Andrew Sprung ● Catherine Kelley ● Dean Flowerfield ● Eric Bryan ●
Erica Chester ● John Grey ● Joseph A. Miller ● Kelly Hossaini ●
Makayla Nielson ● Plamen Vasilev ● Richard Smith ● Stephanie Yu Lim
“A writer is someone who has taught his mind to misbehave.”
– Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)
BALLOONS Lit. Journal (BLJ) is an independent online literary journal of poetry, fiction and art primarily for school-aged readers from upper elementary school years onwards. BLJ sees it an important mission to bring the art of literature, and the creation of it, to our younger generation. The journal is freely accessible to all electronically. BLJ welcomes submissions from people anywhere in the world and in all walks of life. We love something that is fresh, surprising, unforgettable, extraordinary, mind-blowing, humorous, bold, unique, layered, witty, educational, original...etc. In short, we want something exceptionally good. For the most updated information about BLJ, please visit the journal’s homepage:
www.balloons-lit-journal.com
Founding Editor & Designer
Ho-cheung LEE (Peter), EdD, FLCM
BLJ Advisory Board
Ricci FONG, PhD ● Gary HARFITT, PhD ● Lancy TAM ● Simon THAM
BALLOONS Lit. Journal (BLJ) was founded a decade ago in November 2014, when I first established our website (the first issue was launched in February 2015). I got the idea weeks before that during a usual shower – I thought I wanted to establish a magazine that would allow educators to share professional thoughts. But somehow, this idea changed course and landed on creative writing, which, in my opinion, turned out to be a much better option.
Due to its non-profit nature, this project relies solely on my team’s passion for English literature. I owe a lot to my panel of advisors, particularly when BLJ was still an infant. In recent years, I have been seeking help from my former students, who have grown into high-flyers at reputable universities around the world, to serve as voluntary proofreaders.
Sometimes I feel that I have planted the right seeds and taken good care of my farm, allowing me to enjoy my harvest – BLJ no longer needs advertisements, and submissions keep coming in to the extent that I need to limit the submission window (which I hadn’t planned for). But sometimes I feel that BLJ is under-developing, as I am simply unable to devote all my time to it, given my full-time job as an Assistant Principal and English Panel Chairperson at my school in Hong Kong, in addition to my executive duties at the Hong Kong Schools Music and Speech Association and my lectureship at the University of Hong Kong – I have been struggling to produce an issue a year, whereas BLJ was published twice yearly at the start.
Ten years have passed, and 16 issues (including this one) have been produced. Seeing the summary page on the right makes me proud of what a single simple vision can grow into. Certainly, this isn’t something that goes viral over the web or makes any contributor rich, but it offers adventures and inspiration to those who care about innovation, creativity and language arts
Like in the previous issues, this 16th installment of BLJ offers you a well-planned journey from fear to bravery, from the dance of wildlife to the inner struggles of a young mind, and from authentic imagery to fanciful and perhaps rhetorical thoughts.
As always, I thank all of you contributors for giving life to every issue of BLJ; I thank all those who help produce BLJ issues administratively; I thank my proofreaders; I thank my advisory panel; and above all, I thank you, my dearest readers, for whom this project was established in the first place. We write because we read.
Happy reading, and have a phenomenal 2025 in every way!
Dr Ho-cheung LEE Founding Editor BALLOONS Lit. Journal
December 2024
What’s Left Behind
Along the beach, shells beyond measure piled like abandoned treasure gleam like stained glass in the sun. There’s something here for everyone: flat as coins or sharp as spears, smooth like olives, whorled like ears, milky moons, transparent chips, oval bowls like little ships, multicolored minarets, scripts in alien alphabets, stripes and dots and rainbow swirls, bright as rubies, opals, pearls.
A billion creatures long since dead left these jewels on the sea bed, and tides at work for evermore dragged them slowly to the shore. When I am gone, I hope by grace to leave a small, smooth, shining trace.
Sprung is a children’s poet, published in Cricket, Ranger Rick, Greenchild Magazine, The New York Times and elsewhere, who returned to the craft after the birth of his first grandchild in late 2023
Andrew
Over the Fence
Behind the playground fence there runs a little brook below a shallow hill that no one gives a look. But sometimes before school on mornings sunny and breezy, I slip off by myself and climb the fence (it’s easy) and clump down the low hill and cross the brook, stone by stone and in a grassy nook I lie down all alone beneath a crab-apple tree whose leaves all shine and shiver and sometimes drop an apple on me or in the river. The wind and water whisper and distant voices chime. Everyone, pass by: This is my quiet time.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside the Head”, are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal
From My Observation Desk
How busy are the butterflies early in the morning in and around the garden roses.
In first light, beauty is intent, intense even, with flared wings, altern antennae, suckling probiscis
Small orange deities flit from bud to bud.
It’s why I watch entranced, enchanted. It’s why I can’t be normal.
Eriophora Pustulosa
Richard Smith has worked as a teacher and editor in New Zealand, the U.K., and, more recently, Cambodia, where he also worked as a prison chaplain. His poetry has been published in a number of New Zealand journals, anthologies (past and forthcoming), and can also be found online in ezines such as NZ Books, Ekstasis and London Grip
His limbs resemble spikes. His eyes are black and almost blind. He hunts at night: if it moves, he bites. When he eats, his nodulous armour shifts as he expands. His heart pumps blood, cold and blue; cavities flood until his thorax swells and splits its sheath of crusty yellow skin.
