My hand is covered in a thick wet soggy washcloth and it’s red and raw beneath. I knew the cherry red burner was hot, but I touched it anyway. I jumped back at the white hot f lash of pain that came next and can’t remember if I cried or not .
I shouldn’t test the burner where bacon sizzles, swells and pops. Mother puts brown sugar on the bacon’s edges as it curls up in salty smelling grease. I love the rich caramelized scent as the brown sugar bubbles and fizzes. I also like to test the tall soft cushioned bar stools I can spin on in endless circles. I like to lean back on the seat as far as possible, while keeping my hands on the counter.
There is a warm, pink-orange light from the evening sun, above the light brown tweed sofa I don’t like to sit in because it’s itchy, rough and scratchy. The doorway to my bedroom is a dark shadow. My room has two small windows in it and in my dreams velvet stuffed animals, like on Sesame Street, pop up and stare at me through the window’s eye-like slits. The creatures have vacant black eyes and gaping mouths with bright red tongues.
Sometimes in my dreams I’m up high on a black webbed cargo net on a murky gray day. It’s one of those days where the thick musty smell of dark clouds full of rain makes me so nauseous I puke. I can see a lady far, far, off leaving a store with a shopping cart. Then a scary thumping sound comes that vibrates the air and I look back to where she was and she’s gone.
My best friend Chris left yesterday. He tips his head of curly black hair to the side when he talks out of the corner of his mouth, like Popeye. He does that because the corner of his mouth was singed together when he bit down on a fish tank’s long black electrical cord. I lean my head to the side when I talk, so I can be like him.
Today I played with the kids down the street. Our shoes squeaked and skidded on someone’s driveway as we punched, kicked, and fought over a tiny orange plastic ball. I walked home triumphant, shoes in hand, barefoot, skipping each crack with dry summer weeds. I hit a crack hard with my toe and it caused a bright stinging pain. The skin moved aside and a sore red smile showed up and then I put on a sock with a dirty brown toe to cover it up.
After that I took cold rusty scissors and used them to snip a green stem that cried thick sappy tears after it was cut. I smelled the busy looking curl of a Red Silk Rose and it smelled like baby powder and the vanilla powdered sugar mother uses to frost cakes. The rose is for the lady with dark blonde hair with curls at the end that wisp up making her face look soft and pretty. The man who is always with her has a beard of dark brown needles and large serious dark golden-green hazel eyes that I would not want to make angry.
They have been taking me to a fun place called McDonald’s to get small mushy burgers and steaming hot fries loaded with crystal flecks of salt. My social worker Joyce says it’s okay I go with them when they come to get me.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
A FAREWELL TO PAWS
You’re on vacation in sunny tropical Key West, Florida, walking beneath the cool shade of a Weeping Fig tree. Beneath the tree, you see a cat on a cement park bench and it’s cleaning one of its paws. You take a closer look and to your amazement, you notice the paw it’s licking has a thumb just like a person! Guess what - you just saw your very first Hemingway cat.
Hemingway cats are named after the famous American novelist, short-story writer, and journalist Ernest ‘Papa’ Hemingway who lived from 1899-1961. Papa Hemingway was a fearless war correspondent during World War I, the Spanish Civil War and World War II’s Battle of the Bulge. He used his real life experiences in his novels, sometimes greatly exaggerating the events that happened to him, which made for great stories told both verbal and written.
In Hemingway’s teenage years he had a great enthusiasm for baseball, boxing and books and his friends enjoyed his wit and humor. As an adult, the force of his personality was such that it heightened the impact of his physical presence. Darkly handsome, broad-shouldered and muscular, he always impressed people as being taller than he really was. Actually 5 ft, 11 inches, he often was described as being a “huge man, over six feet tall.”
Papa Hemingway admired the spirit and independence of cats and believed that, “A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.” Hemingway liked cats, because they were not disruptive when he was trying to write. He surrounded himself with them all his life and sought their comfort during times of loneliness and stress. Cats appear in many of his writings; particularly in A moveable Feast, Islands in the Stream, the Garden of Eden, and True at First Light.
From 1931-1940, Papa Hemingway lived in a house made of limestone in Key West, Florida given to him by his wife Pauline’s Uncle Gus. It was here he received his first cat with thumbs—a six-toed polydactyl tomcat (the term polydactyl is Latin for ‘many digits’) named ‘Snowball.’ Snowball belonged to Papa’s friend Stanley Dexter, a sea captain from Massachusetts. The captain had the tomcat on his ship, because polydactyl cats are excellent mousers and were considered good luck at sea. Upon his departure from Key West, the captain presented Snowball to Hemingway as a gift.
Today the descendents of the first Hemingway cat, Snowball, still possess the unusual six toes. Normal cats have five toes on each front paw and four toes on each hind paw. Hemingway cats may have as many as seven toes on each front paw and six toes on each hind paw. and it is rare for a cat to have polydactyl hind paws only. These front toes look like mittens so polydactyl cats are often called ‘mitten cats’. Some polydactyl kittens have difficulty learning to walk, however when they get older, cats with six toes can perform tricks a five-toed cat cannot. Some of these tricks include opening latches, catching objects with a single paw like catcher with a mitt, and picking up food to bring to its mouth. Some polydactyl cats can even pick up a pencil!
Hemingway once wrote, “One cat just leads to another…it doesn’t really seem as though there were many cats until you see them all moving like a mass migration at feeding time…” He was speaking of his eleven cats at his villa ‘Finca Vigia’, in ‘San Francisco de Paula’, which is a suburb of Havana, Cuba. Papa Hemingway lived in this spacious Spanish Colonial house for twenty-one years, from 1940-1961. During this time the number of cats swelled to a staggering fifty-seven.
Papa Hemingway named each cat he owned and had a personal relationship with each one. He gave them fanciful names like Howard, Hughes, Katherine Hepburn, and Spencer Tracy, who were movie stars of those days. He even named some of them after characters in his own books.
However, contrary to popular belief, Hemingway did not own a large number of cats at his house in Key West. He only owned two, but all of the polydactyl cats on the island of Key West today are descendents of these first two Hemingway cats .
Today, Hemingway’s habit of giving his cats fanciful names has become tradition in Key West. The polydactyl cats are named after movie stars, legendary writers, presidents, and even after some of Florida’s hurricanes. Currently, cats called Ivan and Frances, Emily Dickinson, Audrey Hepburn, and Harry Truman roam the grounds with their thumbed feet at the Ernest Hemingway Home and Museum in Key West, and these entitled felines are protected by the terms of his will. You will never be far from seeing a cat as there are now forty-six.
Upon Papa’s death in 1961, a local Key West businesswoman named Mrs. Bernice Dickson purchased the Hemingway house. She lived in it until she opened it as a museum in 1964, when she moved into the carriage house in back of the main house. The home was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1968 and the Ernest Hemingway Museum and Home today is the property of Mrs. Dickson’s family.
At the Ernest Hemingway Museum and Home all of the ‘mitten cats’ live a life of luxury. Many of the home’s visitors say they would like to come back as a cat and live there. This is because all Hemingway cats do is get up in the morning, eat, and take a nap, eat some more and then take another nap. The cats do nothing, the same way Papa Hemingway saw it and liked it at his house in Cuba, with fifty-seven cats running around his property. Every corner you take at his House and Museum you’ll find a couple of cats either snoozing or eating, or lapping up some water out of a special cat fountain that was once a bathroom’s urinal. Do you think you could live with fifty-seven cats?
