Moving on, by Verley Lazuli

21 June 1882

I was accused of being a witch again in the village that has been home for the past few weeks. It becomes wearisome after a while, continually having to pack up and move on because a scraggle of idiots can’t tell the difference between a cup of tea and a magic potion. Each time this happens, I find myself tempted to ask what makes them think, if I did have supernatural abilities, I would waste them on such trivial endeavors as unsettling the cows or making the babes colicky. Those are the pastimes of faeries, anyway. Yet I know better than to goad fools. I count myself lucky when they simply ask me to leave – being chased from town by torch-wielding madmen is still too fresh a terror in my memory.

So it is that I find myself celebrating this summer solstice under the stars in a clearing hidden safely within the forest, away from superstitious busybodies. The sky is pitch black, without even a cloud to mar the vivid constellations and cool moonlight. Sitting in the doorway of my cobbled together caravan, I am finally able to enjoy a peaceful cup of strong black tea (made in a kettle, not a cauldron, thank you very much). Absinthe, the impish puppy who joined ranks with me last month after I fed her some scraps, has turned herself into a blanket over my feet. She is an unusual fellow, her unruly brown fur and imposing size making her look rather like a bear cub, while her eyes (as green as the drink for which she is named) seem almost human with their mischievous intellect. At first I was exasperated by her uninvited company, but I have gradually begun to appreciate it. The mechanical horse who pulls my caravan along, although a wonder of science, is not the friendliest of associates.

It is only at times like tonight, in the quiet of the dark woods, that I admit to myself how lonely my nomadic and solitary life can be. When I set out two years ago, captivated by the allure of the open road and eager to leave the drudgery of my hometown behind me, I expected adventures around every turn. That hasn’t quite turned out to be the case. Not that getting chased out of town with torches and pitchforks or befriended by characters stranger than myself aren’t adventures, just…not exactly the sort I had anticipated when my dreams were bigger than my experiences. But who knows, perhaps this summer will change all that. Dreamily I gaze up at the stars, finding a particularly bright one for my solstice wish: An adventure.

 

Picture this, by Tess Wenderski

Strapped in, safe and sound, in my fading blue car seat, the rumbling bump is only a jiggle that makes me giggle. The black and white gate is up, the bright red lights are not flashing. Mom turns around and smiles, her brown eyes crinkling with happiness. She says, “What does the train say?” “Choo-choo!” I reply with all the enthusiasm of a five-year-old.

Walking hand-in-hand with Dad, I see the tracks extend in the distance. The steel rails shine in the setting sun. I can’t see the end but I lean out eagerly, trying to see farther out. Dad grabs my hand and tells me to be careful around trains. We turn around and head back towards town, and my seven-year-old self is suddenly concerned with ice cream, not train tracks.

Independence Day and there is a parade! The red and blue floats wobble as they go over the uneven tracks.  The costumed people on board sway with the motion and wave back to the crowd. Eleven-year-old me fears for them. What if they fall? Don’t they know they have to be careful around trains?

It’s finally summer vacation and I am officially a sophomore in high school. The sun is warm but there is a nice breeze cooling my face. My friends and I start walking towards town, crossing the ever-present train tracks. Looking down, between the rails, I see a glint amongst the stark coal. I bend down and move the rocks aside. There is a white rock surrounded by the black. I grab it. That fact that it remained so clean among all the dirt confuses me. I drop it back down with the coal and we keep walking.  

The middle of fall and the rain is pounding down on my car. I can’t see very far in front of me. Only the taillights of the car in front of me, which suddenly light up. I brake quickly. I can see flashing red lights to the side and up. A bell begins to ring. Rumbling rushes past, accompanied by a clacking. The train moves by without a care, as I sit in my heated car, worrying about being late for school.

The summer, three weeks before college. I’m leaving this small town for months. I’ll be on my own. I walk with my friend along the tracks. I lose my balance and step down. I step back up and continue walking. The setting sun is on our left as we head north. The trees cast shadows and the wind causes them to move and shake.  Not far, just a stroll, really. But the tracks keep going. Where do they end? Where do they begin? A bird flies overhead and keeps going, seeming to follow the tracks. I wish I could go with it.

I am walking through a new town with new friends whom I met in a new school, new ideas to think about, new thoughts to discuss, new memories to share. The old buildings have ended abruptly and train tracks run along to the right and left of where we stand. Different tracks, but still the same. Maybe they connect to the ones back home.

“God, train tracks are everywhere, aren’t they?” my friend says.

