Issue 3 September 2011
A publication of Silver Pen, Incorporated
Cover: Sue Babcock
Kids'Magination Magazine
Kids’Magination Magazine is a publication of Silver Pen, Incorporation, which is a non-profit organization focused on quality writing and reading. Kids’Magination Learning Center is a division of Silver Pen dedicated to children who are eager to write stories about the fantastic flights of their imaginations.
Kids’Magination Director and Publisher: Sue Babcock Kids’Magination Fiction Editor: Kellee Kranendonk
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Contents
Zeon’s Message
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written by E.M. Jeanmougin illustrated by Margaret Dyer and Sue Babcock
The MVP written by Robert C. Eccles illustrated by Rosemarie Gillen
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Zeon’s Message written by E.M. Jeanmougin illustrated by Margaret Dyer and Sue Babcock
Zeon Emberwind was not sure which was worse; the fact that he was trapped underground in a swinging cage hanging suspended above a vat of boiling Bimbleweed Oil...or the fact that his cellmate was a gremlin. On one hand, the mist from the evaporating Bimbleweed Oil was very bad for his fair, elfin complexion. On the other, Griswomp, his new gremlin companion, didn’t exactly smell like a bouquet of flowers, not to mention he hadn’t stopped talking to himself since the goblins put them here. Zeon wished he could do something more interesting than contemplate which details of his confinement made him the most miserable, but he’d been up here for hours and there was nothing else to do.
illustration by Sue Babcock
In sharp contrast to Zeon, Griswomp wasn’t bored. No sir, not even a little. He crouched in the corner of his cage, holding a big bone between his small, clawed hands and chomping eagerly up and down its pale length. Occasionally, he would stop like a startled squirrel, his big, furry ears flapping Page 1
as he looked back and forth and spoke to his imaginary friends. It was nonsensical stuff mostly. Zeon had stopped trying to understand. Instead, he was sitting by the bars, looking yearningly down at his bow and quiver while absently braiding a strand of his long, raven-black hair. Beside his beloved bow, three burly green goblin guards were grunting at one another in their native language. Presently, one punched the other, which resulted in yet another pointless brawl. Zeon sighed. What he wouldn’t give to lay a finger on that beautiful bow of his one, last time. He actually flinched as the tangle of goblins rolled past it, coming within an inch of breaking its supple wooden frame. “Why vain elf so sad?” asked Griswomp suddenly. It took a moment for Zeon to realize he was talking about him, but when he did he glared. “Gee, I don’t know Gris. In about an hour they’re going to drop us into that vat of oil and fry us up for the Goblin Queen’s birthday party. That’s enough to get any guy down, don’t you think?” Gris tilted his head and twitched his ears. “Elf intends to die?” “It isn’t that I ‘intend’ to die, you furry little nuisance. It’s just that there aren’t really a lot of options at the moment, are there?” he retorted, his gray eyes narrowed in agitation. “What is it that you ‘intend’ to do?” “Griswomp definitely doesn’t intend to die.” Gris rotated the bone and gnawed on the lower portion. The goblins had given him the thing to stop his hungry whining, but Zeon sort of wished someone would take it away. The noise was so annoying. “You’re going to escape, eh? Do it then.” “Gris not stupid like elf. Gris wait for best moment,” he replied wisely. “And when, pray-tell, is that?” “Oh...Gris say...” Lowering the bone, the fluffy brown gremlin poked his twitching nose through the bars and peered down at the guards. One of them was splayed on the floor, unconscious. The other two were pointing at one another and bickering loudly. Eventually, they seemed to reach some sort of agreement because the smaller of the two fell forward on his knuckles and slouched into the other room. “Now.” In the blinking of an eye, Gris turned his chew toy sideways and and Page 2
