While my dad argued with my mom and my mom argued with my six brothers and sisters (and they argued with each other), I slipped out of the house and walked two miles to be at that magical place with the dozens of small waterfalls cascading into the water. I imagined some explorer discovering this place, long ago, and naming the entire mountain range after it.
An old minivan slowly grumbled its way up the ugly, concrete driveway, passing an old clump of purple-brown wisteria vines, rumbling by a dingy hedge shielding the moldy garbage can, full of old holes where squirrels and raccoons had once tried to nibble their way in to eat the trash.
“Well, here we are!” said a woman in a falsely cheerful voice, dragging an old, moth-eaten suitcase.
A girl of about eleven adjusted her hat and coat.
Nicky discovers some items in Mrs. Fleming’s attic that unearth upsetting memories from the past
This is the second of three installments of Emily Chang’s novella, which received honorable mention in our 2022 Book Contest. You can read the beginning of Nicky’s story in our May/June issue.
Chapter 8: Why the Second Suitcase Had Such a Weird Shape
“I’ve got Saturday appointments booked now,” my mom told me as she gathered her things.
I awake early
in our small, candlelit prison
a stone tower
high above the sands of Crete.
Father melts hot wax
from his thick candle
dripping it on my shoulders
his gentle hands
press something into place.
Wings!
Giant, feathery white wings
unfolding from my bronze shoulders
I stand in awe.
Suddenly
guards pound on our bolted wooden door
breaking the rich silence
I hear loud shouts of rage
and sharp panic
cuts me like a knife.
"Your mother? Gone?" Lydia's father asked.
Lydia twisted her fingers around the edge of her battered suitcase and nodded. She didn't open her mouth for fear she would say something she would regret.
"Fever, Mr. Wainscot. She had it for months," Sister Engels murmured, standing behind the eleven-year-old.
"Months? Why wasn't I informed?"
Sister Engels put a wrinkled hand on Lydia's shoulder. "Forgive me, sir, you were away for, how long, dear?"
"Seven years," Lydia whispered, looking down.
If I could choose to be any place in the world,
I would choose Malaysia where my grandma lives;
Where you can smell the hot, humid air,
And see the palm trees sway in the breeze.
If I could choose to be any place in the world,
I would choose Australia where my granduncle lives;
Where the wind makes sand fly
And where all the animals are unique.
Long ago, there was a man named Lemos. Lemos was a simple man who lived in Ancient Greece during the time of the gods and monsters.
Lemos had a simple life in Greece. He lived in the city of Sparta, in a small hut a few miles off of the main villages. Lemos lived alone. Lemos was known for nothing, and nobody knew who he was. He did not have any friends, or family. He had one dog, who was named Alexander.
Our new house is small and nondescript. It has two bedrooms and one bathroom, and a tiny backyard with sparse grass. Along the perimeter is an ugly, pink cinder-block wall lined with thorny, bristling rose bushes. Inside there is the table and the rug on the floor and three chairs. There is a small couch and a bamboo plant in a large round glass jar. My room has only my bed and the small desk with a lamp that casts a greenish glow across the hardwood floors.
~Sylvia
If the sky is blue, then fly with me!
If the sun is bright, then fly with me!
If the sea is rough, then fly with!
If you have wings, then fly with me!
If the wind blows through your wings, then fly with me!
Come here and fly with me!
~Parwana
The sky is dark, please help me!
The sun is sad, please help me!
The sea is stormy, please help me!
My wings are small, please help me!
The butterflies are afraid, please help me!
My world is ignored, please help me!
A girl needs the courage to face a new home and a new school all the way across the country
I only felt like myself when I was listening to stories.
It was no surprise, really. Words were my sanctuary. I had never been good at making real friends, but those in books had always welcomed me with open arms. I had lived in the same town my whole life, and the friend I had had since preschool had moved away the previous summer. We hadn’t seen each other since.
Books were different.