“Yeah, I remember this one time when my parents and I went to town during a parade and...”

           

Just a normal day, by Tess Wenderski

Me:
Under the willow tree, hidden away, I sit and think. My thoughts explore every nook and branch of the tree, and I imagine grand escapades surrounding this place. Valiant knights take drastic measures, as fair ladies take part in the battles. Beneath my folded legs, the rocks are cold and hard, and small insects clamber about as though they are mountain climbers. Birds land and quickly depart from the branches, busy building and constructing their nests. Caught up in my own mind, I miss the warning signs, and the buzzing of the hornets is upon me before I even realize it. Unprotected by the slim branches and the narrow leaves, I am attacked by the yellow and black soldiers before my story ends. My mother yells my name, telling me to get inside. I look and see her standing just outside my pretend kingdom with my brother. Standing and running, we all dash inside, fleeing the attackers

Other Child, My Brother:

I look out from among the branches, trying to find the hornets’ nest I stumbled upon yesterday. My sister is playing her silly make-believe game and Mom is gardening by the house. I know it’s around here, facing the street. I nearly pass underneath it when the buzzing alerts me to its presence. Mischievously, I wonder what would happen if I threw a rock at it. My first attempt strikes the tree trunk and I flinch in fearful anticipation. My next throw is braver; after all, they didn’t attack the first time. This rock hits my target, but it only clips the side. Several more hornets buzz out. Before I can lose my arrogant confidence, I throw one more rock and hit the hive dead center. It collapses and all the inhabitants flee their former home. They strike against me and I run from the onslaught. I pass my sister running towards my mom, screaming for help the entire time. Mom stands up and hollers to my sister and me to get inside. She waits for my sister to catch up and we escape the approaching attackers.

Mom:

Some quiet gardening, that’s all I wanted. I wanted half an hour to be able to relax and just let my green thumb do all the work. My two oldest children are off playing and running around like all children do during in the summer, and my youngest is inside taking a nap. The baby monitor is on the grass next to my feet in case he wakes up. The garden is freshly free of weeds, and I’m just beginning to gather up my tools when my son comes sprinting from behind the large willow tree. He is clearly distressed and yelling for help. Behind him, a dark cloud of hornets swarm. My daughter is still under the tree still, oblivious to the danger. I scream her name, trying to get her attention before the hornets attack her. My daughter sees the hornets and scrambles to run for the house. I wait until my daughter is in front of me before following her into the safety of the house.

Response to Invisible Man, by Sr. Agatha Mensah

My Topic
Invisible Man has evoked a variety of feelings and emotions within me. There were many sections that I liked about the book, and there were many sections that I did not like.

My Focus

Author Ralph Ellison chose a very good title for this book, because he describes how difficult it was for a black man to be recognized in white society. My focus is to delve into the title more deeply to unveil what was behind it. In addition, I want to know his central theme for his story.

What I learned from the story

During the time that the writer wrote  his book in 1947, blacks were nobody in this country. Their efforts were not recognized by the whites. I learned from this story that any black person who wanted to be treated the same as any white person had to experience many difficulties. The following quote explains it all: “If it’s Optic White, It’s the Right White” (217). This was because white people felt superior to blacks.

Question 1: How is this reading experience going for you? Briefly explain.

From the very beginning of the novel, the narrator made himself known as an “invisible man.” This statement is repeated many times in his story, because the narrator thought about himself as being invisible due to the racism in the United States when Ellison wrote the book in 1947. His main worry was how people were unable to see and confront the truth. He struggled to gain independence for the black people. In his story, he used the first person narrative, “I am an invisible man” (3). He talked about how he was not ashamed of the fact that his grandparents  were slaves (15). Throughout the book, the narrator was seeking his destiny, and he said, “All my life I had been looking for something, and everywhere I turned someone tried to tell me what it was” (15).

 Ellison uses the “flashback” technique throughout the story (16). The narrator told the story of his grandfather who did not like white people. This bothered the narrator, because he was loved by white people at the beginning and, through them, he was given a scholarship to attend college.  He also referred to Booker T. Washington’s speech, “Cast your bucket where you are” (29) in his own words, because he wanted a friendly relation among all races. The narrator was afraid when he was delivering his speech, because he did not know whether the people would recognize his ability (24). 

The narrator shared all that he went through in life to his readers. He described characters who played a significant role in his life, and those who caused damage to him that, in turn, led to his expulsion from school. The narrator went to New York to seek employment at the factory, which eventually made him very sick. Throughout his life, he had good people to help him, such as Mary Rambo. The narrator stood up to fight for freedom for the black people.