When friends visit, I insist, ‘Help me feed my pet vampire, but beware: he bites!’ Prey in hand, I take them down to the basement and turn off the lights. The trap is set. I move as close as I dare. He senses the slightest tremor, pinpoints each intruder. Released, they bolt into his snare a blur of frenzied buzzing.
We shudder and stare. He springs from cover over the web. Fangs unfold then jab. His victims lose control. Paralysed but seeing all, they’re rolled by pedipalps and claws as he draws thread from spinnerets. They’re wrapped with care in silk (cocooned), alive and well-preserved. He drags them to his lair.
He’ll crush them in his pincers, douse them in his juices, digest them like soup within their skin. He’ll drain them to a husk then cut them loose. And though it may distress, needs must he needs to eat so they must die. Dracula gives me the shivers and I feed him flies.
M My y S Seeccoonnd d
G Grreeaatteesst t F Feeaar r
Out of reflex, I swatted the mosquito on my arm.
“Yuck, disgusting,” I groaned, wiping off blood spatter with my beach towel. “I hate bugs.”
I earned a corrective stare from my mother.
“I mean… strongly dislike bugs,” I murmured.
I stepped off the boat onto an aluminum dock where my dad was unloading an ancient
cooler that had spent hundreds more hours on the river than I had.
I grabbed one of the cooler’s white handles and my freckle-faced little sister grabbed the other.
“At least mosquitoes are small, unlike mayflies,” she said.
I shuddered.
Mayflies were on my list of greatest
fears right up there between house fires and raising my hand in class. Mayflies were huge and, frankly, dim-witted even for insects. I could picture them tumbling over one another, knocking each other off buildings and lights where they clung in dense groups. It was impossible to get into your house without letting seventy-five of them inside. Plus, they stuck to everything.
“We seemed to have missed them, thankfully. They usually hatch earlier in the year.” My dad nodded his head toward me. “Bend your knees.”
I bent my knees to lift the cooler, like I was supposed to, but somehow, I still felt the strain in my back. We shuffled down the dock ramp toward a crowded, grassy hill.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the water in the middle of the river rippling. I blinked and thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. It must have been a fish that got spooked or something.
I set my end of the cooler down and squinted. I couldn’t see anything except the blurred reflections of trees…
The water next to the dock started to flow in wavelets as well. I stooped down to get a closer look and the water began crawling…with bugs.
The mayflies squirmed out of the water, their wings wet and glossy, just having emerged from their exoskeletons. Their fat, grub-like bodies wriggled onto the riverbank, coating all visible vegetation with long, spindly legs.
I squealed and fell backward, my hands and bare legs blistering against the scorching metal of the dock. My sister pulled me to my feet and we sprinted up the ramp toward shore.
A dense, black fog descended on the riverbank and a roar like thunder shook the trees.
My heart jumped to my throat. The thunderous cloud was actually a gigantic swarm of buzzing mayflies.
And it was coming our way.
We scrambled up the hill, eager to get as far away from the water as possible. The people peacefully picnicking on the hill were slapping at their arms and legs frantically, screaming “Get the keys!” and “What are these things?”
I covered my head with my damp towel, feeling the bugs getting tangled in my hair. I smashed them against my head, trying to get them to stop squirming and buzzing near my ears. The bugs covered the pavement, causing us to slip and slide across the parking lot to Papa’s two-door truck.
The five of us piled inside, squished together and breathing heavily.
Papa laughed, brushing bugs from the front of his shirt. “We should be out there with our fishin’ poles! The fish love these things.”
My parents chuckled. My sister said, “At least they aren't mosquitoes.”
I stared in disbelief. “I hate them all, and after this, I hate them even more.”
I caught a glimpse of my mother’s raised eyebrow.
“I mean… I strongly dislike them even more.”
Makayla Nielson is a Midwesterner turned Utahan. You can find her watching science fiction movies or crocheting (always with a snack in reach). Makaylanielson.com
T Thhrroowwiinng g a a T Toommaahhaawwk k
It was a warm summer evening on the Cherokee reservation and Laura sat cross-legged on the rec center floor fingering her brown braid. She scanned the room for Chief, a stray cat that roamed the reservation and often sneaked into the rec center for handouts of meat. Chief was sleek and black with a patch of white under his nose like a moustache. He was so smart that he could open doors by himself by stretching up and pulling down on the handle with his paw. Laura often communicated with him without saying a word; she simply looked into his green-gold eyes and sent her thoughts to him.
she thought intently of Chief, telling him where she was and promising him part of a tuna sandwich if he would hurry. Chief was one of her two best friends, the other one being her father, who was probably already wondering why she wasn’t at home.
It would be dark in about an hour, and Laura would have to head home. Closing her eyes,
Unlike other people on the reservation, her father knew everything about the Cherokee, and he was also the best storyteller. At night, after tucking her in, he would sit on the edge of Laura’s bed, and she would gaze into his brown face framed by thick black and gray hair. Sometimes he told her traditional stories, and other times he made up stories just for her.
“There was once a Cherokee girl named
Yona,” he once told her, “who was the best horsewoman in the land. She was a warrior and from atop her white horse she could throw a tomahawk a quarter mile with perfect accuracy, the way other warriors shot arrows. She rode her horse into the village one day where a stranger had lassoed one of their horses to steal it. Yona stood up on her horse and, taking out one of the tomahawks that she always fastened to her leather belt, she threw it. The tomahawk sailed through the air, and cut the rope in two, releasing the horse and scaring the man so much that he ran away and never bothered them again.”