chomped down on it while stomping at the end with his foot. The bone splintered diagonally, leaving the tip sharp. Holding the longer half between his jaws, he scampered over to the door on all fours. Too short to reach from the floor, he leaped up and hung from the bars with his feet while stretching through to jimmy the pointed bit in the old lock. Almost instantly, the door swung outward with Gris still dangling from it. Without pause, he pulled the bone from between his teeth, put it over the suspension chain running obliquely to the floor and slid down like a zip-line. The single guard grunted in surprise as the gremlin landed a mere ten feet from him. Zeon was so shocked by the display that he was still standing right where he’d been, his mouth gaping a little. Gris tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Elf comes too?” “What? Oh! Yes!” Taking three running steps, he sprang out onto the chain and grappled nimbly down. By this point the goblin had recovered from his surprise and was charging toward the little gremlin while brandishing his club. Gris was quick but not strong. He scrambled desperately in circles, trying to avoid the bludgeon and barely succeeding. The goblin was slow-witted but surprisingly sure-footed. He cut Griswomp off, pushing the gremlin into a corner. For all his craftiness, in mere moments he would be squished beneath the buffoon’s bone-club. But it was at that moment that Zeon laid hand on his bow. Snatching an arrow from the quiver, he fitted it to the string and pivoted on his heel. The goblin had the club raised skyward, poised to smash down. Gris crouched in the corner, his bone-pick lifted feebly over his head. Zeon released the arrow and the goblin went down with a grunt. Notching another, he spun to face the entrance while addressing Griswomp over his shoulder. “You alright, fuzzball?” Ears flat, Gris made a four-legged sprint to his side. “Elf save Gris?” “I wouldn’t say we’re safe yet,” sighed Zeon as the thunder of heavy feet reached his ears. The goblins were coming through their only route of escape. As the first rounded the corner, the elf sent a wooden bolt through Page 3
his center, causing him to fall and tangle in the legs of his comrades. The others trampled over them like they weren’t even there. Zeon sent three more arrows flying into the confusion as he backed away. “If you have one of those clever ideas, now would be a good time!” Gris was already in motion. Wedging his make-shift weapon underneath the bottom of the cauldron, he used it like a lever to spill the Bimbleweed Oil. As the bubbling green liquid pooled on the floor, goblins yelped and hopped backward one-footed, jostling against one another in an attempt to avoid scalding the bottoms of their feet. Zeon took the moment to grab Gris by the scruff of his neck, sling him over his shoulder and spring nimbly over the oil. His first landing put him on the shoulders of a yowling goblin. Before the bulky creature could lay hold of him, he used his sloped brow as a stepping stone to reach the other side of the spill. Then the stone floor was beneath the heel of his deerskin boot and he was racing swiftly away. Gris crawled up over his shoulder dug his claws through the elf’s leather tunic, hanging tight as they fled. Something was bellowing after them, but Zeon didn’t look back. He bolted through the confusing tunnels, dodging into the shadows between puddles of torchlight, turning whenever he could, trying to thoroughly lose his pursuers and managing to lose himself in the process. The sounds of pursuit first faded, then vanished entirely. Still, he ran, with all the speed and grace of a limber elk. Finally, he reached a passage where torches no longer lit the walls. Here he slowed out of necessity; he couldn’t see. “Elf needs to keep going forward and watch to the left. Loose stone.” Gris was so light that Zeon had almost forgotten he was there. The gremlin was about the same size as an elven toddler, though slightly puffier and smellier. He couldn’t have weighed more than twenty pounds at his heaviest and with all the adrenaline in his system, twenty pounds had hardly slowed Zeon. Looking toward the sound of his voice, he found that he could see the gremlin’s eyes quite clearly. They were pale yellow with black slits down the center, like a cat’s eyes. “Can you see?” Page 4
