Sandra L. Richards
Mar 16, 2016 | Children's, 1st pages
I woke up feeling great! It was Sunday. No school. No itchy uniform. I could play my trumpet, read my Godzilla comics and draw another picture of a frog. And hang out with Jasper. What I loved most about Sundays was my whole came to visit. Jasper is an African Congo gray parrot. He was a birthday surprise from my Auntie last year. Everyone thought that Jasper is a normal parrot. But Auntie and I knew better!
Everyone else thought Jasper was a normal parrot, but Auntie and I knew better.
Fernanda Raineri
Mar 7, 2016 | Children's, 1st pages
In San Carlo, a little town and spa resort, a few miles away from the Versilia Coast and the Apuan Alps, on the 1st of August, was really hot: 39 degrees in the shade and the humidity was 80%.
Stella hated the summer, because the hot weather made her weak and prevented her from moving freely – besides the fact that she had to work all day long, of course. She was locked up in that supermarket – smiling at the customers and at her boss even when she didn't feel like it – and at the end of the month she got rewarded with a meagre salary of 800 Euros, barely enough to keep her in her studies and help her parents, the Ravellis, and her younger sister, Glenda.
Her father, Sempronio, a huge man who weighted 95 kg, was a factory worker on the dole who sought to supplement his meagre wages getting up very early in the morning to unload crates of fruit for the local markets. Her mother, Perla, a slender, sickly woman, was a housewife. Her little sister, Glenda, a mass of black hair and eyes, five feet of wisdom beyond her age, had just left middle school.
They couldn’t even afford a vacation, not even in the nearby Versilia. Stella was so tired, and felt such an uncontrollable desire of freedom, to leave everything and everyone, just like that, out of the blue: parents, sister and her few friends; but that wish left her every night, as she wouldn’t even dream to leave school. She wanted to get her high school degree, and then go to university. Her dream was to become a journalist or a writer: someday, she was sure, she’d reach her goal.
“Stella!” She had just arrived home, and her mom was already calling her. “Get the laundry and close the windows”.
Of course, she always has something for me to do, the girl thought with a sigh. She’d have liked to check her emails first. She was waiting for her friends Rebecca and Frank, who lived in Boston, to get in touch; they were supposed to confirm their arrival in Italy and, especially, the balloon trip that they had planned the last time they had seen each other, around Easter.
Carrie Cross
Mar 4, 2016 | Children's, 1st pages
1
My Detective Kit
Heading for Malibu on a sunny Saturday in June would normally have been a good thing. I could have spent the day bodysurfing with my BFF, Alexa, and playing games in the arcade on the Santa Monica pier. If I was totally lucky I might have shared a bumper car with Dustin Coles, the cutest boy going into Pacific Middle School. Alexa and I liked to lay in the sun and watch surfers ride the waves on Zuma beach. If there were pinball and corndogs ahead of me instead of what I was in for, I would have begged my dad for a ride down the coast. But today? Not so much.
If I’d gotten out of the car right then and spread out my beach towel, everything might have turned out fine. But my dad kept right on driving. We stopped at a red light before heading down the incline to Pacific Coast Highway. Comforted a little by the weight pressing against my leg, I stared out the window and watched the ocean. The faraway water was navy blue where it met the sky. A frosting of whitecaps drifted sideways, winked, and disappeared. The sea was teal-blue in the middle, and the shallow water glowed bright green as if it were lit from below. Small waves welled up, and then the whitewater bubbled forward and sizzled flat on the sand.
Thin sunlight shimmered on the ocean while I tapped my fingers on the detective kit leaning against my leg. I’d always wanted to become a private detective like my grandfather, and used his old leather briefcase to hold my tools. Back when he was a policeman, Grandpa’s case used to be a rich tan color. But after decades of visiting crime scenes, sitting outside in the sun, and baking in a hot cop car, it had faded to grayish beige.
S.A. Knight
Feb 24, 2016 | 1st pages, Children's
Pablo is having a bad day at school; the teacher moved everyone’s seat and now Pablo has to sit in the back of the classroom, but there is one problem, Pablo cannot see what the teacher has written on the board.
“Ok class let’s read from the board,” said Miss. Wendy. Pablo, let’s start with you, can you read the first two sentences to the class? “UUhhh,” says Pablo…as he presses his eyes together trying to see what is on the board.
“You can read now,” said Miss. Wendy. “I can’t see it, it’s all blurry,” cried Pablo.
“Ok, I will send a note home to your mother today and let her know that you are having trouble seeing the board, it sounds like you will have to see the eye doctor.”
“Go to an eye doctor?” said Pablo, “I never went to the eye doctor before.”