The morning after her father had told her this story, Laura asked for a horse. Her father was standing at the kitchen counter, pouring them each a glass of orange juice. He then popped two slices of bread in the toaster.
“We don’t have a place for a horse,” he explained, “and they’re too expensive to feed.”
“H-h-how will I b-b-b-e a real Cherokee without a h-h-orse?” Laura asked with her usual stutter.
“Maybe you should learn to throw a tomahawk instead,” her father teased.
“P-p-please, Dad!” she begged. When the slices popped up, he spread her slice with butter and placed it on a plate with a boiled egg. Laura sat down at the table and stared at her plate. Her father sat down.
“I’m not hungry,” she said. Her father thought for several moments before he spoke.
“You know,” he said. “Life’s a mystery. It often withholds what we think we want, but then it gives us something
else that’s even better.” Only one week later, he wheeled in a brand-new white Schwinn bicycle into the living room where Laura was sitting on the sofa. She jumped up, her eyes wide.
“Why don’t we go outside so you can practice a little?” her father said. In their driveway, in the space next to their dusty black pickup, she got on the bike, and as her father held the back of the bicycle’s sparkly white seat, Laura began to pedal. She pedaled around the driveway and then down to the street as her father guided and cheered. Within half an hour, she could ride by herself.
“Maybe you can ride to school when you start back in a couple of weeks,” he suggested. Hating to be reminded of school, she skidded to a stop in front of her father.
“I don’t want to go back.” Students always teased her for stuttering, shouting “Spit it out!” as she struggled to speak. Instead of fighting back, she simply stopped talking at school and watched birds or fed squirrels on the playground instead. Then there was her teacher dorky Mr. Smith from California who hung dream catchers and pictures of Pocahontas on the walls. He must have thought he was living in a Disney movie and didn’t understand anything about the Cherokee.
“You have to go to school, but you don’t have to be afraid. Remember, you’re a Cherokee.”
Laura’s Cherokee blood made her proud, but she wasn’t brave like Yona. She knew it wasn’t just your blood that made you a Cherokee anyway, but what you believed in and what you did, and who you became because of what you did. Most of the people on the reservation weren’t like
the Cherokee Laura’s father told her about in stories noble warriors and wise chiefs and girls who could ride a horse across the plains and throw a tomahawk a quarter mile. She wanted to be like the people in her father’s stories. But was she?
Chief in it and then covered him back up, patting the dirt into a mound and marking the grave with two rocks. Licking warm tears off her lips, Laura then climbed onto her bicycle pedaled away, hard and fast down the road.
Chief still hadn’t arrived, so Laura stood up and walked outside, passing a man and a woman standing together talking. She unchained her bicycle and walked it out onto the paved road, and that’s when she saw Chief: he was lying motionless in the middle of the road, his body twisted and his mouth open.
“Never mind,” Laura heard the woman say from behind her. “Cats get run over all the time.” A man near the woman chuckled and shook his head.
“Nothin’ you can do about it,” he said. Chief had probably been crossing the street to visit the rec center to visit her. She put her bike down and walked over to him and knelt down.
“Chief, I’m so sorry.” With her bare hands, she gently picked him up and carried him away from the road, placing him under a tree. The man who had just spoken to her walked up next to Chief, scraped his heel along the ground, dislodging some dirt, and then kicked some of it over Chief’s lifeless body.
“There, I buried him,” he laughed. Laura’s face got hot. She wanted to shout at the man, tell him about how much smarter and more loving Chief was than most people she knew, but instead she knelt down again and began digging a hole. The dirt was soft, and once the hole was deep enough, she lay
Instead of going home, she pedaled out of the neighborhood onto one of the reservation’s main roads. She passed a row of concrete houses, and then the post office, and finally, after riding herself tired, found herself in a distant wooded area she had traveled through many times with her father. She stopped, hearing only her loud breathing in the silent wood.
The darkening sky swirled with pink and orange. Her father would soon start asking around the neighborhood about where she was, and he would probably ground her for being out so late. Putting the memory of the rude man out of her mind, she took several more breaths before starting back. Then in the next moment, she saw something moving up ahead on her left a light brown shape in amongst the branches and leaves. It was speckled white and had big ears. A deer! It was trotting towards the road.
Bright headlights appeared from the other direction. The headlights were moving fast, and the deer might reach the road at just the wrong time. She imagined the deer ricocheting off the car’s fender. Laura waved one arm at the headlights, hoping to get the driver’s attention. Then she looked towards the deer.
“S-s-stop! D-don’t c-c-cross the street!” she shouted.
As the headlights got closer, Laura knew what she had to do.
With her left hand on her handle-
t was speckled white and had big
bars, Laura gripped the back of her seat with her right hand. Stepping forward slightly and using all her strength, she pushed her bicycle into the road. The white paint, shining under the pale moonlight, made her bicycle look like a spirit floating into the open space. Laura scrunched her eyes closed and shielded her face with her arms as if she were about to get hit. There was a screech of tires and a crash of metal against metal. Then silence.
Laura lowered her arms and opened her eyes. The deer, uninjured, bounded gracefully across the street past her and disappeared into the woods on the right. Her bicycle lay bent on the road in front of a pickup truck. In the dim light, she watched a man get out of the truck and slam his door. His left hand was clenched into a fist. Spilling from his mouth were loud words that sounded like the ones Laura’s father didn’t let her say.