The eyes moved up and down in a nod. “Yes.” “Good. You watch my feet for me. I’ll do the rest.” With directions from his passenger, he slowly began to navigate through the darkness ahead. It was oppressive and unnerving and he soon found himself talking to fill the void. “So, what brings you down here, Griswomp? Lose a bet?” “Gris run away from home.” “You seem to have run decidedly the wrong direction, my friend. What scared you away?” “Other gremlins cruel,” he replied with a curtness Zeon hadn’t heard prior to the moment. Deciding it was a touchy subject, he let further inquiry drop and instead said, “I’m a courier. I’ve got a sort of important message for our princess but I don’t figure she’ll get be getting it now.” “What is elf’s name?” At first, he thought this was a foolish question, since he had known Griswomp’s name immediately. Of course, that was only because Gris had a habit of referring to himself in the third person, a trait that he and Zeon didn’t share. “Zeon Emberwind.” “Zeon Emberwind,” repeated Gris. “Well...Zeon Emberwind will deliver his message to his princess. Griswomp will help.” Zeon smiled weakly and straightened his quiver strap. “Let’s get out of here alive before we go making plans,” he said, before moving on. * “Stop!” said Gris suddenly, standing up on two legs and putting his paws atop Zeon’s head as he listened. “Why?” asked Zeon, not expecting an answer. Gris was conversing with himself in his native language again. He felt the gremlin’s claws pricking his scalp as his hands flexed nervously. “Gris?” “Water ahead. Flowing fast.” “That’s good, right? Flowing water might lead to an exit.” Or another dead end. But it was the only lead they had. Treading carefully, he began to make his way in the direction Gris had indicated. The gremlin’s ears were as sensitive as they looked. Zeon walked a good ten minutes before he, too, began to hear the rush of water over stone, and another three before they Page 5
illustration by Margaret Dyer
reached the noise’s source. There was light here, breaking through an overhead ceiling crack. Even little Griswomp could not fit through such a narrow opening, but the sight of it was mildly hopeful. It meant they were closer to the surface. Griswomp jumped down and tried to measure the depth of the water with his splintered bone but the river was swift and deep and almost took the weapon right out of his hand. He looked back at Zeon. “Can not ford.” Page 6
“No need. We’ll follow.” So they walked along, side-by-side, keeping close to the river. The number of cracks in the ceiling grew as they progressed. Zeon had even begun to feel reasonably hopeful until he spotted the exit. His elven eyes were sharper than Griswomp’s. What the gremlin saw at this range was a cluster of moss covered boulders. Zeon, however, saw what they really were. Goblins. Luckily, they had rather weak eye sight and none of them saw the dark-haired elf scoop up Gris and duck into a nearby nook. “Why-” “Shh!” he warned in an undertone. “Goblins.” “Here?” he asked doubtfully. It was a strange place for a sun-hating race to post a sentry. Perhaps, he thought, the heightened security measures were in honor of the queen’s jubilee. “What do?” wondered the gremlin in a hiss. Zeon shook his head. He didn’t know. They could turn back and try to find another route of escape, but the tunnels were a convoluted mess. The chances of stumbling into freedom before they both starved were pretty low. Urgently, he surveyed the area again and instantly felt foolish for not noticing the obvious solution. “We swim.” Honestly, it was so simple that he couldn’t believe clever Gris hadn’t thought of it first. “The river goes right out the tunnel. We’ll just hold our breath until we’re past.” The gremlin looked horrified. “No-no-no. Griswomp cannot swim! Besides, water is too fast!” “There’s ten goblins out there and I’ve only four arrows left. Unless you intend to poke the other six with that bone until they laugh themselves to death, I’d say we’re out of ideas.” Gris frowned, but nodded reluctantly and climbed over the elf’s shoulder to latch onto his back. “Okay.” Swiftly, Zeon crept over to the edge of the river, took a deep breath and slipped in. The gremlin had been right about the current. It had hold of them instantly and, though Zeon was a strong swimmer, he could not have stopped them from rushing forward. The arrows slipped from his quiver and started to Page 7
