Young Authors Fiction Contest 2004 - San Juan Island Library

The Real World, by Amanda Alps

The minute I stepped off the plane, I realized what I had gotten myself into. I should have paid closer attention to the hasty advice my mother had given me. Through our silly parting tears she had told me not to “make waves,” she added, “don’t push your granddad, honey.” I should have realized that her words didn’t paint the kindest picture of the man I was going to have to depend on, for work, for support, for lodging. I scanned the buzzing airport for a familiar face. Though I hadn’t seen my grandfather in ten years I knew I would recognize him. My grandfather is the quintessential old codger. I knew he’d stand out in his dusty cowboy hat. My stomach muscles churned, my family wasn’t exactly close. I had taken a lot to convince the old man that I wouldn’t be a hindrance on his ranch, that I could pull my own weight. “A girl is of little use in a man’s world.” I grew up around horses, I know I could handle just about anything, but my grandfather wasn’t even willing to pretend he thought I could measure up.

The commotion cleared. I watched tearful mothers hug tan children. I saw the hard-nosed businessmen power out with their smooth black suitcases. I didn’t see my grandfather. I waited until an hour passed and decided that this must be my first test. I guess ranchers don’t pick up their cowhands up at the airport. I called a cab.

I used my time in the taxi to my advantage; I planned how I would saturate each remark with venom. How I would use my wit to show my grandfather that I was tough too. Of course by the time I reached the ranch my mother’s advice had pacified me. I had a new mission: I would be the “better name.” I had passed the first test (at lease by my own standards.) Now to see how this soldier held up in the line of fire.

When I saw the ranch for the first time my nervous condition was at its climax. What was I doing here in this world of sweaty horses, hard men, and the unbeatable heat? I was leaving home and not going to college. I was working for my keep somewhere I could put my skills to use. I was earning a living. The lazy stares of the cattle we passed only added to my apprehensions. Would the men belittle me? Would I embarrass myself, my parents, my grandfather? “Dear Lord, don’t le me fall off. Let them put me on a green horse, just please don’t let me fall off.”

There was no one at the house to greet me. Right inside on the table, held down by a dust horseshow was a note: “Set up camp in the guesthouse on your left. Meet me in the barn. YOU can find your way.” The guesthouse was cool and breezy, refreshing after all that heat. The walls appeared to be made of cement. Though the architect’s only thought must have been providing that pleasant breeze, the cold hard walls made the room my prison. Why had I decided to come here? I was childish, everything seems so easy when your parents are giving you the ultimatum; school or relocation. When “relocation” seems so simple. I was here now. My grandfather, my boss, was waiting. “Get a move on cowgirl, it’s time to show them what you’re made of.”

The Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins with a Single Step – Lao Tzu
by Eva Wingren

The minute I stepped off the plane, I realized what I had gotten myself into. Amanda, who had been sleeping in my arms for most of the flight, woke with a rushing breath of Seattle air and started screaming. It was as if she knew that she was far away from China, the orphanage, and everything her short life had known.

This was my first day as mother and, though I tried to quiet her, I had no idea how to comfort this wailing baby who was almost a stranger to me. I didn’t have that wordless bond that a real mother has to her own flesh and blood. This is not my child, I thought. This is not my child. I wanted so badly to have been her mother. I wanted her to grow up in a place where she was loved and encouraged, not degraded. I just hoped that my country was that place.

Then I remembered how my mother had acted when I told her I was adopting a Chinese girl. She didn’t understand.

“You don’t have a husband yet, Lupita, why do you want a child yet? Everyone will think you are a sinverguenza because you didn’t marry her father.” My Puerto Rican family didn’t understand the concept of a society that would give children away to foreigners. A relative would take care of your children if you could not, everyone blending into a big clan of half-sisters and cousins and uncles. I explained the one-child rule, the selective abortions of females, the orphanages overrun with young girls who had never known a family. I told them I wanted to help people.

“But you help people with your writing, Lupe,” said my stepfather. I wrote novels and essays about “the Hispanic experience in America,” and people wrote me letters saying that my books had helped them. I donated to charities; I sent money to my relatives in Puerto Rico. But I never felt like I had helped anyone directly.