Laura thought of Chief and the deer and then of Yona. She straightened up to her full height, took a breath and began to walk towards the man. She sensed words, not yet fully formed, rising in her throat.
Catherine Kelley writes from Southern California. She has had stories published in Everyday Fiction, 805, The Frogmore Papers, West Trave Review, The Blood Pudding, East of the Web, and The Bookends Review. She practices Zen meditation, hoping it will someday help her forgive the people who dump garbage on her street.
Oil over acrylic on paper on panel 13 x 13 inches
Oil on canvas on panel
29 x 34 inches
Charcoal and pastel on paper
28 x 23 inches
Oil over acrylic on paper on panel
13 x 17 inches
Joseph A. Miller is an Associate Professor of Art at S.U.N.Y. Buffalo State University, where he has taught drawing and painting since 1997. Miller’s work is in numerous public and private collections, and has been shown internationally in Finland, China, Poland and the Czech Republic, as well as across the United States, from Berkeley, California to Cambridge, Massachusetts.
T Thhe e C Cuurriioouus s
Chhrroonniiccllees s o of f
C
M Miinngglleewwooood d
A Accaaddeemmy y
In the small, picturesque town of Minglewood, nestled between rolling hills and lush green forests, stood a school as old as the town itself. Minglewood Academy, a regal brick structure with ivy-clad walls, bustled with the laughter and chatter of children. But within its hallowed halls lurked tales that few people knew tales that made the ordinary lives of teachers extraordinary. Among these educators was Mr. Hargrove, a grizzled veteran of the teaching profession and the beloved history teacher. Known for his distinctive bow ties that he claimed had “time-traveling power,” he often mesmerized students with stories of ancient civilizations. He spoke of the Pharaohs and their pyramids, of knights and their chivalry, and of revolutions that shook the world.
But what students didn’t know was that his fascination with the past stemmed from an encounter that changed his life forever.
Years ago, during a summer excavation in Egypt, Mr. Hargrove had stumbled upon an ancient artifact: a small, ornate hourglass. Intrigued, he had taken it home, but the moment he turned it over, the sands began to swirl, and in a blink, he found himself in the midst of a grand Egyptian feast. Surrounded by pharaohs and priests, he danced and shared stories. Though he returned to the present upon flipping the hourglass again, the experience infused him with knowledge and passion that spilled into his classroom each day. Students never suspected that their teacher had sipped wine with ancient kings
or debated philosophy with scholars long gone.
In the next classroom down the hall was Ms. Thompson, the spirited and quirky science teacher, known for her vibrant hair colors that changed with the seasons. If Mr. Hargrove was the sage of history, Ms. Thompson was the mad scientist who turned every lesson into an adventure. She had a knack for turning mundane experiments into magical spectacles. But what her students didn’t know was that Ms. Thompson had once been the subject of an extraordinary experiment herself.
One fateful evening at a science fair, she had unwittingly mixed substances meant for a demonstration that led to an explosion of colored foam and a burst of energy. The incident had inadvertently granted her an unusual ability: she could now communicate with plants and animals. This unique gift allowed her to incorporate nature into her lessons, asking her students to consider the perspectives of flowers as they dissected cells or how squirrels strategized in finding hidden nuts. They never realized that the 10-foot sunflower outside the window wasn’t just a decoration; it had become Thompson’s confidant and a lively participant in her classes.
Down the corridor, the music room echoed with melodies from Ms. Rivera’s piano. She was the embodiment of grace and charm, captivating students with her passion for music. Her classes were filled with enchanting harmonies, whimsical songs, and the gentle strumming of guitars. Yet, there were murmurs in the air about Ms. Rivera a rumor that she had a mystical connection to the moon.
It was said that during one full moon, Ms. Rivera had climbed to the roof of Minglewood Academy, where the town’s history entwined with legends. In her heartfelt plea, she sang a song that resonated with the stars. Legends say that the moon itself responded, granting her the ability to inspire creativity in her students. Those who listened closely claimed they could hear the subtle whispers of inspiration wafting through the air during her classes. Little did they know that the enchanting sounds were influenced by the very moon that provided her with newfound artistic insights.
The physical education teacher, Mr. Parker, was the embodiment of vitality. Athletes revered him, and even the most reluctant students found motivation in his enthusiastic pep talks. However, beneath his athletic façade lay a secret: Mr. Parker had been an Olympic athlete in a parallel world one where sports were played on floating islands suspended above the clouds. When an unexpected storm hit during a championship, he fell through a portal, landing right in Minglewood’s gymnasium.
Determined to bring a little of that airborne energy to his students, he introduced them to cloud basketball and weightless soccer, albeit modified for earthly conditions. Mr. Parker was viewed as an eccentric figure, a teacher whose endless anecdotes of gravity-defying feats kept students’ imaginations soaring high. Little did they know that every time he blew his whistle, it echoed a distant memory of soaring above the clouds, dribbling through galaxies of stardust.
As the school year progressed, the lives of these teachers intertwined, creating a rich tapestry of curiosity and wonder within Minglewood Academy. The staff’s imaginations sparked a new initiative, the “Imagination Exchange,” where students could submit ideas to explore myth, history, science, and music. This collaboration ignited a wave of enthusiasm throughout the school, with students presenting fantastical ideas ranging from time travel theories to musical performances inspired by the mysteries of the universe.