flow away ahead of them, but he managed to snag two before they were gone entirely. Then he was cartwheeling down the river, trying desperately to stay submerged. It wasn’t easy, but he managed despite his aching lungs. They were very nearly home-free when the light but consistent weight of Gris suddenly vanished from his shoulder. Zeon twisted around in surprise, only to see a flat, heavy foot falling toward his face. He rolled and it landed solidly where his head had been. Now fighting the current, Zeon pumped his way back to the surface and caught a brief glimpse of what he’d dreaded to see. They must have given themselves away, for the largest of their enemies, a half-goblin, half-troll, had waded into the center of the river and was towering there. In his great hand, he held a half-conscious Griswomp by the scruff of the neck. The river yanked Zeon back down. He went head over heels, his heart racing in panic. The river would carry him to safety, yes, but without Griswomp. He couldn’t leave him. The very thought was despicable. As his toes found their way back beneath him, he braced his feet against the bed of the river, buckling his knees and leaning hard against the current. Another of the arrows slipped between his numb fingers and twirled away, but that didn’t matter. He would only have time for one shot anyway. What happened next happened very fast but it did not seem so to Zeon. The elf pushed hard upward, bursting through the surface and into the air like a trout swimming upstream. As he neared the peak of his leap, he tightened his grip around his last arrow and brought it down into the bowstring. The muscles in his arm protested as he drew the line heavy line taut. He’d reached the top of his jump and was now descending. As the water passed his ankles, he squinted shut one eye. The water passed his knees and he lined up the shot. Then it was around his thighs and as it ascended toward his waist, he fired. He splashed down. The troll-goblin bellowed. His shot had found its mark. Unfortunately, he was once again submerged so he didn’t see his enemy fall. Too spent to keep fighting the current, he traveled limply downstream, Page 8
his body bouncing off jutting rocks and floating debris as he went. Finally, his chest hit a drifting log, knocking the wind clean out of him. He clung nonetheless, panting to catch his breath while looking frantically around. The goblins were long gone but he was still careening down the river at top speed. To make matters worse, Gris was still nowhere in sight. Struggling more fully onto the log, he shook his long hair away from his face and screamed the gremlin’s name. He was nowhere. Gone. His heart sunk. Had the troll-goblin not dropped him? But then he saw it, a small lump of brown fur floating face-down. “Gris!” he yelped, springing back into the rapids without hesitation. With the state he was in, it should have been impossible for him to paddle through the fierce swells but there was no other choice. Griswomp in his sight, he swam impossibly hard. He stretched and kicked and wriggled until, finally, he felt a long, drenched pelt in his hands. And then he paddled even harder, springing out of the water periodically for air, thrashing against the current. Then, at last, fumbling his way up the muddy bank and onto dry land. There was no time to collapse and catch his breath. In his arms Griswomp was unconscious. “GRIS?” He pounded on his back frantically. After a moment, the gremlin relented and heaved up a lungful of colorless fluid. Sputtering, he shook his head and looked around. Muddy and bedraggled, he was more akin to a giant, drowned rat than a gremlin, but his big yellow eyes were full of such gratitude that he was actually kind of adorable. “Elf did save Griswomp.” “Well, you started it,” he replied, rising wearily to his feet. His heels tried to slip out from beneath him. “Stupid mud. These are brand-new deerskin boots you know. I just-” Before he could finish complaining, Griswomp bounded up and hugged him tightly around the waist. “Er...” said Zeon awkwardly. “You’re welcome.” The gremlin seemed then to realize that elves did not hug and quickly let Page 9
himself fall back to the ground. “Sorry.” “It’s fine. So what now?” Griswomp sat back on his haunches and let his ears fall back in thought. “Doesn’t Elf still have a message to deliver? Gris will help...if that is okay...?” Zeon smiled as he wrung the hem of his cloak. “Griswomp, my friend...” He scooped the muddy gremlin off the forest floor and returned him to his shoulder. “I’d not have it any other way.”