Hurrying up the gangway and into the waiting room, I saw heads turn and frown lines blossom as Amanda’s screams pierced the businesslike clamor. Unwrapping her from the polyester airline blanket, I investigated everything I could think of – dirty diaper? No. Teething? Not yet. Hungry? Possibly. She was small and bony for a baby, since the orphanage didn’t always have enough food to go around. I dug out a bottle of formula from the diaper bag and, rocking Amanda gently, put it to her lips.

She tasted it hesitantly at first, then hungrily latched onto the bottle. I watched her eat, feeling tired and relieved and amazed that I had done the right thing. Her tiny ink-stroke eyelashes flickered. Her face was round and perfect, with a wide nose and full lips the color of a hibiscus flower.

“What a lovely baby!” a woman’s voice piped up behind me. “Is she yours?” My heart sank. Mama was right; people would never accept that Amanda was mine. We looked like we came from opposite sides of the world.

“No.” I replied morosely. “She’s adopted.”

The white woman smiled benevolently. “Hey, don’t look so sad. Motherhood is the best thing that will ever happen to you. It may take a bit of getting used to, but most days you’ll love it.”

A black boy around six years old ran up and tugged at her pant leg. “Mom, I’m hungry. Can we get some French fries?” The woman smiled at me and allowed herself to be led away.

Yale - by Julie Tate

The minute I stepped off the plane, I realized what I had gotten myself into. As I stand here, clutching my luggage and staring out into the sea of strangers bustling around me, I wonder what ever made me want to venture this far away from home. For the first time in my life, I am utterly lost.

As far back as I can remember, overbearing parents, teachers, and family friends have been throwing around phrases like “good college and “pursuing your future” with alarming frequency. Not surprisingly, I became obsessed with getting into one of these “good colleges.” So, here I am, standing in the middle of Logan International in Boston, ready to catch a taxi to the Yale campus, feeling alone, scared, and stupid for ever having come. I grew up in a little Montana town, far away from anything that might claim to be civilization. I grew to love that place for all its flat farmland and good country folk. It made me who I am, but it did not make me savvy. How many times had I smilingly confessed to friends that I was “a little nervous to go to the East Coast” without ever really feeling that pit that now is now firmly lodged in the bottom of my stomach?

A woman dressed in a smart black suit pushes by, not stopping to apologize when she nocks my suitcase over. I am struck by how pathetic I must look standing here, so I find my bearings and head toward the nearest exit. It’s cold outside; I miss the hot Montana summer already. Once on the cold gray sidewalk, I realize that I don’t even know how to hail a cab. I’ll never survive here. Everyone has this self-assured way about them and I’m sure it’s obvious to them that I’m no more than just a misdirected hick.

I can’t just keep staring wistfully at these taxis, so I copy the older couple on my right and raise my arm. I am delighted when a long, shiny yellow cab pulls over and its driver asks me my destination. “Yaee-el?” I squeak. He smiles knowingly at me as he helps me get my bags into the car.

“So you’re a first-timer here, huh?”

A rush of emotions come to me as we pull away from the curb and I am embarrassed as my eyes well up with tears. I cry for my family, my friends, my home. I cry of this chilly city and its aloof inhabitants. I cry for the loss of my childhood and I cry for the adult I have not yet become. I taste salty tears fall on my dry lips while the cab driver watches helplessly.

“I’m so sorry,” I manage to tell him through tears. I wish there was something more I could say: something brave or something smart, but instead all I can do is watch through blurry eyes as my new life passes by the taxi windows. IN the distance, I can see the college drawing near. Some shred of hope enters my heart as we drive through the scenery that I have spent to many hours lusting after in Yale’s glossy brochures.

When he pulls over to le me out, the driver breaks our silence to say, “You’ll be alright, hon.” And somehow I know he’s right.

The Winds of Valhalla - by Christian Carter

The minute I stepped off the plane I realized what I had gotten myself into. It was the plane of thought that I could not see past. It was the plane of thought that had gotten in the way of true judgment. It was after stepping off the plane that I realized my folly….

Idly I watched a man bind a wound with white cloth. Around me the chatter of the sea created a back drop for my mind. The ship ran before a gay breeze, sails and stray lines snapped in the wind. My mind went over it. What had happened? The setting sun drew my attention. I knew we were headed west, homeward. What had happened? I visualized the day, replayed it over and over. My mind slipped into the past….

