Merlyn Sample Issue

Monthly Edition

photo by Vicky Jenkins

Fiction, Essays, and Poems by America s Teens

Stories of Freedom and Escape or

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Cricket Song by Catherine Pickut ns

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Dove Tales by Rochelle Shoretz

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Humor Celebrity Poetry at

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Notes from the Cave

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ear Reader,

Don’t we ordinarily think of ourselves as being free? Most of us believe we have the freedom to do and say what we want, when we want. But do we? Since 9/11, tighter security in airports and along our borders, the introduction of the Patriot Act, and new immigration laws have caused many people to feel that their freedoms are being threatened. Others are thankful for these measures, and believe that they are safer. If there’s one thing we’ve learned, though, it’s that the meaning of freedom differs from person to person, culture to culture. In this edition of Merlyn’s Pen Monthly, you’ll find stories that explore the concept of freedom and why it is essential to the human spirit. Each story grapples in a unique way with freedom, in all its glittering facets. In “Cricket Song,” Catherine Pickut writes about racial injustice, something we still struggle to free ourselves from today. Willy Solomon takes on sibling rivalry in “Free at Last,” as two brothers learn to deal with being left home alone. Rochelle Shoretz’s protagonist in “Dove Tales” uses her imagination to soar away from her troubles, and she succeeds. And finally, Joanne Adamkewicz’s “Freedom” is a short, dreamlike narrative with a sad but hopeful surprise ending. Though indefinable, freedom may be seen as the very essence of life. It’s the sweet breath of springtime, the crash of thunder, the closeness – and distance – in our dearest relationships. Above all, Merlyn’s writers see it as a precious gift. As you read the stories in this edition, may you feel it and know it – in the utter freedom of your heart. Enjoy!

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CONTENTS

Managing Editor Karyn-Lynn Fisette

Project Director

Stephen Hammond

Publishing & Design PaperCut Publishing

Senior Editor

Jo-Ann Langseth

Contributing Editors

Brian Bindschadler Matthew Cheney Audrey Friedman Beth Howard Laura Hudson Kara Laughlin Emily Lonardo (apprentice) Deb Penney Shannon Penney Paula Preble Lee Teverow Tom Tortorich Priscilla Welsh

Features Cricket Song (fiction)

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Dove Tales (fiction)

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Free at Last

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by Catherine Pickut David, a young slave, asks his mother and his friends why the crickets sing. by Rochelle Shoretz Tara’s imagination lets her soar away from her troubles.

(fiction) by Willy Soloman When Mom and Dad go out, two brothers put on the boxing gloves.

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Freedom

(short) by Joanne Adamkewicz

Song of Me (For Whitman and W.C. Williams) by Colin Patrick

Cover Art

(short) by Ashley Muddiman

Illustrations

Taking My Wife to My Childhood Village

Jane O’Conor Cindy Satagaj Kathy Szarko Ken Vaudrain

by Benjamin Cleaves

Moonlight by Luisa Colon

Development Director

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Explorer

Vicky Jenkins

(poem)

(poem)

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(poem)

Jan Dane

Library Depts.

Grants/Projects Coordinator Kristin DiQuollo

Foundation Board of Directors & Advisors Michael Aaronson Elliot Alchek Joan Ayotte Michael Gutt Keith Hefner Gregory Hudson Peter Jenkins Jeff Laikind Kate Leach Barbara Morse Diane Postoian Laureen Rowland Mary Jane Sorrentino Jack Stahl Lesley Stahl R. James Stahl Bill Zabel

Editor in Chief R. James Stahl

www.merlynspen.org Merlyn’s Pen Monthly is published ten times annually by The Merlyn’s Pen Foundation, Inc., P.O. Box 2550, Providence, RI 02906. Copyright 2004 by The Merlyn’s Pen Foundation, Inc. All rights reserved. Except for classroom use, reproduction of this publication in whole or in part is prohibited without the written consent of the publisher.

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Party Games (fiction)

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1968 (fiction)

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A Hard Road Home (fiction)

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by Matt Phillips

by Tara Brantley

by Nathan Costa

Notes from the Cave

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Interview

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Etymology Merlyn’s Resource Directory

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Supported by contributions from generous companies, foundations, and families, The Merlyn’s Pen Foundation promotes teen literacy. Its programs serve the developmental needs of precocious teen writers, all teen readers, and the educators who assist them. By identifying, mentoring, and publishing original teen writers, who often leave the arts before their potential is recognized, the Foundation expands the store of talent that will feed American literature and creative arts this century.