Hemingway cats are named after the famous American novelist, short-story writer, and journalist Ernest ‘Papa’ Hemingway who lived from 1899-1961. Papa Hemingway was a fearless war correspondent during World War I, the Spanish Civil War and World War II’s Battle of the Bulge. He used his real life experiences in his novels, sometimes greatly exaggerating the events that happened to him, which made for great stories told both verbal and written.
In Hemingway’s teenage years he had a great enthusiasm for baseball, boxing and books and his friends enjoyed his wit and humor. As an adult, the force of his personality was such that it heightened the impact of his physical presence. Darkly handsome, broad-shouldered and muscular, he always impressed people as being taller than he really was. Actually 5 ft, 11 inches, he often was described as being a “huge man, over six feet tall.”
Papa Hemingway admired the spirit and independence of cats and believed that, “A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not.” Hemingway liked cats, because they were not disruptive when he was trying to write. He surrounded himself with them all his life and sought their comfort during times of loneliness and stress. Cats appear in many of his writings; particularly in A moveable Feast, Islands in the Stream, the Garden of Eden, and True at First Light.
From 1931-1940, Papa Hemingway lived in a house made of limestone in Key West, Florida given to him by his wife Pauline’s Uncle Gus. It was here he received his first cat with thumbs—a six-toed polydactyl tomcat (the term polydactyl is Latin for ‘many digits’) named ‘Snowball.’ Snowball belonged to Papa’s friend Stanley Dexter, a sea captain from Massachusetts. The captain had the tomcat on his ship, because polydactyl cats are excellent mousers and were considered good luck at sea. Upon his departure from Key West, the captain presented Snowball to Hemingway as a gift.
Today the descendents of the first Hemingway cat, Snowball, still possess the unusual six toes. Normal cats have five toes on each front paw and four toes on each hind paw. Hemingway cats may have as many as seven toes on each front paw and six toes on each hind paw. and it is rare for a cat to have polydactyl hind paws only. These front toes look like mittens so polydactyl cats are often called ‘mitten cats’. Some polydactyl kittens have difficulty learning to walk, however when they get older, cats with six toes can perform tricks a five-toed cat cannot. Some of these tricks include opening latches, catching objects with a single paw like catcher with a mitt, and picking up food to bring to its mouth. Some polydactyl cats can even pick up a pencil!
Hemingway once wrote, “One cat just leads to another…it doesn’t really seem as though there were many cats until you see them all moving like a mass migration at feeding time…” He was speaking of his eleven cats at his villa ‘Finca Vigia’, in ‘San Francisco de Paula’, which is a suburb of Havana, Cuba. Papa Hemingway lived in this spacious Spanish Colonial house for twenty-one years, from 1940-1961. During this time the number of cats swelled to a staggering fifty-seven.
Papa Hemingway named each cat he owned and had a personal relationship with each one. He gave them fanciful names like Howard, Hughes, Katherine Hepburn, and Spencer Tracy, who were movie stars of those days. He even named some of them after characters in his own books.
However, contrary to popular belief, Hemingway did not own a large number of cats at his house in Key West. He only owned two, but all of the polydactyl cats on the island of Key West today are descendents of these first two Hemingway cats .
Today, Hemingway’s habit of giving his cats fanciful names has become tradition in Key West. The polydactyl cats are named after movie stars, legendary writers, presidents, and even after some of Florida’s hurricanes. Currently, cats called Ivan and Frances, Emily Dickinson, Audrey Hepburn, and Harry Truman roam the grounds with their thumbed feet at the Ernest Hemingway Home and Museum in Key West, and these entitled felines are protected by the terms of his will. You will never be far from seeing a cat as there are now forty-six.
Upon Papa’s death in 1961, a local Key West businesswoman named Mrs. Bernice Dickson purchased the Hemingway house. She lived in it until she opened it as a museum in 1964, when she moved into the carriage house in back of the main house. The home was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1968 and the Ernest Hemingway Museum and Home today is the property of Mrs. Dickson’s family.
At the Ernest Hemingway Museum and Home all of the ‘mitten cats’ live a life of luxury. Many of the home’s visitors say they would like to come back as a cat and live there. This is because all Hemingway cats do is get up in the morning, eat, and take a nap, eat some more and then take another nap. The cats do nothing, the same way Papa Hemingway saw it and liked it at his house in Cuba, with fifty-seven cats running around his property. Every corner you take at his House and Museum you’ll find a couple of cats either snoozing or eating, or lapping up some water out of a special cat fountain that was once a bathroom’s urinal. Do you think you could live with fifty-seven cats?
Monday, November 30, 2009
Butterball
Emily snapped awake at an alarming sound—“Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!” She grabbed her pink Hello Kitty blanket and threw it off. “Butterball!” she yelled and then she clasped a tiny hand over her mouth. She didn’t want to wake her parents. The old box springs of her bed creaked as she swung her legs over to the floor. Her bare feet padded along the cold, dirt covered linoleum in the kitchen. She quickly reached the laundry room’s familiar smell of dusty, dirty, laundry lint. She heard an eerie, mournful sound that stopped her in her tracks.
"Hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo."
She answered the call. “Who, who, who?” She opened up the laundry room’s back door. The night air was crisp, illuminating every star available with a crisp clarity. She thought about the dangers of the dark; how her parents were always telling her not to talk to strangers. Dog in trouble or not it would be better to go. With a hand still on the cold brass doorknob she headed back inside.
“No!” said something outside in the darkness. “It's, Hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo!”
“Who, who, who?” She said nervously, making sure to not let go of the doorknob in case she had to quickly shut the door behind her.
“No, child, don’t go anywhere, I want to talk to you!” The owl followed his statement with another "Hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo." Suddenly a dark shape thumped on the wet grass in front of her. It leaped ungracefully to a top of a patio chair and teetered there. “Well, I won’t be attacking your dog tonight; I seem to have hurt my wing very badly.” He wrapped his razor sharp talons around the back of the chair to keep from falling off.
Emily giggled with delight and said the first thing that came to mind. “Oh! You’re a bird!” And then she put on her serious face. “What do you mean attack my dog? Where’s Butterball?”
The owl puffed out his chest “I beg your pardon. I am not just a bird. I am a Great Horned Owl.” The owl turned his head slightly and stared into the distance with his large yellow-orange eyes, while whistling a guilty tune. He cast the little girl a cautious glance.
She frowned, while taking a step forward and pointed at him. “You look guilty like you did something.” She looked hard into the night at all visible areas. She looked under the backyard trampoline and at the old, wooden shed, leaning over, with wet pine straw on top, with its fragile roof about to cave in. “Where’s butterball?” she said again.
“I didn’t do anything,” said the owl hastily.
“Butterball? Where are you?” she said and her voice trailed off into the night. At the sound of his name the little dog yipped again. “I can’t see you! Where are you?” She sighed and addressed the owl. “You know where he is and you’re just not telling me!” She wrapped her arms around herself and turned back inside. She grabbed the large handle of the outdoor freezer, located in the laundry room and yanked its door open; the cold breath of the freezer hit her in the face and she grabbed an item in a white wrapper. Plastic crinkled as she timidly uncovered the chocolate covered vanilla bar on a stick.
“What’s a Butterball?” said the large owl. He shook his one wing that did work, but winced in pain as he tried to move the other.
“You know where he is?” She said frustrated, cracking off a piece of rich dark chocolate with the side of her teeth. The cool of it washed though her mouth with its intense creamy, chocolaty flavor and she took another bite.