***

With a groan the timbers of the warship ran aground in the Irish coastline. Towering lime cliffs reached high over the proud Norse people as they flowed like a heathen plague from their sleek vessels. I heard a cry issue from my lips unbidden. It was a call to Valhalla that I might feast with him in his hall of gold and glory this night. Rough men of the north leapt from their boats into the cold water while in their hands they carried the tools of war, harsh swords graven with pagan images, round shields, and helmets bearing the horns of bulls. Sword in hand, I vaulted from the bow to land on the beach, my knees bent to absorb the impact of the fall. I rose from the crouch sprinting ahead of my Norse companions, my feet churned sand as I hastened for the lone monastery that stood on a rocky spur of land.

***

“To see the Pagan men of the north charge towards us with the cries of their Heathen Gods on their breath, I will never forget. My heart spun in fear. The brothers of the Chapel hurriedly hid me hoping that the cruel men of Iceland would not find me. I met only him and not but a sentence passed between us but never will my heart fly with such a passion. He had eyes of the sea with the hair of braided gold. That is the man I love”
-Lady of the Isle-

***

My sword crashed down once, twice, thice. The lock fell away to the stone floor with a clatter. I kicked the door open as my eyes adjusted to the light. In the room stood not the treasure I had anticipated. Alone in the room stood one figure. A woman framed in the light of a window. Dark hair outlined a proud face, a desperate face, a frightened face. She was beautiful beyond the lot of mortals. She was perfect, she was innocent, yet the courage of the gods stood with her. I knew that which was found on a raid was the property of the finder. Triumphantly, my mind screamed to me, she is yours, but my heart also spoke, telling me she could not belong to anyone.

A cry in the hall brought me back to the reality.

“I am the Lady of the Isle and you shalt make no captive of me” spoke the woman.

I knew the crew of the ship would break her. The choice was mine; hide her or claim her. I stepped off the plane. It was, after all, the plane of thought that had clouded my mind.

I watched the Monastery recede into the distance. Within it somewhere was the dark-haired beauty I would love until fire consumed the earth.

The Class of Double O Eight - Kelsey Kennedy

The minute I stepped off the plane, I realized what I had gotten myself into. It all came rushing back, those tumbling emotions and feelings rolling around like helpless clothes in a dryer.

I’m sure they were all leading their perfect lives, these dragons. I could still remember those first few years after high school, those years when I crashed to the bottom in every possible way. I was consumed in “the medicines of evil.” When these toxic drugs wore off I could no longer hide from my piercing pain. After nearly two years of rehabilitation, I was finally headed in the right direction. During the day my mind was full of new energy and thoughts, but during those long nights memories haunted me like ghosts of the past. I realized I had to return to this ugly past I had avoided for so long. I had to finally face my former classmates, the fire-breathing dragons blocking me from real existence.

It was a two hour drive to Greenville from the airport. I had made the drive to my hometown many times before, to visit my parents. At the weathered “Welcome to Greenville” sign I pulled out directions to Carla Michael’s house where the class reunion would be held. It was a friendly house with a colorful banner out front that said “Welcome Class of 2008!” Slowly I walked up the neat path to Carla’s front door. As I rang the bell, my hand trembled. Carla’s form appeared at the glass door. Her brow furrowed as she tried to place me. “Hi!” she finally said, trying to recover herself.

“Yes, it’s me,” I said, making it difficult for her.

“How have you been?” she asked, pretending she remembered me perfectly.

“Uh…fine.” There was an awkward silence.

“Well, snacks and refreshments are laid out in the kitchen and everyone is either in the living room or out in the backyard…so suit yourself.” She smiled a fake hostess smile, and hurried away to the next guest.

Maybe if I had introduced myself as “Raggedy Ann” she would have remembered my worn overalls, red hair and freckles from years before. Maybe she would remember throwing insults at me until I burst into hot tears that burned my cheeks. No, it was much safer this way. With my identity unknown, Carla wouldn’t need to feel any guilt or try to make amends that couldn’t begin to ever mean anything.

As I hesitantly walked into the living room I expected cruel words to immediately fly from these people but they didn’t even notice me sit down. I was sure they were all reminiscing old times and bragging about their good fortunes.