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By Catherine Pickut

Catherine Pickut wrote and submitted “Cricket Song” while attending Wellsville Middle School in Wellsville, New York. She tells us that the cello, piano, and debating are among her interests, in addition to writing.

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n ivory moon hovered unsteadily in the infant twilight as the stars crept nearer to view. Summer bloomed even at night’s coming, and the melody of a million crickets filled the air. In a small wooden shanty, a dark-eyed child listened calmly to the falling night. “Mama?” He only whispered, but she drew close to hear him. “Yes, child.” Her voice carried the warm tones of honey and gentleness that all mothers possess within their souls. “Why do the crickets sing?” She looked at her child, brown skin shining softly in the semi-dark. His eyes glistened with the innocent wonder of one who has never tasted pain. He spoke again, his mouth forming words quickly and carefully. “The birds, they sing ’cause it’s they way of bringing joy, and the frogs, they bellow ’cause they happy they frogs instead of polliwogs, but the crickets . . .” His voice faded away. “Go on, David,” she urged him gently. “The crickets, they don’t have any reason. They always been crickets. They not joyful, not glad, they just . . .” He paused, thoughtfully, for a long moment. “They just are.” He rested his head on the sill and watched the sun glimmer away on the hills. The crickets chirped on into the evening mist. “I don’t know, David, I just don’t know. But I know that it’s nighttime now. And you need your sleep.” The little boy fell into a wondering slumber to the rhapsody of the crickets’ song. David awoke in the hazy dawn, finished his morning chores as quickly as he possibly could, and determined to discover the secret of the crickets’ medley once and for all. It was a glorious morning, dew-kissed and sparkling in the rays of a fiery sun. Mr. Laquette’s fields of new vegetables reached higher to taste summertime’s new warmth and life. And the men toiled there, planting and weeding. The men were singing quietly into the growing heat. “Nobody knows the trouble I seen . . .” David listened to their deep voices carrying the tune. The words were sort of sad, he decided. But the way the strong men sang was almost happy. Somethin’ wrong. It seemed broken in its clarity, subdued in its low tones. SAMPLE I SSUE

David walked up slowly to Jeremiah, a tall bronze man with warm eyes and a muscular build. He tugged at his sleeve gently. “Well, how’re you, Master David? What’ve you been occupyin’ yourself with? Is somethin’ on your mind, little man?” David looked up at the towering man beside him. “Why do you sing when you work?” he asked. Jeremiah looked at the boy but didn’t speak. So David continued, “The bird sings ’cause he’s joyful, and the bullfrog sings ’cause he’s happy bein’ a frog, but why do you sing?” Jeremiah got a kind of pondering look on his face. “I guess we sing because it makes things go faster— the work, I mean. Why you wonder?” David shrugged. Jeremiah went back to his work. David squinted at the sun. The temperature increased quickly in the fields of summer. To make the work go faster? No, that was not why the crickets sang. The crickets sounded different from the men in the field, but David wasn’t sure why. The crickets’ song was perfect and pure, and so different. Something not there in the men’s dark voices. He went to find his mother. She worked in the big house, in the kitchen. It smelled of prosperity in the big house, of silk and cotton. But the air also smelled of baked beans, his mother’s baked beans. The big house stood, white and clean, at the front of the plantation. David didn’t go in very often, and always through the back door. But he could hear his mother’s silken voice humming a soft tune as he stood at the door. “Mama?” “David, did you finish your work? Did you remember to take care of the goats?”

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Yes, David had done all of that earlier, during the cooler hours. “Yes, Mama.” “So what’s troublin’ you?” David thought for a moment. “Mama, why you hummin’ when you work?” Mama looked at her child. “I don’t know. I like the tune, I suppose. No reason, really.” She turned back to the breakfast dishes. “Run along now. Master won’t like you hangin’ on his back door all day.” She smiled. David walked away, kicking a round stone. Mama sang just for singin’. Jeremiah sang ’cause it made his work go faster. But their songs were different from the crickets’. He liked the crickets’ song. It made him feel a dull pulse of peace way down deep inside of him. Mama’s song was just a song, and Jeremiah’s was kind of sad. But not like the cricket. Somethin’ missin’ in Mama’s song, somethin’ more missin’ in Jeremiah’s. But what? David scurried to do his afternoon work. By evening, his eleven-year-old body tingled from effort. He sat in silence by the window and felt the crickets’ song grow in intensity. It was more wonderful now, and he could tell the difference had become clearer and more distinct, though he couldn’t feel quite what. But it was still there. “Looks like good weather tomorrow, doesn’t it, child?” Mama knew that the blood-red sky meant a glorious day tomorrow. The shades of crimson and fire exploded on the horizon as the sun sank quickly into the earth. They sat in silence, letting the song of the tawny gold meadow fall into syncopation with the crickets’ cries of life. Finally, it was lavender darkness enfolding mother and son. The crickets’ chorus grew deafening in the moon’s continued on page 14