But it wasn’t until a particular day in June that everything changed. Minglewood Academy was preparing for its annual Spring Showcase, a tradition where students showcased projects inspired by their teachers. This year, inspired by the imaginative moments shared in the teachers’ classrooms, students decided to orchestrate a captivating spectacle that would combine the stories and experiences of Mr. Hargrove, Ms. Thompson, Ms. Rivera, and Mr. Parker.
The students transformed the gymnasium into a portal connecting the realms of history, science, art, and sports. With fabric draped like ancient temple walls, science exhibits demonstrating their experiments, moonlit pianos echoing harmonious tunes, and an inflatable cloud to represent PE soaring above, the showcase became a kaleidoscope of creativity and collaboration.
On showcase night, the teachers entered the gym, astonished at the remarkable display. When the curtain rose, they were swept into a whirlwind of emotions. Students acted out historical scenes, reenacted Ms. Thompson’s greatest experiments, performed enchanting musical numbers, and even replicated gravity-defying
athletics each piece illuminating the magical influence their teachers had on their lives.
However, a touch of mischief simmered beneath the event’s festive surface. Little did the teachers know that their own secrets were on the verge of being unveiled. The students had hidden clues throughhout the showcase, leading to a final revelation that would intertwine their separate stories into a hilarious and heartwarming conclusion.
As the night progressed, and the final act approached, the students beckoned the teachers to the stage. With a flourish, they presented a gift: the hourglass, a plant in bloom, a guitar strumming on its own, and a whistle that echoed with distant cheers. Each artifact represented the secret life of the beloved teachers, revealing the extraordinary adventures they had yet to share.
The audience erupted in laughter and applause. Mr. Hargrove, blushing beneath his bow tie, recounted his own fantastical journeys. Ms. Thompson embraced her plant and described her magical conversations, while Ms. Rivera sang impromptu notes that caught the moonlight’s enchantment. And finally, Mr. Parker burst into a lively narrative of life above the clouds, leaving everyone spellbound.
As the night ended, Minglewood Academy thrived with newfound bonds, understanding, and a deeper appreciation for the peculiar lives lived by those tasked with guiding the youth. The teachers realized the power of their stories, and the students learned that behind every bow tie, vibrant hair, grand piano, or whistle lay a slice of magic waiting to unfold.
The years went by, but that night remained etched in their memories a reminder of how extraordinary the mundane could truly be when curiosity led the way. In Minglewood Academy, every classroom held a universe of wonders, and every teacher became a storyteller, weaving a tapestry rich with history, science, music, and dreams, forever igniting the imaginations of the students who wandered through those ancient doors.
Plamen Vasilev is an award-winning freelance writer/poet with published works online and in various US magazines. He has been writing since he was 10. He has won numerous writing contests and has awards from different parts of the world. Vasilev is a creative person with big dreams and also loves to help people. He has certificates on Creative Writing from the UK writing centre, from the Open University in Scotland, Oxford Study Centre and Harvard University.
Mary, Mary, the Contrary Fairy
Mary, Mary, the contrary fairy
Was walking down near Old Town Derry When on a lark she went into a park, Where she gobbled up patches of berries.
The groundsman came out and began to shout, “You lout, don’t flout! You know there is no doubt “Those berries are not, are not for fairies! “Stop eating right now, and don’t hang about!”
But Fairy Mary, being quite contrary Kept gobbling up the juicy berries. One after another she gobbled and gulped, ‘Till none were left, and she felt quite merry.
The groundsman came after her with his rake, As mad as Ajax and ready to take Our little Mary right down to the ground For all the berries she’d eaten and ate.
But Mary, Mary, the clever fairy
Dashed round the brambles and then with nary A trace, simply vanished into blank space. She’s not been seen since, in Old Town Derry.
Piranha
From the Amazon, far away, Piranha came, but not to stay!
They wolfed down this, they ate up that, It’s a wonder they don’t get fat!
They are a danger to all life, They’ll eat your husband, or your wife! They love sport as much as eating.
At every piranha meeting
“We love football!” the fish will roar, They just can’t help but keep the score. They sing songs to support the teams, They recite chants, they howl, they scream!
If you want quiet in your home, To have peace, to write a poem, Strike piranha off your guest list!
These sharp-toothed fishes are best missed!
Eric Bryan’s work has been published in BALLOONS Lit. Journal, Scoop Magazine, The Caterpillar and many others around the world.
Have You Ever Thought…?
Have you ever thought that your whole life was just an elaborate dream and none of the things you believed in were even one bit like they seem?
Have you ever thought that a rainstorm was the cry of a great angry spirit and the terrible, trembling thunder was the sound of his voice as we hear it?
Have you ever thought that a snowman was just like a real human being who lives and who smiles in the winter and melts with the coming of spring?
Have you ever thought the great lion inside was a meek frightened child who claws and who fights and who injures so no one will guess that he's mild?
Have you ever thought that the seasons were fairies who dance in a ring and the snow and the wind and the sunlight were the magical gifts that they bring?
Have you ever thought the calm ocean was a mother so peaceful and still who turns with the whim of the weather to a father asserting his will?
Have you ever wished that you'd waken to find that some marvelous source had touched you and given you insight and vision and power and force?
An Acrostic
An acrostic is a unique way to versify
Cause it’s got rules with which to comply,
Rules you must keep very straight in your head
Or you’ll surely get something that’s different instead.
See that your lines’ first (or last) letters spell out a word.
The word doesn’t matter, it can even be silly or plainly absurd.
If you’d like to see an example that might come as quite a surprise.
Check out this little poem it’s an acrostic right in front of your eyes!
