Spring 2011 - Children's Books

Little Bird Laurie Schutza

Stranger

Ren Brabenec

Second Place Illustration

Dreamweaver Sara Chantland

Third Place Illustration

You Will Fight Dragons My Child Elizabeth McMillin Third Place Literary

Alice in Wonderland Lindsey Dell

Once Upon and Twice Beside John Pahl

Why Horses Whinny

Read Me a Story Chairs

My Knight

Rabbits, Pirates and Castles

Holly Wren Spaulding Third Place Literary Pamela Bennett Best In Show

My Son Kenny Pamela Bennett

Mike Cotter First Place Fine Art

Pamela Bennett

Bonne Maman Laurie Schutza

First Place Graphic Design

Castle and Blowing Wind

The Grimm Times

The Witch of Destoorbia Library

The Surfing Otters

Amelia Shugar

Christopher LaPierre Second Place Fine Art Alexander Walsh

Ren Brabenec Second Place Literary

Handmade Book

Untitled Cut Paper

Bromelaid

Kelly Feger

Patricia Schaefer

Pamela Bennett

The Annotated Alphabet Caroline Schaefer-Hills and Diana Huff

Surrounded by a Fairytale

Ashley Hansen Fine Art Honorable Mention

She Dances, He Dreams Ren Brabenec

Untitled

Jon Alexander

Summer Days Laurie Schutza

Third Place Graphic Design

Red Riding Hood Sara Chantland

First Place Illustration

Imagination Alex Schmitz

First Place Literary

String Thing Laurie Schutza

Alphabet Lino Prints Erin Deloney Front Cover: Childlike Stickfigure Paul Cecilio – Third Place Painting Back Cover: If Games were Real Mike Dumas– Second Place Graphic Design

The semester started out with an idea of whimsy and reflection.

With Where the Wild Things Are, Red Riding Hood, Tangled, and other plays on classic children’s stories being made into films, why not explore a college magazine made from our own thoughts as kids. Wouldbe submitters could explore their childhood fantasies from a whole new level. The NMC Mag staff prepared for the issue by attending the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators conference in New York City this past January — perfectly getting stuck in the fabled snow storm of the century. We anxiously looked forward to whatever the imaginations of our fellow students could come up with.

We were not disappointed. Our submission inbox filled up with delightful designs and fanciful stories. It seems that in the midst of college classes, part-time jobs, and the act of being “grown-up”, NMC students and friends relished the opportunity to release some childish creativity.

Then came the fun part, putting the magazine together! With many hours spent reviewing material, editing submissions, organizing, coordinating, and laying out submissions, the NMC Mag staff worked diligently to complete this children’s edition. After many emails, and collaborations, here is the finished result. It’s something “the kid in all of us” could be proud of.

Special thanks to John Pahl and Caroline Schaefer-Hills, our fearless advisors who have put in countless hours of their personal time for us; to Maria Kinney, former Magazine editor and designer at Lindy Lazar, for judging the art and design submissions; and finally, to you for picking up this issue of the NMC Magazine. We hope you love it!

Copyright © 2011 by NMC Magazine Printed by Allegra Printing Company Traverse City, Michigan Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data NMC Magazine Volume 31, Issue 2 Summary: A collection of student literary and visual works that explore childhood memories, fantasies and whimsy.

ISBN 11-165-80702-X 1. Whimsical Art 2. Juvenile literature

Brought to you by the letter A Little Bird created by Laurie Schutza

Brought to you by the letter B Dreamweaver created by Sara Chantland

You Will Fight Dragons My Child Elizabeth McMillin “O child, Nurse lies to thee For Dragons thou shalt see And Dragons thou shalt smite” Hilary Pepler We teach our children some things don’t exist, no magic in this world. We lie and say, don’t fear, there are no monsters in the mist.

No heroes needed to keep them at bay.

Just close their eyes, let heads on pillows lay, no fairy dust to bless them. We insist this world never housed beings like the Fay, but my child, you will have dragons to slay.

Creatures more terrible than legends tell, brought on by greed and righteousness and man.

I have no sword for you, no magic spell.

On your own you will meet them, make your stand.

Only this can I tell you, share this token, that, oh my child, you shall fight your dragons.

WHY HORSES WHINNY Holly Wren Spaulding —a sort-of found poem They whinny when they hear a horse they can’t see.

They whinny or nicker when a human brings feed— they whinny for oats or hay, and especially for carrots, but also when the girl is late with their meal, flustered from lingering where the farm hand mends fences.

A mare will whinny to call her foal or from worry when they’re separated in the field.

Pair-bonded horses will whinny, bellow, and scream when one is moved to another paddock for some reason.

A show horse will whinny and carry on endlessly when his mate is in the ring performing without him.

A stallion will whinny when he smells a mare.

A foal will whinny to find its mother.

Horses will whinny and squeal when afraid.