CONTEST-WINNING RESPONSE TO CRICKET SONG

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e now make it easy for you to respond to a story you read in Merlyn’s Pen Monthly. After a story you will see a box containing the image below. There will be a story ID number within the box and a link called take me there. Clicking on the link will bring you to a page where you can enter the story ID number and write your response.

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tudents are often asked to reflect on famous literary works by crafting original responses to the ideas and themes that move them. Merlyn’s Pen’s first contest of 2004 drew from this idea. We asked students to read and write a response to a piece of their choosing from the more than 1,000 works in our New Library of Young Adult Writing. Lauren Janness of Baker Middle School in Troy, Michigan, submitted a response to “Cricket Song” entitled “Free.” Of the many thoughtful and creative submissions, her piece was selected as the winning response. We encourage you to read “Free” at www.merlynspen.org. me t

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Dove Tales T

By Rochelle Shoretz

Rochelle Shoretz wrote “Dove Tales” while attending Shulamith High School in Brooklyn, New York. She keeps a daily journal, writes fiction, and likes to visit local libraries. Acting and computers also interest her.

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here is a rusty chain saw buzzing inside my head. I reach out in an attempt to stop the noise, ready to mangle, crush, and destroy the annoying hunk of iron with my bare hands. Instead, I hit the snooze button on my alarm clock. Good enough. The noise stops. I think of my dove. Slowly, and with great difficulty, my feet find their way to the floor. It’s that time of morning when the scent of hot waffles and fresh orange juice is supposed to envelop your nostrils, the way it works on television. But this is real life, so I’m not really surprised when the only things enveloping my nostrils, literally, are my dirty socks, which have been hiding under the pillow since last Thursday. I flip through the pages of my calendar. It’s Sunday, Dad’s day. Shimmering through my window, a ray of sunshine bounces off something resting on my bureau, leaving a spot of light hanging on the wall. I follow the ray back to the bureau and find my brooch sitting among a stack of papers, some of them already crumpled into balls. The brooch is shaped like a dove, with a body carved from mother-of-pearl, a wing made of mirror, and a single pearl in place of an eye. Oh, none of it’s actually genuine, but it’s mine just the same, looking as delicate and fragile as a real dove must. Of course, I’ve never really seen one up close. The dove was a gift from my sister Jenny before she left for college. I must have been eight or nine at the time, a pout plastered on my face, upset at the world over my parents’ divorce four years before that, and angrier still at Jenny for leaving me to deal with the situation alone. “Lighten up,” she told me, “and if things really do get too hard to handle, maybe you and this bird here can fly to some far-off land and deal with them, OK?” I smiled and nodded my head enthusiastically. Jenny laughed. I haven’t gone anywhere without that dove since. Showered and dressed, I’m running out the door an hour later to meet my dad. I wave goodbye to my mom, who has her hair up in curlers and is eating mocha fudge ice cream straight from the container over her morning paper. “Hi, Dad. Hi, Suzie.” Susan is my stepmother. “Hi, Tara.” And Tara is their baby daughter. My dad has a bushy beard, and I pick out remnants of his breakfast while he drives. Somehow, this makes Susan hungry. We decide to go for lunch. “How about that deli place we ate at last week?” my father suggests. “The food there is tasteless,” Susan says with a grimace. “How about the SAMPLE I SSUE

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WRITE A RESPONSE You can write a response to this story by clicking on the take me there link located below. Be sure to use story ID # 30143 when responding. It’s fun, it’s easy, and you could be published in the Library! t ake