“Do you care about your dog?” asked the owl. The cold metal of the patio chair was beginning to hurt the center of his feet and he shifted around to get more comfortable.
“Of course I care about my dog!” She was careful not to use the word ‘Butterball’, because she didn’t want to make him yip with distress again. Solid rings of brown from the ice cream bar surrounded her mouth now and she licked at it.
“I think you missed some,” said the Owl, shaking his head. There was a long silence and then...“I swooped down from an Oak and dive-bombed your dog Butterball. He ran into his doghouse. I lost control and accidentally pushed the opening of his doghouse against the fence. The grass is wet and it slid and now he’s stuck in the doghouse. I see you mistreating him all the time.”
Emily stared at the ground and thought very hard. “I don’t know what mistreat means!” and she stomped her feet, near tears and threw down the leftovers of her ice cream. “I’m going to go get my dog!”
She stepped a cautious foot down a cold stone step. It was a scary step because she knew it was cracked with many holes in it and very large rats came in and out at night.
“Wait a second!” said the Owl quickly.
Emily looked down and hopped back up a step. “Did you just see a rat?”
“A rat? No. If I saw a rat I wouldn’t be perched up here right now. Mistreat means your dog is going to die, because you do not appear to love it. You do not feed it and you do not bring it in from the cold during the winter and you do not bring him inside at night to protect him from dangerous animals like me.”
Emily crossed her arms again. “You said your wing hurts very badly. How about, you promise not attack my dog and I will promise to call the animal doctor to get your wing fixed.
“Look, said the owl,” and his eyes glistened, large, yellow and beautiful. “How about you stop mistreating your dog. Meaning that you will feed it and bring it in from the cold during the winter and you will bring him inside at night to protect him from dangerous animals like me. I only go after pets no one seems to care about.”
“Okay,” said little Emily. She stood back on one foot looking at him curiously. “I like those horn thingy’s on your head,” and she pointed at the top of her own head, “they look neat.”
“Thank you,” said the Owl. “After you free your dog can you still call the animal doctor?”
Emily put a fist in front of her mouth and let out a big yawn. “When I wake up in the morning, I will call.”
“Sounds good to me,” said the Owl.
Emily walked across the cold grass to the doghouse. “Mr. Butterball. You get to sleep with me tonight okay?”
"Hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo."
She answered the call. “Who, who, who?” She opened up the laundry room’s back door. The night air was crisp, illuminating every star available with a crisp clarity. She thought about the dangers of the dark; how her parents were always telling her not to talk to strangers. Dog in trouble or not it would be better to go. With a hand still on the cold brass doorknob she headed back inside.
“No!” said something outside in the darkness. “It's, Hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo!”
“Who, who, who?” She said nervously, making sure to not let go of the doorknob in case she had to quickly shut the door behind her.
“No, child, don’t go anywhere, I want to talk to you!” The owl followed his statement with another "Hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo." Suddenly a dark shape thumped on the wet grass in front of her. It leaped ungracefully to a top of a patio chair and teetered there. “Well, I won’t be attacking your dog tonight; I seem to have hurt my wing very badly.” He wrapped his razor sharp talons around the back of the chair to keep from falling off.
Emily giggled with delight and said the first thing that came to mind. “Oh! You’re a bird!” And then she put on her serious face. “What do you mean attack my dog? Where’s Butterball?”
The owl puffed out his chest “I beg your pardon. I am not just a bird. I am a Great Horned Owl.” The owl turned his head slightly and stared into the distance with his large yellow-orange eyes, while whistling a guilty tune. He cast the little girl a cautious glance.
She frowned, while taking a step forward and pointed at him. “You look guilty like you did something.” She looked hard into the night at all visible areas. She looked under the backyard trampoline and at the old, wooden shed, leaning over, with wet pine straw on top, with its fragile roof about to cave in. “Where’s butterball?” she said again.
“I didn’t do anything,” said the owl hastily.
“Butterball? Where are you?” she said and her voice trailed off into the night. At the sound of his name the little dog yipped again. “I can’t see you! Where are you?” She sighed and addressed the owl. “You know where he is and you’re just not telling me!” She wrapped her arms around herself and turned back inside. She grabbed the large handle of the outdoor freezer, located in the laundry room and yanked its door open; the cold breath of the freezer hit her in the face and she grabbed an item in a white wrapper. Plastic crinkled as she timidly uncovered the chocolate covered vanilla bar on a stick.
“What’s a Butterball?” said the large owl. He shook his one wing that did work, but winced in pain as he tried to move the other.
“You know where he is?” She said frustrated, cracking off a piece of rich dark chocolate with the side of her teeth. The cool of it washed though her mouth with its intense creamy, chocolaty flavor and she took another bite.
“Do you care about your dog?” asked the owl. The cold metal of the patio chair was beginning to hurt the center of his feet and he shifted around to get more comfortable.
“Of course I care about my dog!” She was careful not to use the word ‘Butterball’, because she didn’t want to make him yip with distress again. Solid rings of brown from the ice cream bar surrounded her mouth now and she licked at it.
“I think you missed some,” said the Owl, shaking his head. There was a long silence and then...“I swooped down from an Oak and dive-bombed your dog Butterball. He ran into his doghouse. I lost control and accidentally pushed the opening of his doghouse against the fence. The grass is wet and it slid and now he’s stuck in the doghouse. I see you mistreating him all the time.”
Emily stared at the ground and thought very hard. “I don’t know what mistreat means!” and she stomped her feet, near tears and threw down the leftovers of her ice cream. “I’m going to go get my dog!”
She stepped a cautious foot down a cold stone step. It was a scary step because she knew it was cracked with many holes in it and very large rats came in and out at night.
“Wait a second!” said the Owl quickly.
Emily looked down and hopped back up a step. “Did you just see a rat?”
“A rat? No. If I saw a rat I wouldn’t be perched up here right now. Mistreat means your dog is going to die, because you do not appear to love it. You do not feed it and you do not bring it in from the cold during the winter and you do not bring him inside at night to protect him from dangerous animals like me.”
Emily crossed her arms again. “You said your wing hurts very badly. How about, you promise not attack my dog and I will promise to call the animal doctor to get your wing fixed.
“Look, said the owl,” and his eyes glistened, large, yellow and beautiful. “How about you stop mistreating your dog. Meaning that you will feed it and bring it in from the cold during the winter and you will bring him inside at night to protect him from dangerous animals like me. I only go after pets no one seems to care about.”
“Okay,” said little Emily. She stood back on one foot looking at him curiously. “I like those horn thingy’s on your head,” and she pointed at the top of her own head, “they look neat.”
“Thank you,” said the Owl. “After you free your dog can you still call the animal doctor?”
Emily put a fist in front of her mouth and let out a big yawn. “When I wake up in the morning, I will call.”
“Sounds good to me,” said the Owl.
Emily walked across the cold grass to the doghouse. “Mr. Butterball. You get to sleep with me tonight okay?”
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Zombie Dinner
ZOMBIE DINNER
Britney was sitting up in bed watching iCarly.
Her bedroom door opened. “It’s time to turn off the T.V. and go to sleep,” said her Grandmother. You have a big, long day of school tomorrow.”
“Yes, Memaw,” said Britney. She lay down on her squeaky bed and pulled her purple and pink princess’s blanket up to her chin. She thought about her mother who had died in a bad car accident last Halloween, exactly one year ago. She wiped a small tear from her eye and waited for a little bit. She lifted up her bedroom window by its cold glass and climbed out.
