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“Hurry, Tibira! I want to get there quickly!” Niki’s voice echoed through the serene white noise of the forest.

“Niki, you want to get everywhere quickly!” I replied, quickening my pace to catch up with her.  “Maybe, but this is different! We are going to Ife! We are going to the place where the world began, and we are going to learn how to weave! How can you stand to move so slowly?” she said, stopping as I caught up with her.

    I paused a moment to look at her. She had stopped directly in one of the scarce patches of sunlight that penetrated the trees. It was highlighting her perfectly; her dark skin, her faded blue work wrapper slightly askew from running, and her wide, cocked grin that seemed permanently etched on her round face. Suddenly I couldn’t help but smile. “I am taking time to appreciate the forest! It is so beautiful here, it will be good to enjoy the peace before we must face the business of Ife,” I said, chuckling.

“Oh, I give in. You are right. Ife isn’t going anywhere,” she sighed. “But if we are appreciating the forest, let us appreciate Iya Mapo, Mother Earth, as well.”  Without another word, we both began to sing together: “Iya Mapo, Iya Mapo,” our song a sacrifice to the divinity as we walked through the forest.     Eventually, the forest began to thin, giving way to farms, and we stopped singing. We began to see more and more people, some carrying goods, some going to tend their farms, and the occasional person traveling, just as we were. Then suddenly, our path ended, and we stopped. It was then that we saw it. The gate to the Holy City of Ife.  When we approached the gate, we were confronted by the guards. We gave them some of the cowry shells we had brought, paying our tax to the Oba, and stated our reason for being there: to ask Niki’s grandmother, Tanti, to teach us to weave. They let us through.  I wondered how they knew who to let past, but decided that there would be time later to ask someone about it.  As soon as we walked in, we almost immediately began to feel overwhelmed. The sun glared in our eyes, and the city was so hot, and it felt even hotter after having been in the cool forest. The sheer number of people there was dizzying. The streets were fairly packed, and, with so much to take in all at once, combined with the heat and the glare of the sun, we quickly began to feel tired. We only just barely noticed the scenery. The shrines, the compounds, the murals; they all went by in a blur. However, we managed to remain alert enough to find our way. The city was complex, but before we had left our small village, we had spent much time committing the route to Tanti’s compound to memory. Finally, after what seemed like forever, we reached our destination: the weaver’s compound. It was a large compound, and the outside was a white background, decorated with colorful lines, which represented different entities. We opened the gate, and walked into the courtyard, which was paved in an intricate pattern of spirals and waves. Neither of us was sure what this represented. There were a few goats and chickens roaming around, and there were many beautifully carved and painted posts that held up the roof. There was a shrine to a divinity in another room. Ahead, there was a second doorway leading to another courtyard.        As we walked into the second courtyard, we saw a young man who looked to be around fifteen. He was sitting in the middle of the courtyard. He looked up as soon as he heard us.

“Niki! Tibira! You are here. Grandmother has been expecting you,” he said.  I realized that this must be Eyodun, one of Grandmother Tanti’s son-in-laws. He walked out of the second courtyard and into a separate room. Sitting in front of a loom and weaving sat Tanti.

“Excuse me, Mother, Niki and Tibira are here,” Eyodun said respectfully, bowing. Tanti’s smiling face peered out from behind the loom, her dark eyes glittering with happiness.

“Niki! Tibira! It is good to see you again! It has been a long time since I have visited your village, but it seems that this time we meet in my home. Have you been enjoying your time in Ife so far?” she asked, maintaining her wide grin.

“Yes, Grandmother,” we both answered, bowing deeply.

“Good, good. But you must be tired from your journey! Eyodun, would you please show these two to their room? Then they can wash up, and we can show them around the compound,” Tanti said.

“Yes, Mother. Come with me, please,” he asked us, bowing once more to Grandmother before leaving the room. A long time later, after we had seen the compound, washed, eaten, and settled in, I sat on my mat, going over the day’s events. I could hardly believe we were really in Ife! And with my best friend! It was like a dream come true. Niki and I had always wanted to learn to weave, but we lived in a small village with no weavers and only obtained cloth through trade.  Becoming the talented weavers we wished to become was a very unlikely prospect.  Then, one day, a messenger had come from Ife, saying that two of Tanti’s apprentices had left the compound to move to another village, and we were invited to come to the weaver’s compound in Ife in two months time to learn to weave.  It was better than anything we could have hoped for. Tanti was one of Ife’s most talented weavers, and it was almost more than we could bear to wait the two months.