mined rhythm. And the rhythm begins to grow, stronger and faster, until I’m far away from the little blue Chevy, away from the noise, away from the world. Drums are pounding to the beat of the night, and the sound ominously echoes through my head. A dark girl, her hair twisted in small black braids, her stomach empty, is running through a barren field. The drums are pounding faster and faster: Pum-pum-pum, Pum-pum-pum. Her feet are pumping, her heart beating wildly, and all the while the drums are pounding: Pum-pum-pum, Pum-pum-pum. She stops, standing on tiptoe to pull the last berry from a bush. But she squeezes too hard and the juice drips down the side. Poison. The drums stop suddenly. “Let’s skip lunch,” I suggest casually. The twitching stops. Jenny and I have talked a lot about the problems we all share as a “Sunday family.” We all try to make up for a week’s time in one day, and so everything we decide to do on Sunday seems trivial compared to all that we could do together during the rest of the week. Admitting this now doesn’t make the situation any better, but it’s a start. “How about a trip to the museum?” suggests my father. “But, Marc,” Susan interrupts, “we made a list of all the . . .” I don’t even hear the rest of what she’s saying. I’m thinking of that list. Susan is notorious for her lists, and suddenly I have a very strong feeling I know exactly how we’re going to spend the day. “OK,” my father says. “Let’s go to Toys ‘ �’ Us.” Tara gurgles in her car seat. I was right.

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A dark girl, her stomach empty, is running through a barren field.

I’m walking up and down the aisles of one of the biggest toy stores in the world, and it should feel great, but my heart doesn’t agree. I’m comparing Luvs with Pampers, Playskool with Fisher-Price, and by the time I finish memorizing the differences between the Johnny Jumper and the Betsy Bopper, we’re ready to leave. I’m disappointed. We arrive at the cash register with a doll for Tara and a yo-yo for my dad. The cashier is shooting the proofs of purchase with a laser gun, too lazy to push a few buttons and avoid any problems, and, of course, there are problems. “Sorry,” she says. “The laser won’t shoot the doll, and I can’t ring it up on the register.” Actually, the way she says it sounds more like, “Tzory. De laaazer won shoot de doll, an I caaan’t ring it up on de regista.” My father’s left eye begins to twitch. I dig deep into my pocket and finger the dove. I start tapping on it, making clicking sounds with my nail. The clicking becomes more deliberate, echoing in my ears until all I hear are castanets, clacking and clicking, clacking and clicking. And then, through the din, I spot a little girl crying in the street. She’s bending over something, her hair falling into her swollen eyes. I take a closer look. It’s a doll, ripped and torn, its dress soiled and creased. “Leave the doll,” I say. We leave the doll. We leave the store. We’re on the way home now, catching up on the week, talking about Jenny. I kiss everyone goodbye and jump out of the car. I trip, though, and the dove falls out of my pocket. My dad starts driving away, but I pick it up just in time. I turn the key to the door. My mom is yelling on the phone, and suddenly my dove and I are in Greece. We travel a lot.

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restaurant a few blocks away?” “I hate that place,” I say. “Can’t we just get a burger or something?” Ideas are tossed back and forth. The tension is mounting and I’m awaiting the final blowup. My father’s left eye begins to twitch. My dad is notorious for that twitch. I feel the dove in my pocket, my finger sliding over its smooth belly, back and forth, back and forth, in deter-

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Interview

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n 1993, Robert K. Elder was a junior in high school, working as executive editor of his school paper. He decided to take a chance and call up legendary author Ken Kesey to ask for an interview. Kesey, author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, was willing. “He was very nice to me,” Rob says. He decided to send the piece to Merlyn’s Pen, where excerpts were published in the October/November 1994 Senior Edition. Today, Rob continues to write about film, the arts, music and travel for the Chicago Tribune. His work has appeared in numerous publications since his debut in Merlyn’s Pen, including The New York Times, Premiere magazine, the Los Angeles Times, The Boston Globe, Gear magazine, and The Oregonian. When Ken Kesey was in Montana promoting his novel The Last Go Round, in 1993, Rob took a gamble and called Kesey’s publisher to arrange an interview. “I just did it,” Rob says. “It was the easiest thing in the world, actually.” Kesey, author of the 1960s’ classic One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, readily agreed to talk, even though Rob was still in high school and just beginning what would become his career. The two writers met at the Radisson Northern Hotel in Billings, then walked around the corner to a nearby bar to talk. Like master to apprentice, Kesey gave 17-year-old Rob a valuable piece of advice: “If this is 8

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what you want to do,” he told Rob, “if you want to be a journalist, you have to start now.” When his school newspaper decided not to print the Kesey inter-

Robert K. Elder, once a Merlyn’s Pen writer, is now a film critic for the Chicago Tribune.

view for lack of space, Rob submitted it to Merlyn’s Pen. “I forget how I learned about Merlyn’s Pen, but somebody said I should submit it, and I did, on a whim, even though there was no physical section in the magazine for it.” Merlyn’s Pen editors were so impressed with Rob’s questions and Kesey’s answers that they created a new department, Reviews and Retrospects, for pieces like Rob’s. He later interviewed Tom Robbins, author of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Jitterbug Perfume, and Skinny Legs and All.