She could see the steam of her breath in the chilly dark night. Britney was wearing her pink Hello Kitty pajamas and a fuzzy blue sweatshirt. She crossed her arms and shivered. The roses in her grandmothers’ garden were red and swirly looking in the white moonlight. She pulled a tiny pair of shiny silver scissors out of her sweatshirt pocket and clipped a Rose. As she held it between her fingers a thorn stuck her thumb. “Ouch!” said Britney. I poked my finger!” She sucked on her finger for a second wincing in pain. The blood tasted nasty.
She walked down a dirt road, through a dark tunnel of moss covered trees. A church steeple came in to view. She reached out and touched the rusted, black gates guarding her mother.
Britney found her mother’s headstone. As she knelt down on the grave the rose fell from her hand. She carefully picked the flower back up but some of the petals fell softly to the ground. “Oh no! I hurt my rose! I should make it better!” She shut her eyes hard until they hurt. “I can make a spell like Alex on my favorite show ‘Wizards’.” She quickly made something up. “This thing on the ground, so harmed and hurt, come back to life, so I can…” She thought hard, but couldn’t finish the spell.
Britney heard a sound like roots being pulled. She looked next to her mother’s grave. Something very long like a big, dirt anthill rose slowly out of the ground. The dirt moved aside and there was a sound like an old wooden door slowly creaking open. She gagged and coughed at a smell like old spaghetti and then held her nose. A zombie sat up in a rectangle box and he brought both of his arms up. He turned his head towards her and let out a long moan, “ahhhhhh”
Britney could see where his eyes and nose should be but they were just empty black sockets. He had no lips and he had a wide toothy grin; many scars covered his dry looking gray skin. “What did you do to your finger?” He said in deep gravelly voice. “I can smell the blood on it and it smells very good.”
“How can you smell with no nose? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I bothered you sir. I’m going to go now okay?” Britney said to the scary looking zombie. He moved a little and some of his white hair fell out. Britney got up and ran like the wind.
“Come back! I’ve been asleep for years and I’m very hungry,” said the zombie. He climbed out of the coffin and walked with a bad limp, dragging his foot sideways.
“Oh no!” She yelled back at him. “Please go away! I didn’t mean to wake you!” Britney stopped, closed her pretty light blue eyes and turned around. She wanted to help the man, but she was so scared.
Britney said the first thing that came to mind. “You want to come over to Memaw’s? We can heat up some fried chicken from last night?”
“Memaw’s? Who’s Memaw?” asked the old man while making a scraping sound on his chin with his bony fingers while thinking. He slowly kept walking towards her, dragging his back foot.
“That’s my Grandmothers,” said Britney while backing up, trying to keep a good distance.
*
The old man sat at Memaw’s shiny, round wooden table in the kitchen. “It smells like Spicy Cinnamon and warm baked Apples in here,” said the zombie.
“That’s freshly baked Dutch Apple Pie that my Memaw made last night,” said Britney. She tucked her hair behind one ear and opened up the oven, while looking cautiously back over her shoulder.
He put his delicate bony elbows up on the table. “That fried chicken sure does smell good. Looky here, why don’t we pop you in to the oven instead? I’m sure you’d be tasty to.”
Britney quickly spun around putting one hand on her waist. She scowled at the zombie with her radiant blue eyes, while pointing her finger. “Now see, I don’t want you saying anything like that. You be nice.” Britney opened up the oven again and turned sideways, so she could watch him, while getting the chicken out.
“I was only kidding,” said the zombie. He picked up a big fat greasy piece of chicken out of a pool of grease and bit in to it. The meat hung from his teeth. He put the juicy leg down and helped the rest of it back in to his mouth with the tips of his fingers. “It’s kind of hard to eat without lips and a tongue.” He finished the leg and then looked up at her. “Now what?
Britney shrugged her shoulders. “Go home I guess.”
“Can I take the rest of the chicken back to my grave?” He said, grabbing the bowl of fried chicken.
“Sure.” Britney rose up her arms and stretched and yawned. “I’m so sleepy. I need to go back to bed. I guess I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed in the first place.”
“The grave or I mean bed, is the safest place to be. I would recommend staying put. I know I am going to.” The zombie got up to leave, carrying his yummy fried chicken.
“Hey wait!” said Britney. She brought out her hand for a second and then brought it back. His hands looked to scary to shake. “Can you give my mother a hug?”
“Sure, I’ll see what I can do,” said the zombie. He turned around. “If you see me again, you don’t have to be afraid. I would smile at you if I could. I just don’t have any lips to do it with.”
Britney smiled at him, waved goodbye and then shut the front door.
Britney was sitting up in bed watching iCarly.
Her bedroom door opened. “It’s time to turn off the T.V. and go to sleep,” said her Grandmother. You have a big, long day of school tomorrow.”
“Yes, Memaw,” said Britney. She lay down on her squeaky bed and pulled her purple and pink princess’s blanket up to her chin. She thought about her mother who had died in a bad car accident last Halloween, exactly one year ago. She wiped a small tear from her eye and waited for a little bit. She lifted up her bedroom window by its cold glass and climbed out.
She could see the steam of her breath in the chilly dark night. Britney was wearing her pink Hello Kitty pajamas and a fuzzy blue sweatshirt. She crossed her arms and shivered. The roses in her grandmothers’ garden were red and swirly looking in the white moonlight. She pulled a tiny pair of shiny silver scissors out of her sweatshirt pocket and clipped a Rose. As she held it between her fingers a thorn stuck her thumb. “Ouch!” said Britney. I poked my finger!” She sucked on her finger for a second wincing in pain. The blood tasted nasty.
She walked down a dirt road, through a dark tunnel of moss covered trees. A church steeple came in to view. She reached out and touched the rusted, black gates guarding her mother.
Britney found her mother’s headstone. As she knelt down on the grave the rose fell from her hand. She carefully picked the flower back up but some of the petals fell softly to the ground. “Oh no! I hurt my rose! I should make it better!” She shut her eyes hard until they hurt. “I can make a spell like Alex on my favorite show ‘Wizards’.” She quickly made something up. “This thing on the ground, so harmed and hurt, come back to life, so I can…” She thought hard, but couldn’t finish the spell.
Britney heard a sound like roots being pulled. She looked next to her mother’s grave. Something very long like a big, dirt anthill rose slowly out of the ground. The dirt moved aside and there was a sound like an old wooden door slowly creaking open. She gagged and coughed at a smell like old spaghetti and then held her nose. A zombie sat up in a rectangle box and he brought both of his arms up. He turned his head towards her and let out a long moan, “ahhhhhh”
Britney could see where his eyes and nose should be but they were just empty black sockets. He had no lips and he had a wide toothy grin; many scars covered his dry looking gray skin. “What did you do to your finger?” He said in deep gravelly voice. “I can smell the blood on it and it smells very good.”
“How can you smell with no nose? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I bothered you sir. I’m going to go now okay?” Britney said to the scary looking zombie. He moved a little and some of his white hair fell out. Britney got up and ran like the wind.
“Come back! I’ve been asleep for years and I’m very hungry,” said the zombie. He climbed out of the coffin and walked with a bad limp, dragging his foot sideways.
“Oh no!” She yelled back at him. “Please go away! I didn’t mean to wake you!” Britney stopped, closed her pretty light blue eyes and turned around. She wanted to help the man, but she was so scared.