Dean Flowerfield (a.k.a. David Blumenfeld) is a retired philosophy professor and associate dean who resumed writing stories and poetry after a more than 40-year break. Since 2022, he has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize; one of his stories received a “notable essay” mention in The Best American Essays, 2022; 9 of his poems were finalists or received high praise in poetry contests, including one that appeared in Best American Haiku, 2023. Davidcblumenfeld.com
T Thhiirrttyy--TThhrreee e
M Maarrbbllees s
When she was eight, Emma Williams had the dubious distinction of holding the world record for filling her mouth with marbles. Gaining that distinction was not her original intent when she filled her mouth with marbles. At the time, she had no intent but to escape Billy Foster with as little personal injury as possible. Emma had been squatting down at the edge of the asphalt playground, near the school’s maintenance shed, with Regina Fletcher playing Aggies for Keepsies. Unfortunately, this area was somewhat out of the sight of the recess monitor, and its relative remoteness remoteness gave Billy Foster all of the cover he
gave Billy Foster all of the cover he needed. He sneaked up behind Emma and twisted her left arm behind her back. Shocked, Emma let out a yelp. Regina looked up from behind her glasses and promptly tipped backward onto her bottom, legs awkwardly spread in front of her, upsetting the marbles.
“Eat the marbles,” Billy said simply, giving Emma’s arm a jerk. Emma peered up at him.
“I can’t eat marbles. I’ll die,” she responded.
“You don’t have to swallow them. Eat the marbles.”
marbles,” he said again, another jerk. Emma looked at Regina. Regina stared wide-eyed at Emma and then at Billy. Emma felt another jerk. Then Emma looked down and picked up a marble. She put it in her mouth. It was cold and had bits of what felt like sand on it, which rubbed against her molars. After a few seconds she put another in her mouth. After about a minute, she surmised she had about ten marbles in her mouth. Another jerk of her arm.
“Hurry up. Recess is almost over,” said Billy. With a deep but careful breath, so as not to inhale a marble, Emma picked up several more marbles and stuck them in. She continued putting marbles in her mouth until she felt her jaw lock. After that she managed to insert a few more marbles until any additional attempts were fruitless. The marble would simply fall out. Her jaw started to ache.
Billy finally leaned around and looked at Emma, face stuck and bulging with marbles. He laughed in a funny, highpitched sort of way and dropped Emma’s arm. He then stalked off toward the school building. Emma and Regina stared at each other for a few more seconds and tears began to flow down Emma’s cheeks.
“Can you spit them out?” asked Regina in terrified whisper. Emma shook her head. She tried to say, “They’re stuck,” but all that came out was a couple of soft grunts from the back of her throat. Regina then pulled Emma up by her right arm and dragged her to the recess monitor.
“Ms. Jenkins!” she yelled breathlessly. “Ms. Jenkins! Help Emma! She’s full of marbles!” Ms. Jenkins looked at the two girls running toward her and furrowed her brow as she tried to understand what might be wrong with Emma.
be wrong with Emma. “Billy made her eat marbles!” Regina managed to explain. “Please help her! I don’t think she can breathe very well!” With a look of recognition, Ms. Jenkins grabbed Emma’s left arm and off the three of them raced to Principal Bowers’s office.
Amanda Bowers was a kindly older woman who thought she had seen it all in her many decades of working around children. But she had not. She stood up from behind her desk as she heard a commotion in the hallway and then saw Ms. Jenkins and two of the third-grade girls being pulled behind her.
“Good gracious!” exclaimed Ms. Bowers. “What on earth?”
“Billy Foster,” Ms. Jenkins said simply. Ms. Bowers grimaced, went to Emma, and then gently took Emma’s face in her hands. “Be careful not to choke, my dear,” Emma answered her by blinking her eyes. Ms. Jenkins then emptied the large jar full of pens and pencils that she kept on her desk and carefully began dislodging the marbles and dropping them – plink! – into the glass jar.
At this point, Ms. Rogers, the school secretary, peered into the room to see what was going on.
“Wow!” she exclaimed. “Marbles! How many does she have in there?”
“So far about ten,” said Ms. Bowers. Ms. Rogers leaned in closer and examined Emma and her gaping mouth.
“There must be at least twenty more in there! I’ll bet that’s a world record! Emma,” Ms. Rogers beamed at Emma, “I think you have probably broken a world record! That is something!” All of the adults looked at each other.
“Do you really think so?” asked Ms. Jenkins.
“Sure!” Ms. Rogers replied. All of the women then looked at Emma, whose eyes widened. “We need sufficient proof, though.” Ms. Rogers hesitated. “Emma, can we put the marbles back in and then record removing them? You’ll be famous.” Emma hesitated for a few seconds and then shrugged her shoulders.
That, then, is how Emma Williams got the world record for filling her mouth with 33 marbles. To be clear, it was the world record for a person under the age of 18. (An adult man in India had actually fit 100 marbles in his mouth several years before.) But that is not the end of the story. Once Billy Fletcher returned to school from his suspension and learned that Emma had been made a minor celebrity by filling her mouth with marbles, he decided that he couldn’t allow her to profit from his ingenious idea. Billy did not have any marbles of his own, so he waited until he saw Emma and Regina playing Aggies for Keepsies again and then casually walked over to them. Both girls froze when they saw him.