S.A. Knight
Feb 19, 2016 | 1st pages, Children's, Uncategorized
Black Spotted Boxfish
This funny, square faced saltwater fish is seen in clear water reefs and on and around coral. Males are very colorful; females are black with white spots. This fish feeds on small worms and sponges. Their bodies, covered in a poisonous mucous, is released if attacked by other fish.
O.L. Shepp
Feb 18, 2016 | 1st pages, Children's
Chapter 1.
Chapter 1The Unexpected Rodeo
I love my old horse, Rocky. He’s strong, smart, and the most beautiful horse alive with his black winter coat. The summer’s sun turns his hair almost purple, hued like the sunsets. I’d give anything to ride him today, instead of the buckskin, May-Bee. Rocky is my best friend. He’s a friend who never gets tired of doing all the listening, and I never get tired of doing all the talking. He never complains, and thank God for that. Wouldn’t that be funny? My horse rolling his eyes at me like my big brother, Jackson, does for talking too much? Imagine if he’d be flaring his nostrils, blowing slobber all over himself, and sticking his chin out at me. Ha! No way. Rocky would never do that! Rocky’s the best friend a teenage girl could have and more. He’s my family.We call him the Rock for a reason.
He’s never gotten sick, never been crippled. Dad says, “He’s the Rock because he’s never been hurt a day in his life.”Rocky is still running free in the south pasture, grazing there in order to save on hay, and leaving either May-Bee or my other horse Bucky as my only options to ride today. I hold my breath as I climb in the saddle, because May-Bee might buck. Hours into the ride up Rattlesnake Ridge, Jackson and I find two bulls behind the tall brush and turn them down the mountain slope toward our remote ranch home. “Keep these boys moving, Cheyanna. I’ll ride the next ridge and see if there are any others,” Jackson says as he swings in the saddle.
He points his horse west and hollers, “Be right back. Keep ’em moving, Sis.”I trot May-Bee around the bulls to burn off his extra energy and to keep him from rushing the young animals through the rocks. For a mountain slope, it’s normal to imagine green pine trees and aspen, but not this mountain. Here, we’re talking the edge of Wyoming’s Rocky Mountains, where sagebrush grows above your horse’s head, along with greasewood and buckbrush that’ll tear your legs apart at a trot. Boulders are scattered, and the powdered sugar-like sand is so fine that when the wind blows you have no choice but to stand still. Laced in white, my breath is defined in the cool afternoon air despite the sunshine ablaze overhead. I wish I had worn my heavier coat and—dang, stupid me—a pair of gloves would have been nice. It’s springtime weather in the mountains, which is never predictable.
As that thought crosses my mind, May-Bee spooks up the hill for no apparent reason. This horse needs no reason to spook aside from a subtle breeze ruffling his mane, or a sparrow landing nearby. He dips his head down. His ears lie back as I struggle to pull his head up. With grit in my eyes, I shove my worn boots further into the stirrups and grab hold of May-Bee’s black mane. The buckskin twirls around. He points his shoulders down the slope. I reach for the saddle horn, but grab at empty air. Smack! Air escapes my lungs with a “Humph!” May-Bee’s back arches, he lunges once, then again, and another leap knocks the breath from my chest. I regain my seat in the saddle. Clutching the saddle horn, I pull May-Bee’s head around just as he jerks to the right. In one blink, May-Bee launches me toward the pale sky, so high I feel like I can almost touch the plane passing above me.
Gravity, though, is my foe, and down I smash to the cold, hard earth. Lying motionless, humiliated, and angry upon the rocks, I look up, wishing I could be one of the passengers in that plane overhead, headed anywhere. My new black Stetson hat rests a step away, the top smashed in with the imprint of a horse’s shoe. My breath slows, but my heart continues to race as I think of what would have happened if my head had been in that hat when May-Bee stepped on it. My wrist throbs. A lone wolf howls from across the ridge. Another, much closer wolf drones her reply. I stand up to scan the hillside. Over my shoulder I see that blasted mule of a horse watching me.
“You’re done! It’s time for a trip to the sale barn,” I tell him as I rub my arm. I try to wiggle my fingers and say, “You always were better to look at than to ride.” I edge closer and stand beside the buckskin, take a deep breath, and gnaw my lip. No sign of Jackson yet, and I know I need to find the two young bulls that disappeared when I fell. Dad will be furious with me if I lose them. I lean over and grab one loose rein with my good hand. “Where’s Jackson?” I pull my phone from my denim jacket pocket. My hand begins to tingle as I attempt to text. I move my fingers as much as the pain allows. After I hit send, I gather the second rein and stuff both in my rhinestoned hip pocket. “I can’t ride you,” I say to May-Bee. I lead him down the slope. Picking and choosing my footing makes the travel slow. May-Bee constantly tries to overcome me and leave. On I walk, wishful but doubtful of seeing my two bulls again.