Britney said the first thing that came to mind. “You want to come over to Memaw’s? We can heat up some fried chicken from last night?”
“Memaw’s? Who’s Memaw?” asked the old man while making a scraping sound on his chin with his bony fingers while thinking. He slowly kept walking towards her, dragging his back foot.
“That’s my Grandmothers,” said Britney while backing up, trying to keep a good distance.
*
The old man sat at Memaw’s shiny, round wooden table in the kitchen. “It smells like Spicy Cinnamon and warm baked Apples in here,” said the zombie.
“That’s freshly baked Dutch Apple Pie that my Memaw made last night,” said Britney. She tucked her hair behind one ear and opened up the oven, while looking cautiously back over her shoulder.
He put his delicate bony elbows up on the table. “That fried chicken sure does smell good. Looky here, why don’t we pop you in to the oven instead? I’m sure you’d be tasty to.”
Britney quickly spun around putting one hand on her waist. She scowled at the zombie with her radiant blue eyes, while pointing her finger. “Now see, I don’t want you saying anything like that. You be nice.” Britney opened up the oven again and turned sideways, so she could watch him, while getting the chicken out.
“I was only kidding,” said the zombie. He picked up a big fat greasy piece of chicken out of a pool of grease and bit in to it. The meat hung from his teeth. He put the juicy leg down and helped the rest of it back in to his mouth with the tips of his fingers. “It’s kind of hard to eat without lips and a tongue.” He finished the leg and then looked up at her. “Now what?
Britney shrugged her shoulders. “Go home I guess.”
“Can I take the rest of the chicken back to my grave?” He said, grabbing the bowl of fried chicken.
“Sure.” Britney rose up her arms and stretched and yawned. “I’m so sleepy. I need to go back to bed. I guess I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed in the first place.”
“The grave or I mean bed, is the safest place to be. I would recommend staying put. I know I am going to.” The zombie got up to leave, carrying his yummy fried chicken.
“Hey wait!” said Britney. She brought out her hand for a second and then brought it back. His hands looked to scary to shake. “Can you give my mother a hug?”
“Sure, I’ll see what I can do,” said the zombie. He turned around. “If you see me again, you don’t have to be afraid. I would smile at you if I could. I just don’t have any lips to do it with.”
Britney smiled at him, waved goodbye and then shut the front door.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Children't Lit assignment 2.(final)
TEAMWORK IS KEY
Dmitry leaped forward and started running, blue jersey sticky with sweat, ready to take on anyone. He kept the soccer ball between his feet, keeping absolute control, taking care not kick it out of reach. A member of the opposing team quickly approached, hunched over, ready to challenge. He kicked the ball hard past him and winced as the inside of his foot stung with pain from the blow. The ball sailed over everyone’s heads, over the goal and out of bounds.
Casey threw up his arms. “What are you doing? Try kicking the ball to Rick!” Casey shook his head in discouragement.
Dmitry jogged slowly back to his position just below the middle of the field. An opponent ran towards him sure and steady with the ball and stopped. The challenger darted sideways to the left and Dmitry followed, getting close, brushing shoulders. The opponent suddenly reversed direction and tried to kick the soccer ball. Dmitry kicked back at the same time sweeping the ball away past the enemy’s foot.
Rick raised his hands in the air waving. “Pass it over here!”
Dmitry caught up with the ball, gained control of it and looked at Rick standing in front of the waiting goal. He brought his left foot back and wailed it. The ball sailed over the goal again.
The whistle blew sounding that it was halftime.
Casey quickly ran over to Dmitry. “That’s twice you could have kicked the ball to Rick! He was standing right there at the goal both times!”
Dmitry covered his mouth with the side of his hand and whispered. “He can’t play, if I give him the ball he’ll just screw it up.”
“How do you know if you don’t give him a chance,” said Casey grabbing a white Styrofoam cup from a small card table set up at the edge of the soccer field. He held the cup under an orange Igloo beverage dispenser full of lemonade while pushing its stubborn, stiff button. “You should give everyone a chance.”
“I guess so,” said Dmitry. He grabbed a baggy of sliced oranges out of a little cooler sitting on the grass.
Rick walked over to his parents on the sidelines, black shoelaces flopping in the breeze and he tripped over them, stumbling forward.
Dmitry watched and slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead, while closing his eyes. He sighed heavily. “Are you sure you want me to pass the ball to him?” He said to Casey as his confidence in his teammate was shaken.
“He’s always in front of the goal,” said Casey. He took a sip of his lemonade and his face twisted at its lack of sugar.
“But he doesn’t hold a candle to my playing. We’re going to lose this one huh?” Dmitry peeled back the flexible skin of his last orange slice with his thumb.
The ref blew the whistle signaling the players to get back on the field.
Casey dropped his cup beneath the table not seeing a trashcan. “No one’s losing at the moment. The score’s still zip to zip. Maybe you could try passing the ball once in awhile, we’re not a one man team.”
“Teamwork, right." said Dmitry rolling his eyes. “Coach is always saying that, but I just watched Rick trip over his own shoelaces.” He pointed loosely over at Rick and tossed his bag of orange peels back in the open cooler.
The other team, sporting green jerseys and red shorts started with the ball. Dmitry sprinted, cleats digging in to the soft grass and he ran past Rick, quickly stealing the soccer ball from the other team.
The goalie in the distance stood ready, bent knees, clapping his hands, taunting Dmitry. “C’mon! Give it your best shot! You haven‘t made it yet!”
Dmitry put on the brakes, his eyes narrowed in concentration and he put his right foot on top of the ball.
Rick flew by him. “Pass it here! Pass it forward!”
Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot. The soccer ball spun out in front of Rick's feet.
“C’mon Rick! Kick it in!” Yelled Casey from his position left of the goal. He was ready to follow the ball through to net if Rick missed.
Three members of the opposing team surrounded Dmitry.
Rick swung back his right foot, gritted his teeth and kicked as hard as he could. He nicked the side of the soccer ball, sending it out in front of his left foot.
“Follow it through! Kick it in!” Dmitry said excited. The goalie stayed in his position with his head lowered and arms outspread.
Rick put his left foot in front of the ball and kicked it backwards with his heel so the goalie couldn’t get it.
“What are you doing?” said Dmitry. He broke free from the other teams’ guards and ran to the ball. Here was his chance and it was time to score the first goal; there was no missing it now. In his peripheral vision he could see the blue jersey and white shorts of one of his own teammates and he knew it was Rick. The goalie slid to his knees, fingertips touching the ball, hands groping for it, ready to pull it in, safe to his body. Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot again.
The ball hit Rick's feet. He brought his foot back and kicked it hard; the back of the opposing teams net flew outwards. Parents, brother and sisters cheered from the sidelines. Dmitry ran over to Rick and patted him on the back.
“Why did you do that?” asked Rick. “You could have scored a goal.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I couldn’t win the game by myself. Besides, I‘ve missed every goal I’ve tried.” He patted Rick on the back again and smiled for the first time that day. “C’mon, let’s do that again. This game is ours.”
Dmitry leaped forward and started running, blue jersey sticky with sweat, ready to take on anyone. He kept the soccer ball between his feet, keeping absolute control, taking care not kick it out of reach. A member of the opposing team quickly approached, hunched over, ready to challenge. He kicked the ball hard past him and winced as the inside of his foot stung with pain from the blow. The ball sailed over everyone’s heads, over the goal and out of bounds.