When Kesey was in high school, he aspired to become an Olympic wrestler. He shared with Rob some of what he had learned on his high school team: “If you stay after school, work out, dedicate yourself to it. You may not be doing what you thought you’d be doing 20 years from now, but you’ll be so far ahead of everybody else that it won’t matter anyway.” Grateful for that meeting, Rob says Kesey’s advice has “paid off wonderfully well.” A decade later Rob is a film reviewer and cultural reporter at the Chicago Tribune, where he has worked for the last four years. He refers humbly to himself as a “junior” critic, which he describes as “my own title out of respect for the two gentlemen who are senior to me.” His job requires that he watch as many as 400 movies a year. Often they are “formulaic” and “mundane”; many he hardly recalls reviewing, never mind seeing. “But the thing that I love about my station in life is that I’m able to discover new directors, and that’s a real treat because you are still in a position to be surprised,” Rob says. “The beautiful thing about film criticism is that you get to find and then champion these things. “I’m in journalism because of film, not the other way around.” Rob never had the desire to write the type of stories that appear in the education or crime-related pages of the Tribune, but still, he says, “I have the greatest job in the world because I am paid to be curious.” Rob’s curiosity has led him to write about far more than film. A personal obsession fueled his recent journey through the streets of Chicago in search of photo booths and their little-known history. In February, he documented the financial ruin of Shelby, Montana, following a 1923 heavyweight boxing champicontinued on page 14 SAMPLE I SSUE

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e’ll be home in a little bit.” My mother’s voice faded away. Rick, my brother, and I looked at each other with devilish grins. Even though my mother and father were already out the door, my brother and I just had to say it— “Byeee!” Saying goodbye to Mom and Dad was more than a polite gesture; to my brother and me, it meant a few hours of absolute freedom. If we wanted, we could jump on the couch, run through the house, and eat five bowls of ice cream. Nothing and no one could control us. “So what do you want to do?” Rick asked. I felt as strong as ever and began to bounce, foot to foot. “Let’s box,” I said as I threw two left jabs and a right uppercut into the air. “Get the gloves.” My bouncing came to a stop. “But it’s your turn to get the gloves, Rick. Why do I always have to do it?” “Because I’m the undefeated champ of the world and the challenger has to get the gloves.” I ran down the hallway to my room and dug through my toy box. Three of the gloves sat on top of the pile of toys. The fourth glove was nowhere to be seen. I began to toss one toy at a time, then armfuls, to the floor behind me, searching for the bottom of the box. “What’s taking so long?” Rick bellowed down the hall. I stood silently in front of the mountain of toys that stood in the middle of my bedroom. “Hmmm,” I hummed as I wondered where my glove could be. I turned back to look at my closet, and there I found the glove, wedged into the far right corner behind my basketball. I grabbed the glove, picked up the other three gloves, and darted back to the living room. “What took so long? I was startin’ to think you were scared.” He always knew what buttons to push to get me SAMPLE I SSUE

irritated. “I’m not afraid of you,” I shot back. My brother and I pulled on our gloves and took our usual corners in the living room. I was overflowing with anticipation and already red in the face. I couldn’t help wondering if this was the night I would be crowned champion. My brother stood across the room next to the television. His chin was cocked slightly in the air. He stared at me and grinned, “Ready?” “Yeah.” I attempted a menacing tone, but the squeak in my voice erased any fear he might have been feeling. Rick chuckled at me, “Ladies and gentlemen, in this corner, next to the lamp, weighing . . .” He paused and looked at me. “How much do you weigh?” Rick did this to me every time. “You know how much I weigh.” “No, I don’t. How much do you weigh?” “Forty-two pounds,” I said as I flexed all forty-two of them. Starting where he left off, Rick boomed, “. . . weighing forty-two fearsome pounds, Willy ‘The Wimpy’ Solomon!” Now that I was a victim of first-degree humiliation, I could only hope to do the same to my brother. “And in this corner, next to the TV set, weighing one hundred and nine pounds . . .” “Don’t forget the undefeated champ of the world,” Rick put in with an ear-to-ear grin. “Are you going to let me finish?” I snapped, glaring at him. “Sure, go ahead; I just didn’t want you to forget any-

Weighing forty-two fearsome pounds, Willy The Wimpy Solomon! thing important.” “Well, you never let us start the fight unless I say it.” “Just wanted to remind you. Go ahead,” he snickered. I began once again. “Weighing one hundred and nine pounds, the undefeated champ of the world, Ricky Deany Weenie!” I could no longer keep ahold of myself. I collapsed to the floor, snorting with laughter. Once I calmed myself, my brother and I had a stare-down. M E R L Y N’S P E N M O N T H LY

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You can write a response to this story by clicking on the take me there link located below. Be sure to use story ID # 29289 when responding. It’s fun, it’s easy, and you could be published in the Library! me t

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ENTER THE LIBRARY

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From Party Games, by Matt Phillips, grade 10, seen in the New Library at merlynspen.org.