“Don’t worry,” said Billy. “I’m not going to make you eat marbles again. I’m going to eat marbles this time and I’m going to eat more than you. Then I’m going to be famous.” With that, he grabbed their marble bags and picked up their loose marbles. The girls tried to object, but Billy threated to pound them if they got in the way. It was then that Billy started filling his mouth with marbles, the girls looking on with increasing curiosity. The problem was, Billy had forgotten to count how many marbles he was putting in his mouth and, at some point, realized it. His eyes shifted from Emma to
Regina. They said nothing. Billy suspected that he had reached the appropriate number or more, but couldn’t be sure. So, he forced several more in for good measure. Then he gleefully trotted over to Ms. Jenkins. She looked at him and rolled her eyes. As he reached her, Billy felt something in his jaw pop and the pain was excruciating. He felt dizzy and then he remembered nothing. The other kids, however, saw him simply drop to the ground and lie motionless.
It took the paramedics fifteen minutes to carefully remove all of the marbles and then take him to the emergency room where he had to have his jaw reset and wired shut. But Billy didn’t care about that. Before they could finish wiring up his jaw, he managed to ask the most important question of his existence.
“How many?” But his tongue and lips were not working properly, so it just sounded like a muffled “ehhhhmfffy.” The doctor looked down at him quizzically and Billy had to repeat his question several times before a nurse finally understood what he was saying.
“Ohhhhhh, how many?” repeated the doctor. “How many marbles?” Billy nodded his head violently. “What a weird question.” The doctor looked at the nurse. “What does the paramedic report say? Does it report how many marbles he had in his mouth?”
“I don’t know,” replied the nurse. “Let me look.” She picked up the papers left by the paramedics and leafed through them. “Thirty-two.” She said looking at the doctor. Then they both looked at Billy, who promptly burst into tears.
Billy had always intended to try
Then they both looked at Billy, who
again after his jaw healed, but his parents told him he’d never see a video game again if he attempted it. So, sadly, the honor went to some other little boy in a different elementary school miles away. Billy couldn’t bring himself to even ask how many marbles the other boy had fit in his mouth. It was all so unfair.
Kelly Hossaini has been an aspiring writer ever since producing her first book about cats at the age of five. As an undergraduate student, she studied philosophy and in the early 1990s published a short story (no cats involved) in a since-defunct literary journal. Then life intervened and she had to get serious. Kelly spent 30 years as first an urban planner and then a land use lawyer. She retired from the law early to pursue her first love of fiction writing, and is enjoying the process.
A Crackle of Cockatoos
A crackle of cockatoos Swings upside down
A pandemonium of galahs Is heard all over town
A riot of kookaburras Laughs from the trees
An armada of bluebottles Floats in the seas
A carolling of currawongs Welcomes the dawn
A lounge of lizards Lies on the lawn
A chatter of budgies Comes in to land
A bask of crocodiles Bakes on the sand
A waddle of penguins Swims in with the tide
A paddle of platypus Tries hard to hide
A mob of emus Acts tough in the scrub
A mischief of magpies Fights over a grub
A company of king parrots Reigns over the bush
A colony of koalas Tells them to shush
A parade of echidnas Snuffles around
A wisdom of wombats Digs up the ground
A shiver of sharks Scares all in the ocean
These Aussie animals Cause quite a commotion!
The Great Northern Diver
I have heard there’s a bird called the Great Northern Diver
In a word, it’s absurd that he’s such a survivor
For on land, he hops and drops He stumbles, stops and flops
He’s sometimes called a ‘loon’ ‘Coz he walks just like a goon
Awkward and clumsy like a clown
He can’t help falling down
Of course, there’s those who mock They laugh and taunt and knock
But, they should see him in the sea
Where he’s agile as can be He swims with powerful legs He ducks and dives and threads
In the water, he’s a star
A champion, above par There really is no competition He always takes first position
So, be like the diver!
Find the place where you shine And leave those behind who mock and undermine
Erica Chester lives, writes and teaches in Sydney, Australia. She loves writing humorous, whimsical poems about anything and everything, but especially about Australia and the English language. She loves to entertain students by writing about the intricacies, and difficulties, of the English language in a fun and engaging way.
S S Sn n ne e ea a ak k ke e er r rs s s f f fo o or r r a a a
C C Co o on n nc c ce e er r rt t tm m ma a as s st t te e er r r
Friday, August 6
Dear Diary,
Guess what? I made it! I am officially a member of Strolling Strings the best orchestral group in the high school. I can’t wait to wear that gown and those shiny black heels! I’m going to be a star!
It’s going to take some practice getting used to walking and playing the violin at the same time. (Get it? Strolling…Strings?)
First rehearsal is on Monday. I wonder who else made it.
Tessie
You should see the dress! Mrs. Johnson aka MJ showed the girls a sample today. Emerald green
Monday, August 9
Dear Diary,
You should see the dress! Mrs. Johnson aka MJ showed the girls a sample today. Emerald green taffeta. It’s got poofy sleeves and goes all the way down to the floor. The boys have to wear their regular orchestra uniforms white shirts and black pants but the girls get to choose between the dress and our regular orchestra uniform. Like it’s even a choice. I hate that white button down shirt and black skirt so boring! Of course I’m going to choose the dress! I want everyone to know I’m in Strolling Strings.
Tessie
Mom said, “Just wear the orchestra
Tuesday, August 10
Dear Diary,
Bad news. The dress and heels? They cost ninety-three dollars!
Mom said, “Just wear the orchestra uniform. We don’t have the budget for some fancy outfit.”