Casey threw up his arms. “What are you doing? Try kicking the ball to Rick!” Casey shook his head in discouragement.
Dmitry jogged slowly back to his position just below the middle of the field. An opponent ran towards him sure and steady with the ball and stopped. The challenger darted sideways to the left and Dmitry followed, getting close, brushing shoulders. The opponent suddenly reversed direction and tried to kick the soccer ball. Dmitry kicked back at the same time sweeping the ball away past the enemy’s foot.
Rick raised his hands in the air waving. “Pass it over here!”
Dmitry caught up with the ball, gained control of it and looked at Rick standing in front of the waiting goal. He brought his left foot back and wailed it. The ball sailed over the goal again.
The whistle blew sounding that it was halftime.
Casey quickly ran over to Dmitry. “That’s twice you could have kicked the ball to Rick! He was standing right there at the goal both times!”
Dmitry covered his mouth with the side of his hand and whispered. “He can’t play, if I give him the ball he’ll just screw it up.”
“How do you know if you don’t give him a chance,” said Casey grabbing a white Styrofoam cup from a small card table set up at the edge of the soccer field. He held the cup under an orange Igloo beverage dispenser full of lemonade while pushing its stubborn, stiff button. “You should give everyone a chance.”
“I guess so,” said Dmitry. He grabbed a baggy of sliced oranges out of a little cooler sitting on the grass.
Rick walked over to his parents on the sidelines, black shoelaces flopping in the breeze and he tripped over them, stumbling forward.
Dmitry watched and slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead, while closing his eyes. He sighed heavily. “Are you sure you want me to pass the ball to him?” He said to Casey as his confidence in his teammate was shaken.
“He’s always in front of the goal,” said Casey. He took a sip of his lemonade and his face twisted at its lack of sugar.
“But he doesn’t hold a candle to my playing. We’re going to lose this one huh?” Dmitry peeled back the flexible skin of his last orange slice with his thumb.
The ref blew the whistle signaling the players to get back on the field.
Casey dropped his cup beneath the table not seeing a trashcan. “No one’s losing at the moment. The score’s still zip to zip. Maybe you could try passing the ball once in awhile, we’re not a one man team.”
“Teamwork, right." said Dmitry rolling his eyes. “Coach is always saying that, but I just watched Rick trip over his own shoelaces.” He pointed loosely over at Rick and tossed his bag of orange peels back in the open cooler.
The other team, sporting green jerseys and red shorts started with the ball. Dmitry sprinted, cleats digging in to the soft grass and he ran past Rick, quickly stealing the soccer ball from the other team.
The goalie in the distance stood ready, bent knees, clapping his hands, taunting Dmitry. “C’mon! Give it your best shot! You haven‘t made it yet!”
Dmitry put on the brakes, his eyes narrowed in concentration and he put his right foot on top of the ball.
Rick flew by him. “Pass it here! Pass it forward!”
Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot. The soccer ball spun out in front of Rick's feet.
“C’mon Rick! Kick it in!” Yelled Casey from his position left of the goal. He was ready to follow the ball through to net if Rick missed.
Three members of the opposing team surrounded Dmitry.
Rick swung back his right foot, gritted his teeth and kicked as hard as he could. He nicked the side of the soccer ball, sending it out in front of his left foot.
“Follow it through! Kick it in!” Dmitry said excited. The goalie stayed in his position with his head lowered and arms outspread.
Rick put his left foot in front of the ball and kicked it backwards with his heel so the goalie couldn’t get it.
“What are you doing?” said Dmitry. He broke free from the other teams’ guards and ran to the ball. Here was his chance and it was time to score the first goal; there was no missing it now. In his peripheral vision he could see the blue jersey and white shorts of one of his own teammates and he knew it was Rick. The goalie slid to his knees, fingertips touching the ball, hands groping for it, ready to pull it in, safe to his body. Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot again.
The ball hit Rick's feet. He brought his foot back and kicked it hard; the back of the opposing teams net flew outwards. Parents, brother and sisters cheered from the sidelines. Dmitry ran over to Rick and patted him on the back.
“Why did you do that?” asked Rick. “You could have scored a goal.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I couldn’t win the game by myself. Besides, I‘ve missed every goal I’ve tried.” He patted Rick on the back again and smiled for the first time that day. “C’mon, let’s do that again. This game is ours.”
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
children's lit story
Dmitry leaped forward and started running, blue jersey sticky with sweat, ready to take on anyone. He kept the soccer ball between his feet, keeping absolute control, taking care not kick it out of reach. A member of the opposing team quickly approached, hunched over, ready to challenge. He kicked the ball hard past him and winced as the inside of his foot stung with pain from the blow. The ball sailed over everyone’s heads, over the goal and out of bounds.
Casey threw up his arms. “What are you doing? Try kicking the ball to Rick!” Casey shook his head in discouragement.
Dmitry jogged slowly back to his position just below the middle of the field. An opponent ran towards him sure and steady with the ball and stopped. The challenger darted sideways to the left and Dmitry followed, getting close, brushing shoulders. The opponent suddenly reversed direction and tried to kick the soccer ball. Dmitry kicked back at the same time sweeping the ball away past the enemy’s foot.
Rick raised his hands in the air waving. “Pass it over here!”
Dmitry caught up with the ball, gained control of it and looked at Rick standing in front of the waiting goal. He brought his left foot back and wailed it. The ball sailed over the goal again.
The whistle blew sounding that it was halftime.
Casey quickly ran over to Dmitry. “That’s twice you could have kicked the ball to Rick! He was standing right there at the goal both times!“
Dmitry covered his mouth with the side of his hand and whispered. “He can’t play, if I give him the ball he’ll just screw it up.“
“How do you know if you don’t give him a chance,” said Casey grabbing a white Styrofoam cup from a small card table set up at the edge of the soccer field. He held the cup under an orange Igloo beverage dispenser full of lemonade while pushing its stubborn, stiff button. ” You should give everyone a chance.”
“I guess so,“ said Dmitry. He grabbed a baggy of sliced oranges out of a little cooler sitting on the grass.
Rick walked over to his parents on the sidelines, black shoelaces flopping in the breeze and he tripped over them, stumbling forward.
Dmitry watched and slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead, while closing his eyes. He sighed heavily. “Are you sure you want me to pass the ball to him?” He said to Casey as his confidence in his teammate was shaken.
“He’s always in front of the goal,” said Casey. He took a sip of his lemonade and his face twisted at its lack of sugar.
“But he doesn’t hold a candle to my playing. We’re going to lose this one huh?” Dmitry peeled back the flexible skin of his last orange slice with his thumb.
The ref blew the whistle signaling the players to get back on the field.
Casey dropped his cup beneath the table not seeing a trashcan. “No one’s losing at the moment. The score’s still zip to zip. Just try passing the ball once in awhile. We‘re not a one man team.”
“Teamwork. Right.“ said Dmitry rolling his eyes. “Coach is always saying that, but I just watched Rick trip over his own shoelaces.“ He pointed loosely over at Rick and tossed his bag of orange peels back in the open cooler.
The other team, sporting green jerseys and red shorts started with the ball. Dmitry sprinted, cleats digging in to the soft grass and he ran past Rick, quickly stealing the soccer ball from the other team.
The goalie in the distance stood ready, bent knees, clapping his hands, taunting Dmitry. “C’mon! Give it your best shot! You haven‘t made it yet!“
Dmitry put on the brakes, his eyes narrowed in concentration and he put his right foot on top of the ball.