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ark stepped back from the doorway, his mother’s farewell kiss still fresh on his cheek. Outside, the driver of the yellow airport taxi revved the engine, almost but not quite drowning out his mother’s parting words: “Mark, I almost forgot! I did your laundry this morning. Don’t forget to put it away, OK?” “OK,” Mark replied, loud enough for his mother to hear. Mark’s mother got into the taxi, said “Love you, Mark!” and closed the door. The taxi drove off, taking both his parents. It was Thursday night, and with Mom and Dad en route to Cincinnati and Rob away at college, the house would be Mark’s until Monday. Gleeful with anticipation, Mark let out a loud whoop. In terms of house usage, there had been no restrictions placed upon him. “Sure, you can have a few kids over,” had been his father’s response when he casually mentioned the possibility of having a small get-together. His only question now was, who to call . . . t ake

“Ding Ding!” we said in unison. We began fighting. I struck first, landing three right hooks to his left gut. This was the night I would be crowned champion of the world! I went for a left jab, but missed. I tried to move closer to him. It seemed as if I were pushing a brick wall. My brother had applied the unconquerable stiff-arm. My hopes of becoming the champ tonight suddenly didn’t seem so realistic. My head was in the palm of his glove and I threw punches in all directions, as fast as I could, wishing one would be the crushing blow to bail me out of this predicament. Finally, he released my head from his palm. Hopefully, I looked up—only to find a right uppercut meeting my face. I saw stars dancing around my head and I fell to the floor. After taking a few moments to collect myself and absorb the blow, I got up and screeched, “Thanks for giving me brain damage, you moron! I quit!” I stomped down the hall and threw one glove straight against the wall, the other onto the floor. Both of the champ’s gloves lay in the middle of the hall. Frustrated by my most recent loss, I kicked one glove clear into the kitchen. Standing there was my brother, dishing out two bowls of ice cream. “You okay?” “Yeah,” I quietly pouted. “I dished a bowl of ice cream for you. Do you want it?” I picked up my bowl of ice cream and carried it over to the dining room table. “Thanks.” Rick told me jokes the rest of the night. He could always make me laugh, even when I wanted to be mad at him. I guess it was his way of making me forget our rivalry—until the next round.

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Freedom I fly on winged feet down dusty paths. I soar over fallen logs, jumping higher and higher. I crane my neck to gaze intently at the patterns of light squeezing through the maze of leaves. I stop under the boughs of a mighty pine and imagine that I stand in a grand cathedral. A dustylooking sunbeam tickles my toes. Birds call out wild hellos to my straining ears. Then I take off again, traveling to my favorite haunts and dancing across a field, pretending it is a stage. I take a daring leap across the wide stream bed and laugh at the water yearning to get me. A hickorybark boat with a brave, yellow dandelion pennant leaves port to sail the uncharted depths of stream. As I watch it go, I exult in my freedom… With a disappointed sigh, I face reality. The wishes don’t work. The wheelchair is still here, and I am still its prisoner. —Joanne Adamkewicz, Eighth grade, Rocky Run Intermediate School, Chantilly, Virginia

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e ty mol o gy

Champion: Champion is an Old French word dating back to 1225, and stemming from Late Latin, a language used between approximately 300 and 700. The Late Latin word campio means “gladiator or combatant in the field.” Another related Latin word is campus, which means “field of combat.” The verb champion means “to fight for, defend or protect,” and was first used in 1820. Championship debuted in print five years later. Sources: Dictionary of Word Origins, Arcade Publishing, Inc., 1993.

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Dove: The Old English word dufe is one possible origin of the word dove. Old English was written and spoken between the fifth and twelfth centuries. Dufe means “to dive,” as a dove does in flight. The dove is also a symbol of gentleness from early Christianity. However, it wasn’t until 1962, during the Cuban Missile Crisis, that this word was used as a political symbol for a “peaceful person.”

ago. Another name for dandelion, tell-time, refers to the custom of telling the time by blowing on its fluffy white parachute seeds. This whimsical method of telling time called for counting the number of puffs required to blow off all the seeds. If it took two puffs, that meant it was two o’ clock.