After reading many books written by black people, I could see that many of the authors experienced racism. The invisible man did not experience actual  slavery. However, he experienced the devastating result of generations who have suffered from slavery before it was abolished. The narrator used dialogue when Dr. Blesdsoe was interrogating him on Norton’s issue (137). The narrator was insulted by Dr. Blesdsoe, who said, “You’re nobody, son. You don’t exist—can’t you see that?” He was insulted because he was not supposed to take Mr. Norton to the “Golden day” (138). He was expelled from the school and then went to New York (145). The narrator went through a lot of troubles in his life because of racism; the “N” word appears often in his story.

The lesson I learned from this story was the narrator’s courage to be able to stand against terrible situations, such as the ongoing effect of slavery. For example, he was brave when he was sacked from school. He also cultivated the habit of reading when he read countless books from the library (258). In the story, he regretted going to New York, because he liked to study.  Indeed, the narrator really suffered in the story. Due to his health, the doctor advised him to refrain from work, and this became a big issue for him. However, at long last, he adjusted to the situation. The narrator showed us in his book that we cannot run away from our own shadow; we cannot change how God made us. 

I liked the way the narrator told his story, because experience is the best teacher. He pinpointed all that he went through from the beginning to the end. Life was full of ups and downs for him. For example, Wrestrum accused him by saying “He aims to control the movement uptown. He wants to be a dictator” (401)! The narrator was intelligent in telling his story to his readers by putting in a lot of strategies to win the readers’ attention.

One thing I did not like about the narrator was when he started accusing the whites by saying that the white people “are all against us” (270).  Initially, he was liked by the white people as long as he behaved in a certain way. He liked them because of the scholarship and the brief case. The narrator’s story was full of irony and satire. The author’s presentation was confusing, complex and frustrating. He goes back and forth to present his ideas, which sometimes becomes irritating. The story was very long, with a lot of ideas. I had difficulties focusing on the main idea of the novel.

In summary,  Invisible Man used symbols to convey his message throughout the book. The most important message is that black people were considered to mean absolutely nothing … to be invisible in the eyes of a deeply unjust system, dominated by racism. The narrator ended his story by saying that “The end was in the beginning” (571) to put his readers in a thinking mood. In a nutshell, I will say that the narrator fought the good fight with all his might.

Works Cited

Ellison, Ralph. Invisible Man. New York: Vintage Books, 1947. Print.

Emma Kent and Jeff Fleshner, by Ookty Suhtar

Blossoms and love, by Sasha Jackson

Baby rose is closed before spring
Open bloom starts to ring
The smell, always good
The scent lifts my mood
Blossom makes petals shine
Long stem sounds like pine
It doesn't matter what colors they are
Love is like a spare.

 

 

Ice cream, by Sarah Peper

Your palms rest on the sun-warmed cement as you sit on the ledge of a large water fountain. You had closed your eyes and tilted your head back to soak in the warm sun, and to enjoy the soft spray of icy droplets flying from the fountain. You had stopped by at the peaceful fountain on a whim. As you were wandering the sidewalks of the town, it had caught your attention by how it sparkled and shimmered in a patch of sunlight in the midst of a shady park.

A shift in the wind draws your attention back to the gurgling fountain. You twist your torso around to look at the stream of water bubbling up. The flickering blue base of water bobs up and down, tempting you to take your sandals off, swing your legs over the ledge, and dangle your feet into its cool depths. You turn around again only when your strained neck begs you to reposition your posture. With your eyes open, and facing forward again, you start to notice other people.

You watch a couple saunter hand-in-hand down the shady sidewalk, towards the fountain, towards you. The guy whispers into the girl’s ear, and she giggles, tossing her long, perfect hair over her shoulder. You wish for a minute that you could have what they have, to be as happy and content as they are, but then you chide yourself. Give them their privacy, you think.

You see a mother and her two young boys nearby, eating a picnic lunch underneath a majestic maple tree. You hear the younger son say “Mommy, can I have licorice?”

“No, honey. How about you eat your peanut butter and jelly first?” was her reply. Then, noticing wrappers tumbling around on the lush, green grass, she says to her older son, “Kyle, would you please pick up those wrappers and drop them in that garbage can by the tree over there on your right?”

You follow her gaze to the right. Beyond the garbage can and tree, you see a group of teenagers clustered in front of the movie theatre across the street. Their laughter and banter echoes across the street and into the park where you’re sitting.