Rick flew by him. “Pass it here! Pass it forward!”
Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot. The soccer ball spun out in front of Rick's feet.
“C’mon Rick! Kick it in!” Yelled Casey from his position, left of the goal. He was ready to follow the ball through to net if Rick missed.
Three members of the opposing team surrounded Dmitry.
Rick swung back his right foot, gritted his teeth and kicked as hard as he could. He nicked the side of the soccer ball, sending it out in front of his left foot.
“Follow it through! Kick it in!” Dmitry said excited. The goalie stayed in his position with his head lowered and arms outspread.
Rick put his left foot in front of the ball and kicked in backwards with his heel so the goalie couldn’t get it.
“What are you doing?“ said Dmitry. He broke free from the other teams’ guards and ran to the ball. Here was his chance and it was time to score the first goal; there was no missing it now. In his peripheral vision he could see the blue jersey and white shorts of one of his own teammates and he knew it was Rick. The goalie slid to his knees, fingertips touching the ball, hands groping for it, ready to pull it in, safe to his body. Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot again.
The ball hit Rick's feet. He brought his foot back and kicked it hard; the back of the opposing teams net flew outwards. Parents, brother and sisters cheered from the sidelines. Dmitry ran over to Rick and patted him on the back.
“Why did you do that?” asked Rick. “You could have scored a goal.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I couldn’t win the game by myself. Besides, I‘ve missed every goal I‘ve tried.” He patted Rick on the back again and smiled for the first time that day. “C’mon, let’s do that again. This game is ours.”
Casey threw up his arms. “What are you doing? Try kicking the ball to Rick!” Casey shook his head in discouragement.
Dmitry jogged slowly back to his position just below the middle of the field. An opponent ran towards him sure and steady with the ball and stopped. The challenger darted sideways to the left and Dmitry followed, getting close, brushing shoulders. The opponent suddenly reversed direction and tried to kick the soccer ball. Dmitry kicked back at the same time sweeping the ball away past the enemy’s foot.
Rick raised his hands in the air waving. “Pass it over here!”
Dmitry caught up with the ball, gained control of it and looked at Rick standing in front of the waiting goal. He brought his left foot back and wailed it. The ball sailed over the goal again.
The whistle blew sounding that it was halftime.
Casey quickly ran over to Dmitry. “That’s twice you could have kicked the ball to Rick! He was standing right there at the goal both times!“
Dmitry covered his mouth with the side of his hand and whispered. “He can’t play, if I give him the ball he’ll just screw it up.“
“How do you know if you don’t give him a chance,” said Casey grabbing a white Styrofoam cup from a small card table set up at the edge of the soccer field. He held the cup under an orange Igloo beverage dispenser full of lemonade while pushing its stubborn, stiff button. ” You should give everyone a chance.”
“I guess so,“ said Dmitry. He grabbed a baggy of sliced oranges out of a little cooler sitting on the grass.
Rick walked over to his parents on the sidelines, black shoelaces flopping in the breeze and he tripped over them, stumbling forward.
Dmitry watched and slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead, while closing his eyes. He sighed heavily. “Are you sure you want me to pass the ball to him?” He said to Casey as his confidence in his teammate was shaken.
“He’s always in front of the goal,” said Casey. He took a sip of his lemonade and his face twisted at its lack of sugar.
“But he doesn’t hold a candle to my playing. We’re going to lose this one huh?” Dmitry peeled back the flexible skin of his last orange slice with his thumb.
The ref blew the whistle signaling the players to get back on the field.
Casey dropped his cup beneath the table not seeing a trashcan. “No one’s losing at the moment. The score’s still zip to zip. Just try passing the ball once in awhile. We‘re not a one man team.”
“Teamwork. Right.“ said Dmitry rolling his eyes. “Coach is always saying that, but I just watched Rick trip over his own shoelaces.“ He pointed loosely over at Rick and tossed his bag of orange peels back in the open cooler.
The other team, sporting green jerseys and red shorts started with the ball. Dmitry sprinted, cleats digging in to the soft grass and he ran past Rick, quickly stealing the soccer ball from the other team.
The goalie in the distance stood ready, bent knees, clapping his hands, taunting Dmitry. “C’mon! Give it your best shot! You haven‘t made it yet!“
Dmitry put on the brakes, his eyes narrowed in concentration and he put his right foot on top of the ball.
Rick flew by him. “Pass it here! Pass it forward!”
Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot. The soccer ball spun out in front of Rick's feet.
“C’mon Rick! Kick it in!” Yelled Casey from his position, left of the goal. He was ready to follow the ball through to net if Rick missed.
Three members of the opposing team surrounded Dmitry.
Rick swung back his right foot, gritted his teeth and kicked as hard as he could. He nicked the side of the soccer ball, sending it out in front of his left foot.
“Follow it through! Kick it in!” Dmitry said excited. The goalie stayed in his position with his head lowered and arms outspread.
Rick put his left foot in front of the ball and kicked in backwards with his heel so the goalie couldn’t get it.
“What are you doing?“ said Dmitry. He broke free from the other teams’ guards and ran to the ball. Here was his chance and it was time to score the first goal; there was no missing it now. In his peripheral vision he could see the blue jersey and white shorts of one of his own teammates and he knew it was Rick. The goalie slid to his knees, fingertips touching the ball, hands groping for it, ready to pull it in, safe to his body. Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot again.
The ball hit Rick's feet. He brought his foot back and kicked it hard; the back of the opposing teams net flew outwards. Parents, brother and sisters cheered from the sidelines. Dmitry ran over to Rick and patted him on the back.
“Why did you do that?” asked Rick. “You could have scored a goal.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I couldn’t win the game by myself. Besides, I‘ve missed every goal I‘ve tried.” He patted Rick on the back again and smiled for the first time that day. “C’mon, let’s do that again. This game is ours.”
children's lit story
Dmitry leaped forward and started running, blue jersey sticky with sweat, ready to take on anyone. He kept the soccer ball between his feet, keeping absolute control, taking care not kick it out of reach. A member of the opposing team quickly approached, hunched over, ready to challenge. He kicked the ball hard past him and winced as the inside of his foot stung with pain from the blow. The ball sailed over everyone’s heads, over the goal and out of bounds.
Casey threw up his arms. “What are you doing? Try kicking the ball to Rick!” Casey shook his head in discouragement.
Dmitry jogged slowly back to his position just below the middle of the field. An opponent ran towards him sure and steady with the ball and stopped. The challenger darted sideways to the left and Dmitry followed, getting close, brushing shoulders. The opponent suddenly reversed direction and tried to kick the soccer ball. Dmitry kicked back at the same time sweeping the ball away past the enemy’s foot.
Rick raised his hands in the air waving. “Pass it over here!”
Dmitry caught up with the ball, gained control of it and looked at Rick standing in front of the waiting goal. He brought his left foot back and wailed it. The ball sailed over the goal again.
The whistle blew sounding that it was halftime.
Casey quickly ran over to Dmitry. “That’s twice you could have kicked the ball to Rick! He was standing right there at the goal both times!“
Dmitry covered his mouth with the side of his hand and whispered. “He can’t play, if I give him the ball he’ll just screw it up.“
“How do you know if you don’t give him a chance,” said Casey grabbing a white Styrofoam cup from a small card table set up at the edge of the soccer field. He held the cup under an orange Igloo beverage dispenser full of lemonade while pushing its stubborn, stiff button. ” You should give everyone a chance.”