But, what’s so special about being in Strolling Strings if you look like just a regular orchestra person?
Today, MJ met with each of us one on one. It was like a musical pop quiz. I played as best as I could. When I was done, MJ scribbled something in her notebook and told me to get the next person. I wonder what that was all about.
Tessie Wednesday, August 11
Dear Diary,
So unfair! Every single girl ordered the dress and shoes. I’m going to be the only girl in that dumb orchestra uniform and sneakers.
Tessie Thursday, August 12
Dear Diary,
Our first performance is Saturday at a country club. I hope the dresses aren’t done by then so I won’t be the only one in that ugly uniform.
Tessie
Friday, August 13
Dear Diary,
They have the fastest dressmakers in the world. The dresses came in today got rolled in on a rack at the beginning of rehearsal! I’m going to look like a real loser tomorrow.
Tessie
Saturday, August 14
Dear Diary,
What a night. The country club had a fountain out front with a curvy driveway. The girls looked so pretty in their gowns and high heels. The boys looked so handsome, too. They all got green bow ties and green cummerbunds. MJ gave me a cummerbund, too, which made me feel even more out of place. When the music started and I started to walk around the tables playing my violin, two women pointed at my feet and whispered to each other. I know they were making fun of my sneakers. I just kept on playing and walking around, but I really wished I could have just walked right out of that room and out the door. It was so embarrassing.
Tessie
Monday, August 16
Dear Diary,
MJ said our next performance is on Saturday, the 28th that’s two weeks away. I’m really not looking forward to it. When Mom came to pick me up today after rehearsal, I told her I wanted to quit Strolling Strings.
Mom said, “But you practiced all summer just for this.”
She’s right. I did work really hard. What should I do? It would feel bad to quit after working so hard. But, it also feels bad to be an oddball. I’m really not looking forward to it. When Mom came to pick me up today after rehearsal, I told her I wanted to quit Strolling Strings.
Mom said, “But you practiced all summer just for this.”
She’s right. I did work really hard. What should I do? It would feel bad to quit after working so hard. But, it also feels bad to be an oddball.
Tessie
Wednesday, August 18
Dear Diary,
Now I REALLY have something to think about. Today, after rehearsal, MJ said that she wanted to talk to me about my “audition.” Turned out that pop quiz was an audition. MJ said she was impressed with my sight-reading skills. Then, she asked if I would be interested in being concert-master. I asked her what that meant and she said that I would basically be the leader of the group. I would have to keep my section together and make sure everyone uses the same bowings and fingerings. MJ said it also means extra practice because I might have some solos. At first, I was really excited, but then, I thought: what would a concertmaster in a regular orchestra uniform and sneakers look like? Ugh.
I told her I needed to think about it.
I think she was surprised because she said, “You know this is actually a great
honor. How about you try it out for one day tomorrow?”
She thinks I can handle it. I’m not so sure.
Tessie
Thursday, August 19
Dear Diary,
First day as concertmaster and, actually, it was really fun. My first job was to get everyone in tune. It was cool to stand up in front and play my A string. Then, MJ split us up and put every section in different spots to practice. The violins stayed in the orchestra room to practice the polka. Man! We sounded like a musical traffic jam everyone playing a different tempo. I had to make everyone count and walk together. It took some practice, but eventually we got it and it sounded really good!
After rehearsal, MJ asked me if I’d made my decision yet. I told her I needed one more day to think it over. I don’t know. Will I look like a concertmaster when everyone else is more dressed up than me?
Tessie
Friday, August 20
Dear Diary,
We had a dress rehearsal today which meant everyone changed into our performance outfits. At first, it didn’t go so well because this one girl Stacy couldn’t keep up with the walking. She would just stand. MJ stopped all of us and said, “Stacy, this is Strolling Strings, not Standing
Strings.” I felt badly for Stacy. But then Stacy said, “My feet hurt. I want to wear sneakers like Tessie. That’s why she can play and walk at the same time without messing up.”
MJ said, “Do what you need to do to make yourself comfortable when you play.”
And you know what happened?
Three more girls changed into their sneakers. It turned out Stacy was right. She stopped messing up. I guess those shiny high heels must have really been uncomfortable. That really got me thinking. It’s the playing that’s important. I mean, how embarrassing would it be if you couldn’t even play right?
After rehearsal, MJ asked me if I’d made my decision. I told her that I would agree to be concertmaster on one condition.
She raised her eyebrows and asked very suspiciously, “And what is that?”
I said, “Everyone has to wear sneakers.”
She smiled and said, “You’re the concertmaster. You get to decide.”
I guess being concertmaster has its perks. But, I still need to learn that solo and I only have a week to practice!
Tessie
Saturday, August 28
Dear Diary,
What a concert! Two hours of music! I’m so glad everyone wore sneakers. I don’t think we would have made it through without comfy shoes.
After the concert, I got a lot of highfives for my solo. That felt really good. And the funniest thing happened. Some of the
girls said they’re going to start wearing their orchestra uniforms! The reason? The gowns are too tight it makes it hard to move the bow arm. How awful would that be to not be able to play because of a silly dress! Maybe I should make that a new rule: wear what helps you play your best. After all, that’s what’s important. (And what I say counts because I am the concertmaster.)
Stephanie Yu Lim has degrees from Yale College and UCLA School of Law and has been a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI) since 2018. Her short stories have appeared in Spider and The Caterpillar magazine and her writing has been recognized by the Tassy Walden Awards for New Voices in Children’s Literature.