But now we were here, and we were settled, we were ready, and tomorrow, we were going to start to learn how to weave. I lay down on my mat, smiling. It really had been an eventful day.     The next morning, I woke up to the shrill voice of Niki’s seven-year-old cousin, Duni, ringing in my ears.

“Elders! Niki! Tibira! Wake up! Grandmother wants to see you!” she yelled as she ran back and forth, alternately shaking us. Grunting sleepily, I opened my eyes and groggily rolled over to see her shaking Niki, who was covering her head and whining in irritation at the rude awakening. Duni turned to face me, leaving Niki to continue to hide from the bright sun streaming through the windows.     “Ah! Elder! You are awake,” Duni said, as though it were a surprise. I stared dumbly at her for a moment, collecting my thoughts. She was big for a girl of seven, almost the size of a ten year old, and very smart as well. Her blue work wrapper hung loosely around her small form, thin but strong. Her unusual, bright, copper-colored eyes stared at me eagerly as she tilted her head, waiting for a response.      She will make someone a good wife someday… I thought, my mind wandering.

“Yes, Duni. I am awake,” I said after a long pause.

“Grandmother wants to see you and Niki,” she said in her bouncy, cheery way.

“Alright. Niki, wake up!” I called over at her sleeping form.

“Please, just five more minutes…” she groaned.

“No, Elder! Grandmother must see you now!” Duni retaliated.

“Yes,” I joked. “You must do what Oba Duni says!”   That woke Niki up.

“Tibira! Do not joke like that, it is disrespectful!” she cried.

“You are right, I am sorry,” I responded.  A few minutes later, Niki and I had gotten up and washed, and were standing outside Grandmother’s room.

“Grandmother? You wanted to see us?” Niki called in.

“Yes, yes. Please, take a seat,” came Tanti’s voice from inside.  We walked in, bowed, and sat down.

“What did you want to talk to us about, Grandmother?” I asked.

“Well, you see. I have been thinking about your weaving. You both look very talented, and I think you would make excellent weavers, but…” I held my breath.     “…I think we should speak with the Babalawo first, to see if this is the right path for you two.”  I inwardly sighed in relief.     “That is a good idea, Grandmother,” Niki said quietly.

“Thank you. So then, you two get ready, and we will head off as soon as you are done,” Tanti said.  After some light preparations, we were once again walking through the streets of Ife, but this time our destination was the Diviner’s compound.  I felt so worried, and even in the warm morning sun, I was shivering. It was just a yes or no question, a simple toss of the Diviner’s kola nuts, but what if they landed dark side up? What if the answer was no? We would be crushed. Niki and I had wanted to learn to weave since we were both very small, and now we had come so close. But what if it was all in vain? I did not know. The fear of the worst happening wrapped itself around my heart like a cold hand.

We were finally there. We walked inside, and sat down on the floor. The Diviner sat in front of us, on a brightly colored mat. He was wearing all white, symbolizing the bloodless sacrifice.  I threw a brief glance at Niki, and, judging by the look on her face, she was feeling as tense as I was about our fate. I only saw Grandmother give the Babalawo the cowries, and I watched her lips move as she explained our situation, but I heard nothing. I just kept repeating a little prayer over and over in my head, “Please let the answer be yes, please let the answer be yes.”  I shut my eyes tight as the Diviner began the brief ceremony, as if my not seeing it would prevent the bad result I feared was coming.  My hands were balled against my knees, and I shut my eyes tighter and tighter, scared of what the answer would be, until suddenly…

“Yes.”

I opened my eyes.

“The answer is yes. This is the correct path for you,” the Diviner said solemnly.  I could have jumped up right there and hugged Niki, but I managed to contain myself, silently thanking every divinity I could think of for their kindness. Grandmother Tanti nodded.