“I guess so,“ said Dmitry. He grabbed a baggy of sliced oranges out of a little cooler sitting on the grass.
Rick walked over to his parents on the sidelines, black shoelaces flopping in the breeze and he tripped over them, stumbling forward.
Dmitry watched and slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead, while closing his eyes. He sighed heavily. “Are you sure you want me to pass the ball to him?” He said to Casey as his confidence in his teammate was shaken.
“He’s always in front of the goal,” said Casey. He took a sip of his lemonade and his face twisted at its lack of sugar.
“But he doesn’t hold a candle to my playing. We’re going to lose this one huh?” Dmitry peeled back the flexible skin of his last orange slice with his thumb.
The ref blew the whistle signaling the players to get back on the field.
Casey dropped his cup beneath the table not seeing a trashcan. “No one’s losing at the moment. The score’s still zip to zip. Just try passing the ball once in awhile. We‘re not a one man team.”
“Teamwork. Right.“ said Dmitry rolling his eyes. “Coach is always saying that, but I just watched Rick trip over his own shoelaces.“ He pointed loosely over at Rick and tossed his bag of orange peels back in the open cooler.
The other team, sporting green jerseys and red shorts started with the ball. Dmitry sprinted, cleats digging in to the soft grass and he ran past Rick, quickly stealing the soccer ball from the other team.
The goalie in the distance stood ready, bent knees, clapping his hands, taunting Dmitry. “C’mon! Give it your best shot! You haven‘t made it yet!“
Dmitry put on the brakes, his eyes narrowed in concentration and he put his right foot on top of the ball.
Rick flew by him. “Pass it here! Pass it forward!”
Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot. The soccer ball spun out in front of Rick's feet.
“C’mon Rick! Kick it in!” Yelled Casey from his position, left of the goal. He was ready to follow the ball through to net if Rick missed.
Three members of the opposing team surrounded Dmitry.
Rick swung back his right foot, gritted his teeth and kicked as hard as he could. He nicked the side of the soccer ball, sending it out in front of his left foot.
“Follow it through! Kick it in!” Dmitry said excited. The goalie stayed in his position with his head lowered and arms outspread.
Rick put his left foot in front of the ball and kicked in backwards with his heel so the goalie couldn’t get it.
“What are you doing?“ said Dmitry. He broke free from the other teams’ guards and ran to the ball. Here was his chance and it was time to score the first goal; there was no missing it now. In his peripheral vision he could see the blue jersey and white shorts of one of his own teammates and he knew it was Rick. The goalie slid to his knees, fingertips touching the ball, hands groping for it, ready to pull it in, safe to his body. Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot again.
The ball hit Rick's feet. He brought his foot back and kicked it hard; the back of the opposing teams net flew outwards. Parents, brother and sisters cheered from the sidelines. Dmitry ran over to Rick and patted him on the back.
“Why did you do that?” asked Rick. “You could have scored a goal.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I couldn’t win the game by myself. Besides, I‘ve missed every goal I‘ve tried.” He patted Rick on the back again and smiled for the first time that day. “C’mon, let’s do that again. This game is ours.”
Casey threw up his arms. “What are you doing? Try kicking the ball to Rick!” Casey shook his head in discouragement.
Dmitry jogged slowly back to his position just below the middle of the field. An opponent ran towards him sure and steady with the ball and stopped. The challenger darted sideways to the left and Dmitry followed, getting close, brushing shoulders. The opponent suddenly reversed direction and tried to kick the soccer ball. Dmitry kicked back at the same time sweeping the ball away past the enemy’s foot.
Rick raised his hands in the air waving. “Pass it over here!”
Dmitry caught up with the ball, gained control of it and looked at Rick standing in front of the waiting goal. He brought his left foot back and wailed it. The ball sailed over the goal again.
The whistle blew sounding that it was halftime.
Casey quickly ran over to Dmitry. “That’s twice you could have kicked the ball to Rick! He was standing right there at the goal both times!“
Dmitry covered his mouth with the side of his hand and whispered. “He can’t play, if I give him the ball he’ll just screw it up.“
“How do you know if you don’t give him a chance,” said Casey grabbing a white Styrofoam cup from a small card table set up at the edge of the soccer field. He held the cup under an orange Igloo beverage dispenser full of lemonade while pushing its stubborn, stiff button. ” You should give everyone a chance.”
“I guess so,“ said Dmitry. He grabbed a baggy of sliced oranges out of a little cooler sitting on the grass.
Rick walked over to his parents on the sidelines, black shoelaces flopping in the breeze and he tripped over them, stumbling forward.
Dmitry watched and slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead, while closing his eyes. He sighed heavily. “Are you sure you want me to pass the ball to him?” He said to Casey as his confidence in his teammate was shaken.
“He’s always in front of the goal,” said Casey. He took a sip of his lemonade and his face twisted at its lack of sugar.
“But he doesn’t hold a candle to my playing. We’re going to lose this one huh?” Dmitry peeled back the flexible skin of his last orange slice with his thumb.
The ref blew the whistle signaling the players to get back on the field.
Casey dropped his cup beneath the table not seeing a trashcan. “No one’s losing at the moment. The score’s still zip to zip. Just try passing the ball once in awhile. We‘re not a one man team.”
“Teamwork. Right.“ said Dmitry rolling his eyes. “Coach is always saying that, but I just watched Rick trip over his own shoelaces.“ He pointed loosely over at Rick and tossed his bag of orange peels back in the open cooler.
The other team, sporting green jerseys and red shorts started with the ball. Dmitry sprinted, cleats digging in to the soft grass and he ran past Rick, quickly stealing the soccer ball from the other team.
The goalie in the distance stood ready, bent knees, clapping his hands, taunting Dmitry. “C’mon! Give it your best shot! You haven‘t made it yet!“
Dmitry put on the brakes, his eyes narrowed in concentration and he put his right foot on top of the ball.
Rick flew by him. “Pass it here! Pass it forward!”
Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot. The soccer ball spun out in front of Rick's feet.
“C’mon Rick! Kick it in!” Yelled Casey from his position, left of the goal. He was ready to follow the ball through to net if Rick missed.
Three members of the opposing team surrounded Dmitry.
Rick swung back his right foot, gritted his teeth and kicked as hard as he could. He nicked the side of the soccer ball, sending it out in front of his left foot.
“Follow it through! Kick it in!” Dmitry said excited. The goalie stayed in his position with his head lowered and arms outspread.
Rick put his left foot in front of the ball and kicked in backwards with his heel so the goalie couldn’t get it.
“What are you doing?“ said Dmitry. He broke free from the other teams’ guards and ran to the ball. Here was his chance and it was time to score the first goal; there was no missing it now. In his peripheral vision he could see the blue jersey and white shorts of one of his own teammates and he knew it was Rick. The goalie slid to his knees, fingertips touching the ball, hands groping for it, ready to pull it in, safe to his body. Dmitry kicked the ball with the side of his foot again.
The ball hit Rick's feet. He brought his foot back and kicked it hard; the back of the opposing teams net flew outwards. Parents, brother and sisters cheered from the sidelines. Dmitry ran over to Rick and patted him on the back.
“Why did you do that?” asked Rick. “You could have scored a goal.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess I couldn’t win the game by myself. Besides, I‘ve missed every goal I‘ve tried.” He patted Rick on the back again and smiled for the first time that day. “C’mon, let’s do that again. This game is ours.”
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