THE END
BIOS Author Bio: E.M. Jeanmougin lives in Ohio with her boyfriend and a vast collection of books and DVDs. She likes reading, writing, and singing along (rather horribly) with musicals. She also eats her pizza backwards and has never finished a game of Monopoly. Find out more at: http:// emjeanmougin.blogspot.com/
Illustrator Bio: Margaret Dyer is a fine-artist, having made her living for over 20 years selling her pastel paintings and teaching. She is a Master Pastelist with the Pastel Society of America and an award-winning member of the American Impressionist Society.Since childhood, however, illustrating for children has been one of her goals. PUBLICATIONS The Pastel Journal (Feb. 2011, Dec. 2005, Mar. 2002, Mar. 2001, Mar. 2000, May 1999) American Artist Magazine (2010 Cover Competition, Jun. 2001) International Artist Magazine (Jun. 2005, Aug. 2003, Sep. 2002) The Artist’s Magazine (June 2002) Pastel Artist International (Jan. 2001) “How Did You Paint That? 100 Ways to Paint Figures” (2005 and 2004) “Pastel Highlights 2” (2004) “Pure Color: The Best of Pastels,” (2006). Page 10
The MVP written by Robert C. Eccles illustrated by Rosemarie Gillen
Nick Spencer was the Tacoma Turbos biggest fan. He had posters of the hockey team’s star players all over his room. He had Turbos sheets and a Turbos comforter on his bed. He brushed his teeth with a Turbos toothbrush. And now he had an authentic Jimmie Rockdale jersey. It was exactly like the one his hero wore during Turbos games, right down to the size. Sure, it hung below Nick’s knees, but it was exactly like Rockdale’s, and Nick couldn’t wait to wear it to a game. Nick and his dad were sitting at the breakfast table one morning when his dad looked over the top of his morning paper. “How about a hockey game tonight, kiddo?” Nick almost blew milk out his nose. “Are you serious? I’d love to go!” “Good,” his dad said. “We’ve got seats right behind the Turbos bench. Are you going to wear that jersey?” Nick sat there, mouth open and eyes wide. They’d be sitting right behind the team! Finally, Nick managed to get his mouth to work. “Of course!” He leapt up, ran around to his dad and gave him a big hug. “You’re the best dad ever!” “Well, I don’t know about that...” Nick’s dad didn’t get to finish what he was saying. Nick was gone in a flash, taking the stairs three at a time on his way to his room to grab his jersey. Page 11
illustration by Rosemarie Gillen Page 12
The day seemed to drag on forever. Nick found it hard to focus on his school work. He glanced at the clock every five minutes, which of course only made time go by more slowly. Finally the bell rang, and school let out. Nick sped home on his bike, wolfed down a snack and did his homework while he waited for his dad. When Nick’s dad walked through the door Nick nearly tackled him. “Ready to go, dad?” “Whoa, sport,” Nick’s dad said. “Mind if I say hello to your mother and change clothes first?” Nick stepped back. “Sorry, dad. I guess I’m just excited.” “That’s all right. Just give me ten minutes.” To Nick, those were the longest ten minutes of his life. Nick and his dad walked into the arena, and after showing an usher their tickets, made their way down to ice level and found their seats. The air was chilly as the Zamboni rolled off the ice after smoothing the surface for the game. The crowd roared, and Nick saw the Turbos file onto the ice and begin to warm up. Nick stood up and scanned the ice for his favorite player. He found Jimmie Rockdale taking practice shots against his goalie. Nick looked at Rockdale’s jersey, then down at his own. They were exactly the same. Same sewn-on numbers and letters, same team and league logos. They even had the same strap in the back that was supposed to keep players from pulling your jersey up over your head during a scuffle. The timekeeper’s buzzer sounded, and the players crowded onto the bench. Nick’s smile widened as Jimmie Rockdale shuffled behind the bench in front of him. Rockdale looked right at him, smiled and gave him a big thumbs-up. Nick could read Rockdale’s lips as he mouthed the words “nice jersey.” Nick looked over at his dad, who was grinning and holding his hand up for a high five. Nick slapped his dad’s hand, and they sat down to watch the game. The first two periods saw the Turbos and their opponents, the Carson Clippers, exchange goals. The score was tied at two with time winding down in the second period when Jimmie Rockdale scored on a breakaway. Nick and his dad jumped out of their seats and cheered, exchanging high fives with each other and everyone around them. As Rockdale skated back to the bench Nick saw that his jersey was flapping Page 13