“This is good news for you girls,” she said, smiling. After we had left the Diviner’s hut, and were walking back through Ife, Niki and I were doing our best to act composed, but we would give each other overjoyed looks as soon as Grandmother Tanti wasn’t looking. Suddenly, Tanti stopped.

 “Congratulations, girls. It will be hard work, but I will teach you all I know, to the best of my ability. When we get back to the compound, we will begin your lessons on how to weave,” she said.   Niki and I grinned at each other again. It was the start of a good day, and an even better career.

Aislind Waters is 12, in sixth grade, and loves to write descriptive stories, poetry, and song lyrics. She also loves reading and drawing, and lives with her mother, younger brother, and her two cats. She had read many book series, including The Hunger Games, A Series of Unfortunate Events, Harry Potter, Tunnels, and all 21 Redwall books. 

Falling. Falling into darkness. It won’t end. There is no end. I keep going. The wind makes my spine crawl. I feel my heart beating. It’s in my throat. I clench my fists. Force a smile on my face. When the bottom comes I want to be…

            I jolt. This room, its full of light. I’m back. It was just a dream. But it felt so real. I could feel myself plummeting down.

Why is it so silent? Not a whisper being spoken nor a footstep placed. Mom should be home, its Sunday. Dad doesn’t go to work on Sundays until late. There will probably be a note on the kitchen counter written on thin paper with sharpie so it bled through onto the white granite. Mom always does that.

My room is hot, uncomfortably hot. The heat can’t be on, it’s August. I push open the glass window to let the fresh, windy breeze in. But there is none. Just heat.

On the counter, there’s no note. But there is a piece of paper. Scrawled across the paper are notes. Music notes. They aren’t in any pattern though. They just seem to stretch across the page, blown around and left there. As scattered as possible and still on the staff lines.

In the middle of the page there are five words written, barely legible. I know nobody with that handwriting. It reads: Someday soon you’ll understand.

I take it to the piano. Now that I look at it, it’s pretty simple. Only three notes. B, E, and G. Odd combination though. B, E, G. G, B, E. they slowly get softer. Since I started playing, I’ve known of that soft touch. My teacher told me about that talent when I was three. He called me a prodigy. At the time, I had no idea what he meant. A prodigy. It was an interesting word. I just loved to sit down and play. Just let out myself into the keys. That was about the time I refused to talk.

Now they are too soft. I’m not playing it that way. I pound it. nothing. I glide my finger over the key. Nothing. What is happening. The birds stop singing. I need to hear the music. I need it. It’s my air. It’s what I need to breathe. Is it the piano, or is it me. I’m still playing: Painted Glass, the first song I composed. I was four. Instead of getting that rush, feeling the connection, being one with the piano, I feel nothing.

My sight goes blurry. I’m sobbing. I scream. I need to hear something. Anything. My feet lift me. The faucet in the bathroom is on, but I hear no water. Nothing. I can’t hear the creak of the floorboard, I can’t hear the piano. I can’t hear. Looking up, I see a monster. Red face, blue eyes popping out of a head. Wet streaks down cheeks. Crooked teeth.

The piano calls me back. I pound. No song, just notes. Anything. I try the new piece again. B, E, G. B, E, G. Nothing. I hear nothing.

Music is how I speak. Now, I can’t hear what I say.

B, E, G. Someday soon, you’ll understand. B, E, G. Someday soon, you’ll understand.

I need to beg. That means I need to talk. I can’t beg if I don’t talk. But how will I know what to say? How will I know if I sound right? I need to beg to hear.

Who in their twisted mind would do this to me? Who gave me that music? I’m sobbing so hard I feel my body shake.

Wait. I run through the living room into the kitchen, rip all of the papers out of the drawers. I need that prescription, the one Doctor Clay gave me. This is his handwriting on the music. Its undeniable.

He found something. That test he did. He knew something was wrong, but he wouldn’t tell me. How could he? How could he not tell his own patient that she would lose her hearing? How could he do this to me? Is this really Dr. Clay’s way of getting me to talk? Anything else but this. Take away anything, but you take away my music, my hearing then you may as well take away my life.

Maria Dulin is a student at Villa Maria Academy and one of the winners of the first “Teens Take the Park” writing contest.