As I sat quietly and listened, not all the conversations were filled with joy. Vicki, a girl who had teased me about my red hair, now had none herself. She had lost it all through cancer treatment and it was unlikely she would ever be able to run her slender fingers through her silky dark curls again. There was also Chris who had held those “cool parties” everyone died to get an invitation to, where alcohol flowed with ease. One night a couple of years ago, he got drunk at a bar and returned home beating his two children in a fit of delirious rage. It was doubtful he would ever lay eyes on their precious angel-like faces again. Even Christine, who had been voted “most likely to succeed,” had her failures. Her dreams to be writer had been crushed again and again by harsh editors and publishers. As I heard these sad tales I began to see these classmates as humans, not dragons, with hearts and souls that could be crushed as easily as my own. These people had experienced ups and downs, successes and failures during the past ten years just as I had. Perhaps this bittersweet taste of life, gulping down the good and the bad, makes us stronger warriors through life.

I had wanted to confront these villains. I had wanted to make them pay for their harsh treatment and make them grovel for my forgiveness. Now, that seemed unnecessary. I felt peace within myself to know that they had suffered their own living hell. Those rushing currents of anger, sadness and hurt slowly subsided, calming into a sea of serenity.

I rose without saying a single word. I didn’t need to. As I turned to leave, and put my past to rest, Carla called out to me, “Leaving so soon?”

“Yeah,” I said, “I thought I should probably hit the road.”

“Okay, well, I hope you had a good time.” She paused for a minute and said finally, “You know, you look so familiar, but I’m really bad with names.”

“Annie, Annie Himes,” I replied.

I could see some recognition dawn on her face. “Annie Himes…” she repeated. “It’s amazing how people change over the years. I never would have remembered you. Something’s different about you…you seem so content. Has life been treating you well?”

I smiled. “It’s beginning to.”

8 Days in Paradise - by Kate Hunter

The minute I stepped off the plane, I realized what I had gotten myself into. There, in front of me, stood a life form neither man nor woman, but in between. Its skin was the color of ash, its lips blood red. The hair on its large head was seaweed green. Every instinct I possessed demanded that I retreat to the relative safely of my 2807Z interplanetary jet, but I managed to stand my ground with only the slightest tremor in my being. My scientific team, however, were not so disciplined. As they raced for the jet, I shouted, “Stay where you are! We are seven and its only one!” You cannot imagine how wrong I was. At that moment thousands of them came into view.

I woke up in a crowd, but the heat and crush made me pass out again almost immediately. Suddenly I was with my husband and son at home in the south of Spain. Then the vision was gone and I mourned the loss of a beautiful memory as a much less likable one replaced it: the day I left to find new worlds. I had not wanted to abandon my family or my world, but since I was the leading expert on space travel, I was chosen, and I knew of the importance of the mission. When it was time to board the jet, I knew I had to retain my composure or my crew would never respect me. I was OK until my son yelled, “Bring me back an alien, Mom!”

My memories and sorrow faded and were replaced by wonder as I woke to find myself in a beautiful forest with what seemed to be people and animals all around. Children laughed; dogs barked leaves rustled.

These sounds were not unlike ones in our world, but different somehow, richer and fuller.

I suddenly remembered this was a scientific expedition. So why was I just laying there? I started to sit up, but found that my head was throbbing. Someone laughed and said, “Rest, you took an awful blow to the head before we realized you were no threat.”

“Where is my team?” I mumbled.

“They’re all right. If you will let me assist you, you can see for yourself.”

This time I took it more slowly and, with a strong, firm hand at my back, I made it. On a knoll nearby sat my crew eating some kind of fruit that smelled of lavender. All around us were the same creatures, but I realized neither I nor my team were afraid. Some young ones where running and playing much as children in our world. Just then, the children noticed me and I was surrounded by smiling faces. Someone was saying, “Now, now, don’t crowd our guest. Give her some room to breathe.”

The next eight days were bliss. I was learning about this marvelous people. They had been a war-like race, but two hundred years before, a small group decided they would prefer a quieter life. Knowing they could never achieve this on their planet, they set out to find a new one.

My own existence here was almost complete, but without my family, I could never be satisfied. I had to go back, but I resolved to return.

I would always wonder what happened to my friends. When I finally did return there was no trace of their existence. Had it all been a dream or had they gone back to their war-like ways? I don’t think so somehow, but what then?