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ord origins are complex and elusive, but the study of those origins, etymology, can help us better understand where a word comes from and how its meaning has evolved over time. Our words are derived from many different languages, from imitations of sound, and from combinations of other words. Word histories are practically limitless, and their meanings diverse. Below are a few words that appear in this edition of Merlyn’s Pen Monthly. Perhaps by tracing the origins of these words, you will come to a better appreciation of how they are used here, and how they can function in your own writing.

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Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford University Press, 2000.

Dandelion: The name of this pesky but nutritious weed dates back to the 1400s from the Middle French expression dent de lion, meaning “lion’s tooth,” a reference to the dandelion’s toothed leaves. Middle French was used four to six hundred years SAMPLE I SSUE

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Explorer

Song of Me (For Whitman and W.C. Williams) Yesterday I noticed that at sunset yellow-green grass is orange and dandelion leaves and moss look fuzzy and gray. My postered room smelled like grass and pine bark (the window was open all day) and for some reason the bookshelf my mother painted blue when she was my age seemed to lean more precariously. She entered the room of honeysuckle and pine bark and told me to wash up you look scummy do you want Aunt Mary and Aunt Betty to see you like that I had trouble being polite in telling her that I’d really rather sit up here and breathe the dry air of evening. —Colin Patrick, Eleventh grade, Cherry Hill High School West, Cherry Hill, New Jersey

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sighed. This wasn’t going to be as easy as I had hoped. “You see, tonight’s homework assignment is to write a one-hundred-fifty-word essay on ‘How have the freedoms guaranteed in the First Amendment to the Constitution played a role in my life?’ I know what the freedoms are, but I can’t seem to tie them in to my life. Any suggestions?” I looked around hopefully. Dad regarded me thoughtfully. Mom raised her eyebrows in curiosity. Chris scrutinized me for a moment before she lost all interest. After all, she was out to change the world. Little brother’s homework was inconsequential to her. After an eternity or two, Dad replied, “Why don’t you write about . . .”

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—Ashley Muddiman, Sixth grade, John Foster Dulles Elementary, Cincinnati, Ohio

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From 1968, by Tara Brantley, grade 10, seen in the New Library at merlynspen.org.

My toes are ice cubes. Except for the whipping wind, there is silence on my gray, bare tundra. The flat, icy plain offers no shelter from the driving snow. I turn my head in all directions—nothing for miles. My blonde curls are blown into my face; I am in snow up to my knees. My down coat, woolen mittens, and cotton hat keep my head, hands, and body as warm as a summer’s day. The snow flutters down, down, down. My lips are chapped and my cheeks stiff, but I force myself to smile. The beautiful bareness of the land is all that I need to survive. I, the Great Amy Smitz, am going to travel the Alaskan tundra until I die—or at least until supper. My seclusion makes me feel completely free. Free of all my worries. Adventure replaces every fear. Not knowing what lies beyond the horizon draws me, tramping on. Maybe I’ll see a polar bear or an Eskimo. Maybe a team of Alaskan huskies. I take a deep breath of the chill air. It stings my lungs, but afterward feels good. I sniff the frosty wind. It smells like the first winter snow. I want to stay . . . “Amy! Time for dinner!” I drift back to reality. My cozy, red-bricked house, actually in Montana, stands in front of me. And Mother is just outside the back door. “I’m having fun!” I call back. “l don’t want to come in!” “It’s dinnertime,” Mom repeats. “I’ll be there in a minute,” I give in. I slowly turn my back to my house and kneel in the snow. Its cool touch makes me want to skip supper and just stay here all night. That’s all for today, I decide. But the great explorer Amy Smitz will be back again tomorrow! I turn around and stride inside to a cup of hot chocolate and steamy chicken soup. Being inside might make me warm and comfy, but adventure is so much more fun. The Great Unknown calls me. I will always be a great explorer.

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Moonlight Last night I pattered through the kitchen through the living room past the bedroom and closet and into my room where I spied a patch of white glowing floor. I knelt down and my fingers brushed the smooth surface. It was moonlight and it lit the room. —Luisa Colon, Seventh grade, The Center School, New York, New York

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ub-dub, lub-dub . . . I could hear my heart racing . . . Lub-dub, lub-dub, lub-dub . . . faster . . . faster . . . My legs, barely touching the ground, were running as fast as I’d ever run in my life. My heart, booming in my ears, thumping so hard, just like it was telling me, “Slow down, Jester! You ain’t gonna make it, for you’s gonna pass out! . . .” But I couldn’t stop. . . just couldn’t. I kept thinking about what Momma said, over and over in my mind, “Jester, if you’s gonna run, you gotta do it now! . . .” From A Hard Road Home, by Nathan Costa, grade 8, seen in the New Library at merlynspen.org.