I wrote my first story sitting under the oak tree as tall as the Empire State Building.

            I might have been ten years old, but it’s hard to remember now, three years later. My memory is so fogged, I can’t even remember what the story was about. I have lost so many notebooks over the years, including the one that story was written in. I think it had a kitten on it like most of the school supplies my mom purchased. My handwriting probably was scrawled across the page, erratic. That’s how I was then. Jumping around, running, and playing.

But all that’s beside the point. The point is the oak tree.

            For the past three years, I’ve been going to that oak tree almost every day. I discovered her by happenstance once while my family and I were taking a walk after dinner. At that first walk, maybe a few months before I started dropping by, I hated the oak tree. She was in a little clearing where the sun poked at her body, but even that didn’t enhance her figure. I had to squint to look at her, and that didn’t help either. She was too tall and too wide, too shady and too cool, and far, far, far too ugly and too plain. She needed some care, or a good pruning. If only some cared enough.

            Some kind soul did care enough. One day in March when the weather began to turn lamb-like, we drove past the oak tree. Most of the dead limbs that had blackened with age and disease were gone, lying in a tied bundle beside the curb. Now the oak tree looked polished. I knew she had been there for years, but now she had a certain charm. Before, she was just scraggly. Now she was almost antique. A vintage tree. What a strange, novel idea.

I made it a point to make the walk up to the oak tree sometime that week. The time didn’t come until the weekend, though, and even then it had to be in the evening because of lack of time. The clouds were the color of orange sherbet and the consistency of cotton that day. They looked almost good enough to eat and shaded the meadow, making it just the right amount of cool. Breeze rippled the tall grass and the flaxen heads of wheat bent to reveal golden undersides. The way the blades moved in unison looked like a wave.

My legs ached climbing up the big hill to the tree. I had to see her, I had to. I wanted to try to wrap my arms around her solid trunk and itch my belly against the patterned circumference. I wanted to drink in the sweet, dull smell of buds burgeoning on the thick branches. I wanted to lose myself in the tree’s essence. Somehow the oak tree seemed much more appealing up close. She seemed like the only unique tree in the small, lime green, sunlit meadow because of her enormousness, hardiness, and branches that tended towards the ground. They looked like dozens of human arms with dark, peeling skin.

            I was armed with a pen tucked in my hair like I’d seen journalists do and a notebook only. I planned to draw something, a landscape. Under a tree in a meadow would be the easiest place, I figured. It was submerged in nature and no one would be around. I could be alone.

            At first, the tree loomed high above me like a skyscraper and I was afraid somewhere deep in my heart. When the fear passed, the tree looked like something more. She was not a skyscraper. She looked almost inviting, comfortable. I stayed under her canopy of skeletal branches for as long as I was allowed. I had to be home to do important things like homework, but I promised to visit old Oakey whenever I could. The moments of tranquility I’d experienced with her were an escape. I could go there and not be nagged or bothered by anyone or anything besides the repetitive songs of crickets. It felt good to get away for a little while in a place no one else knew about or could take. The tree was all mine.

            When it rained or was too cold to see the tree, I dreamt about her and wrote about her. I dreamt that someday I would climb high into her branches like a sparrow and sit there feeding off of the tree’s energy and spirit. All trees have a spirit, but the oak tree’s was special in some way. She was content to be alive, thriving, and growing. The oak tree was a kindred spirit.

            Oakey grew more old and gnarled over the three years I visited her. She was starting to lean over like a giant sunflower and her trunk broke out in knobs. I tried to soothe her but I could tell she was aging with alarming alacrity and soon her spirit would be sapped away and carried along her roots. It worried me more than the math test tomorrow.

            Exactly three years to the day I started visiting Oakey, I woke up and felt her crying. It wasn’t the kind of awakening where you roll over and think, I can sleep in five more minutes, no. It was panic. I tore myself out of bed and didn’t bother to get dressed. My fingers fumbled to tie my sneakers in the laundry room. I knew they would get me there the fastest. Oakey’s cries grew louder and more frantic as I started running for her. I cried out and screamed, “Oakey! Hold on, I’m coming.” She didn’t hear me. She was too upset.