Your eyes drift back to what’s in front of you. Straight ahead, from your sunny perch on the fountain, you see the intersection of two roads that border the park. As cars carefully cruise by, drivers peer through their windows at the traffic lights, all the while keeping their eyes peeled for pedestrians. Throngs of people populate the sidewalks that lead up to the intersection, the heart of the small town. Pedestrians cross the intersections, many bearing cell phones, Starbucks drinks, or shopping bags.

You observe the people on the sidewalls: Some are jogging by, listening to music on their iPods; some are strolling past, glued to their cell phones; some are dining outside on the sidewalks, taking advantage of outdoor seating while the weather is warm. Parents are pushing strollers, friends are laughing, clusters of awkward teens are teasing each other, and shoppers are walking into and out of the abundant shops. For a few minutes you conjure up stories of who all these people are, their personalities, their stories, their backgrounds.

You snap back to reality as, out of the corner of your eye, you see a father lift his toddler daughter up onto to the fountain ledge. You hop off the ledge to let them walk around the circumference of the fountain. You see the Dad, beaming with pride, holding her hand as she starts to take baby steps. She wobbles at first, but keeps going.

You see them smiling and having a good time, and it looks like they’ll be there a while. You know that your time at the fountain ledge is up. Besides, you’ve been there for a while. You sigh. You wonder what to do next.

You decide that because it’s so hot and muggy out, you should get some ice cream. Wait, you wonder, do you have enough money? You shove your hand into your pocket and pull up some dollar bills. You have two dollars. Not much, you think, but enough for an ice cream cone.

You walk away from the fountain. You pass the mom and her two boys (who are now eating licorice). Then you start to dodge the shoppers, joggers, teens, and cell phone users on the sidewalk. You cross the intersection when the sign flashes a hand.

You turn to the right and walk towards the ice cream shop. Your ears, which had tuned out the bustle and hustle of the town while you were sitting on the fountain’s ledge, register the explosion of noise. The incessant outpouring of chatter, birds singing, shoes slapping against cement, flags whipping in the wind, the purring of car engines, and bursts of laughter through open restaurant doors all combine to overwhelm you with both the sense of community and the feeling of loneliness at the same time.

As you thread your way through sidewalk, wrapped in the stifling heat, you start to notice the shop windows. They offer tempting goods: trendy clothes, toys, sweet baked goods, candy, savory meals. Should you stop into one of them? It would be closer, and you wouldn’t have to walk so far, you think. But no, you decide. Ice cream must be the thing. It’s so hot out.

Finally, you reach the ice cream shop. It’s a brick building and small. To your dismay, it’s packed to the brim; people are spilling out from the open entrance at the side of the building. Other customers are clustered at the front of the building, impatiently waiting to buy their cold ice cream and shakes through the open windows. You take your place at the end of the line that stretches out from the side door. A few minutes pass and you are sandwiched between a group of girls and an older couple. Both groups are discussing which flavors they want. The girls want to get chocolaty flavors, and the older couple wants to share a banana split. 

When you finally reach the counter (after narrowly avoiding a collision with the girls carrying their chocolate chip ice cream cones), the cashier asks you what you want. You hesitate for a minute, but choose strawberry ice cream (single, in a cone). You plunk your dollar bills onto the counter and, as the girl gets your change and ice cream, you survey the area for a good place to eat your ice cream. It’s crowded, so you see that you have to go outside. The girl hands you your ice cream, and you say, “Thanks.” You walk out the door.

You sit down on the grass by the curb of the shop’s driveway and lick your ice cream. At first you are self-conscious about the people walking past your solitary self, but after a while you concentrate on the ice cream. You taste the creamy strawberry flavor on your dry tongue, you swallow the cool treat, and it travels down your throat, cooling you. You become lost in your ice cream for one, two, three minutes.

Finally, it’s gone. After you crunch down to the stub of your waffle cone, which has just a few trickles of melted ice cream left on the bottom, you wish that you had ordered more.You shrug the thought off, though, as you dust your hands off on your shorts. You walk back inside the shop, dart through the long line of customers, wipe your sticky fingertips off the best you can with paper towels from the dispenser on the counter, get a sip of water from the drinking fountain, and walk back out the door as fast as you can.

Once you are outside, you stop and look at your watch. What should you do now? Go back to the fountain? Wander around the streets some more? You see that you still have two hours left before you have to be home. You realize that you’re standing across the street from the public library. You remember that an event was planned there for this afternoon, and your friends might be there. So you get back on the sidewalk and stride towards the library.