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It’s all in our quiet anger, the hatred of the trapped animal

—Benjamin Cleaves, Tenth grade, Milton Academy, Milton, Massachusetts

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Flies ping against the stiff window screen. You watch old men bathing in the town cistern and ask me how long it’s been since they dammed up the river and sent it to the copper mines at Churumuco. We watch tourists mount mules and wind up toward the lookout point. One mule leans to the left, I watch a woman’s bare calf rip to ribbons against the barbed wire fence. The mule falls first on its front legs. The rocking motion it makes sends the woman halfway across the fence. She folds at her belly and hangs like a wet doll. The Mexicans are furious. They whip the mule with iron thongs. The creature collapses on its heaving side, vomits in the dust, and the leader says: Cállate y continúa. He pulls out a revolver, shoots the mule on the bridge of its nose. You whisper in my ear and I tell you that the people don’t care— tell you the landowner makes them sweep the excrement out of his outhouse. He slit a girl’s nostrils when she turned sixteen. I laugh and fall silent because it is all I can do— all we can do to create distance. You say you cry for the people in the village, but I know you don’t—can’t. You cry for something else, not for the rabid dog dying under the creosote bush, or the gaunt women chipping rocks for ore, but for yourself— for us who know that the laughter strikes nerves too numb to smell the trash burning at night, too dead to feel the thudding in the ground, to feel the reverberations of men and boys pummeling the rock in a place of blackened hair and brownish light.

who knows sorrow is a tombstone it will keep. You see me here at home in this place of brittle rock and dried out clay. You realize the damnation of it and that, after all, we asked for it.

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Cricket Song continued from page 5

Robert K. Elder continued from page 8

glow. “Mama?” “Yes, child.” “The bird sings ’cause he’s joyful, the bullfrog croaks ’cause he’s happy he’s a frog, Jeremiah sings ’cause it makes his work easier, and you sing ’cause you want to . . .” His dark eyes surveyed the meadow one more time before he continued. “And I know why the cricket sings, Mama. And why it sounds so sweet.” The woman closed her eyes for a moment. “Why’s that, David?” Some time passed, one of those times that seems an eternity but is only an eye’s blink in truth. A breeze tickled the tops of the meadow wheat. David stood and took a long, deep breath of sweet summer air. A dying star tore a seam in the sky as he opened his mouth to speak. He looked at his mother. “The cricket sings . . .” He glanced up at the pearly moon again. It sparkled like a shiny nickel at the bottom of a wishing well. The crickets kept chirruping, their song rising to charm the stars into twinkling. David sighed and looked out over the field before he finished. “The cricket sings . . . ’cause he’s free. Just ’cause he’s free.” His mother rose and stood by him as the sun’s last warm glow faded away. Together, they watched night cover heaven’s face and listened to the song washing across the meadow. They listened, in wonder, to the song which they could never sing.

onship between Jack Dempsey and Tommy Gibbons. Rob was raised in Billings, Montana, about 10 driving hours from Shelby. He attended college at the University of Oregon, a school suggested to him by Kesey, who lived in Oregon until he passed away in 2001. Rob’s final year of college turned into three when he decided to follow his dream—a dream that landed him in the offices of the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, The Oregonian, The Dallas Morning News, Premiere magazine, and The New York Times. “By the time I graduated, I had roughly five internships—but a lot of experience—plus many more freelance and job connections,” Rob says. “I spent three years moving every three months to different parts of the country, working for different publications—a very esoteric route. I was gaining momentum, writing like mad, and trying to land a full-time job before the Tribune recruited me.” Rob hasn’t looked back at his interviews with Kesey and Robbins. They are products of an earlier self, a younger writer, he says. But he is willing to point out, “If you look at something you did a few years ago and aren’t a bit horrified, then you’re not growing as a writer.” What young writers often don’t realize, Rob says, almost sternly, “is that you can do whatever the hell you want to do.” There is no one to stop a writer—novice or veteran—from making the call, arranging the interview, or submitting an editorial. “I think there’s this kind of psychology that exists that you have to wait for someone’s permission to write the kind of stories you want to write, or interview the type of people you want to interview. “You don’t.”

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