behind him. He had gotten it caught in a player’s skate, and the jersey had been torn in two. Rockdale took off the shredded jersey and headed for the locker room. Nick expected him to return to the ice wearing a new jersey, but as time expired in the second period the star player had not come out of the locker room. When the third period started and Rockdale still hadn’t joined his teammates on the bench, Nick got worried. And he wasn’t the only one. The Turbos equipment manager was talking with the coach and shaking his head. They were standing right in front of Nick. He put his ear up to the narrow gap between the glass panels. “We don’t have another jersey for Jimmie,” the equipment manager was saying. The coach was upset. “Not even in the Pro Shop?” “Sold out,” the equipment manager replied, shaking his head. “Then I guess he’s out for the rest of the game.” As if on cue, the Clippers scored a goal, tying the game at three. Nick slumped into his seat. His dad ruffled his hair. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he said. “Someone will take up the slack.” Nick didn’t believe that. Without their most valuable player, he thought the Turbos’ chances of winning were slim. Then he had an idea. Nick reached down and pulled his jersey off over his head, leaving on the Turbos t-shirt he had worn underneath. Nick pounded on the glass, and when the equipment manager turned around Nick threw the jersey up over the glass. The equipment manager caught it and held it out in front of him. He nodded, smiled and and mouthed the words “thank you” to Nick. Then he disappeared down the tunnel toward the locker room. For fifteen long minutes Nick waited. Both the Turbos and the Clippers had some good scoring chances, but neither team could put the puck in the net. Then with about five minutes left in the game the crowd roared as Jimmie Rockdale emerged from the locker room. As Rockdale shuffled in front of Nick to join his teammates on the bench he glanced back and gave Nick a smile and a nod. Nick smiled back. He couldn’t believe it – Jimmie Rockdale was wearing his jersey! The people sitting around him patted Nick on the back. Rockdale jumped out onto the ice with about a minute to go and Page 14
the score still tied at three. Nick stood and watched as Rockdale and a teammate flew down the ice, passing the puck back and forth. The clock ticked down. Five seconds. Four seconds. Three seconds. Rockdale faked a move to the outside and fired the puck right between the goalie’s legs and into the net as time expired. The crowd erupted, and Nick’s hand was sore by the time he had finished high-fiving everyone. He hugged his dad. “That was the best game ever!” Nick said. “I’d have to agree with you on that, kiddo.” Nick and his dad waited as fans poured out of the arena. Nick was hoping to get his jersey back. He loved that jersey, and it had cost his dad a lot of money. Plus he couldn’t wait to show it to his friends and tell them about how Jimmie Rockdale himself had worn it in a game. They waited about twenty minutes with no sign of Jimmie Rockdale or any of the players. Nick’s dad put his arm around Nick’s shoulder and they started up the stairs. They were at the exit when Nick felt a tap on his shoulder. When he turned around there was a man in an usher’s uniform standing there. “Son, would you and your dad follow me?” the usher said. Nick looked at his dad, who shrugged. They fell in behind the usher, who led them through a door and down several flights of stairs. They passed through another door, and came out in a hallway full of TV reporters and photographers. They followed the usher to a door marked “PLAYERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT”. The usher knocked on the door. The door opened, and out stepped Jimmie Rockdale, dressed in street clothes and holding Nick’s jersey. “I think this belongs to you,” Rockdale said, smiling. “Would you like me to sign it?” Nick stood there with his mouth open. His dad had to nudge him to get him to answer. “That would be great! Thank you, sir!” “Call me Jimmie. And what’s your name?” “It’s Nick.” Rockdale took a marker from his pocket and wrote on the jersey: “To Nick, our MVP. Thanks! Jimmie Rockdale.”
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Rockdale handed the jersey back to Nick and offered his hand. “Thank you very much, Nick,” he said, shaking Nick’s hand. “We couldn’t have done it without you.” “You’re welcome, Jimmie,” Nick said, and Rockdale disappeared once again behind the door. The usher led Nick and his dad back up to the exit, and as they walked to the car Nick smiled. He knew that this was a night he would never forget.
THE END
BIOS Author Bio: Robert C. Eccles is a radio news reporter and anchor who enjoys writing short stories.
Illustrator Bio: Rosemarie Gillen is a professional Children’s Book Illustrator who has won several awards for her illustration work. She enjoys working with authors, taking inspiration from their work and making their stories come to life. She believes in a wonderful partnership between author and illustrator who work together to create something special a child will want to read over and over. Visit her website at www.rosemariegillen.com
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