            I reached the fence that blocked off the clearing from the road and saw several faded orange trucks lined up on the street. A few men were leaning on an enormous machine that looked like a cement turner. They wore reflective neon lime vests, sunglasses, and hardhats. I clambered over the split rail fence and over the hill that was so steep you had to walk on your toes or else your calves would burn like fire. The grass was still slick from dew and I slipped a few times getting to Oakey, but I made it over the hill.

            A crew of workmen with chainsaw, pulleys, and masks were taking down my tree. They had already cut a sliver out of her left side to make it fall right. The sight churned a muddy panic in my stomach. I was rooted to the spot, much like a tree. I watched as Oakey was taken down, unable to do anything besides. Here was my only private spot that was all mine being robbed away by mean men in ugly vests. I wanted to scream and protest but my tongue was a worm on dry gravel. The chainsaws growled as the men started them and shrieked like firecrackers when they hit Oakey. I couldn’t hear her crying anymore. She was already dead, murdered. The men lassoed high onto her crown to pull her onto the ground and the last string holding her together snapped. 

            She fell like a great ship.

Celeste Flahaven is a student at Villa Maria Academy and one of the winners of the first “Teens Take the Park” writing contest.

“William, you’re running late!” his mother yelled up the stairs.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Will said, opening his eyes and peeling himself off his bed. He still hadn’t packed; he’d just put off the inevitable.

He strode over to his closet and tried to calm his nerves. Will wrenched open the door, prepared for the usual mountain of junk that came flying out. He winced as his trombone smacked his shins. His mom would be in for a surprise when she came to clean out his stuff. Will pushed the thought aside as he dug through a pile of clothes. Eventually, he found what he was looking for.

He pulled his half-zipped suitcase out from under an old skateboard. God, what was that stench? Will began haphazardly stuffing clothes into his suitcase, not bothering to fold them. He’d lived in Westmouth, South Carolina his entire life. Never once had he left the small town. But now, he was leaving, once and for all. Will couldn’t necessarily say this was how he had expected to leave, and he hadn’t slept a wink the previous night, dreading his departure.

He’d gotten the phone call early one morning.  In fact, it had awakened him from a pleasant dream about an eagle in flight, swooping through the air before him.  At first, he’d had to pinch himself to be sure he wasn’t still dreaming.  The voice on the other end of the phone just didn’t seem real.  Will remembered sliding down onto the floor, his back against the wall, the phone clutched to his ear by his white-knuckled hand.  That was the phone call that had changed his life forever.

Will slammed his suitcase shut and surveyed his room one last time. The walls were painted black, and the ceiling was covered with glow-in-the-dark stars. A few beat-up paperbacks sat on his bookshelf. His Star Wars alarm clock barely illuminated the room with the faint glow it was emitting. At last, Will’s eyes rested on the only photograph in the room. It was a bit battered, but Will didn’t mind.  The picture displayed three grinning faces: his 5-year-old sister, Lily, his 17-year-old brother, Mark, and himself. It had been taken a few weeks ago, before Will knew he would be leaving.

Will gingerly picked up the photo, as if it was in danger of disintegrating in his hand, and pocketed it. His head snapped up when he heard the floor creak outside his door. Mark stood there, hands shoved in his pockets.

“Are you ready? Mom’s having a panic attack,” he said, surveying Will’s nearly empty room.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Will said, avoiding his brother’s gaze.

“Well, come on, then,” Mark muttered, crossing the room in three strides and grabbing Will’s suitcase.

“What do you have in here?” Mark demanded as the two brothers stomped down the stairs. “It feels like two dead bodies and a hand.”

Will felt a lump rising in his throat, prohibiting him from forming words. The lump seemed to double in size when he reached the kitchen, where his mother and Lily were sitting.  He fought to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over as his little sister streaked across the room into his arms. Almost immediately, he felt his shirt grow moist from Lily’s tears.

“Please don’t go, Will,” she pleaded, her red, puffy eyes meeting his.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, disentangling himself from her monkey-like grip and planting a kiss on the top of her head. Taking hold of his bag, Sergeant William Mercier, of the U.S. Air Force, walked through the door for the last time.

Olivia McCloskey is one of the winners of the first “Teens Take the Park” writing contest.