I was in a barn once when lightning struck hard and twenty horses tried to break from their stalls, all of them bawling, banging and crying, the grass smouldering fifty yards away in the dark.

Later, the soft whinnying when the storm had stopped.

Brought to you by the letter E My Son Kenny created by Pamela Bennett

Brought to you by the letter E My Knight created by Pamela Bennett

Brought to you by the letter G Castle and Blowing Wind created by Christopher LaPierre

The Witch of Destoorbia Library “Come on, Timmy, a dare’s a dare,” said Stan. He slapped his hands together, rubbing them back and forth vigorously, something he always did when anything exciting was about to happen. Ten-year-old Timmy and his two friends hid behind one of the many identical bookcases in Destoorbia County’s library. From his vantage point Timmy had a clear view of the head librarian’s office. The office door was closed, but he knew Mrs. Nezbit was on the prowl, stalking around and scolding kids for handling her books in any other way than with the utmost care.

“Yeah, but she’s so weird and creepy,” Timmy said. “And what if she comes back while I’m in there? I mean what if she has a big cauldron in there and she tries to cook me up?”

“Yeah right, Tim,” said John, the third member of the gang, “you were just saying you don’t believe in witches!” John thumped him on the back, and though Timmy knew it to be a thump of encouragement, it only made his asthmatic lungs seize up.

“I don’t know guys,” Timmy said through a short burst of coughs. “I’ve heard some pretty weird stories about her.”

“Naw, Timmy, you’re just trying to chicken out. Now be a man and do the dare,” said Stan. ***

Earlier that day Timmy and his friends had been dropped off at the library after school, and while doing their supposed homework (gaming on the library computers and joking about principal Rommel’s silly glasses) they saw the head librarian. She prowled through the book aisles, a cougar hunting for those unfortunate enough to be handling her precious books. She wore an old moth-ridden black dress, perhaps an heirloom from the dark ages, a revolting red sash around her neck, and shiny black high heels. How she managed to sneak up on people with those heels puzzled Timmy.

Her skin wrinkled and stretched into new forms with each movement. Her hair was a long fuzzy mop of midnight, and the glasses on her face were thicker than Timmy’s pinkie finger. Timmy’s friends and classmates had told him stories of encounters with the “Destoorbia Witch.” Apparently her breath was so pungent it caused delirium, and her fingernails must’ve been filed to a razor’s edge from the way they dug into the skin as she gripped troublemakers and bodily escorting them off the premises.

“Hey guys!” Stan had exclaimed. Timmy was shaken out of his dark reverie as Stan beckoned his buddies to huddle closer as he lowered his voice. “You know what, guys?” he whispered, “I bet Mrs. Nezbit is a witch!” Timmy scoffed and flapped a hand in dismissal, accidentally knocking his computer’s mouse off the table and causing quite a racket. Retrieving the mouse, Timmy looked up to see Mrs. Nezbit glaring at him from outside the computer room. Her eyes bore straight through his body and soul, and he almost dropped the mouse again as he shakily set it back on the table.

Brought to you by the letter I Untitled Cut Paper created by Pamela Bennett

“Seriously, Stan,” Timmy said turning away from Mrs. Nezbit’s cold gaze. He lowered his voice. “Just because she’s a weird old lady who doesn’t like kids doesn’t mean she’s a genuine witch. Besides, there’s no such thing as witches anyway.”

“There is too!” argued Stan. “She poisoned my big brother last year! He was bending the spine of a book to see how far it could go before ripping, and she came up and grabbed him! Joe said she took him into her room and she made him drink a weird potion thingy and he was sick for a week!”

John was sold, but Timmy was still not convinced. “Yeah right Stan, your big brother is just a big liar.”

“No he isn’t! He said she acted all nice like and she gave him a glass of juice and talked to him about being naughty and then she just sent him home,” Stan raised his voice. “And my mommy and daddy told me Joe had the flu and to stay away from him so I wouldn’t get sick too!”

“Wasn’t your brother sick when everybody else at school was sick too?” asked Timmy, the logical thinker.

“Yeah, but she poisoned him okay? She’s a witch and she almost killed my big brother!” Stan insisted.

The boys argued for a short while, and after Timmy continued to insist that Mrs. Nezbit wasn’t a witch, Stan and John dared him to investigate the librarian’s office to prove her normalcy. At first Timmy refused, but Stan threatened to tell everyone at school that Timmy was chicken if he didn’t.

The boys crept from the computer room and snuck across the library to a convenient set of bookcases near Mrs. Nezbit’s office. They set up some peepholes between books and made sure she was nowhere in sight. Timmy took a few deep breaths in preparation for the dare while his friends watched. ***

Timmy swallowed down the lump in his throat, took a quick pop from his inhaler, and stepped out from behind the bookcases. He overheard a whispered exchange between John and Stan. “Is he really doing it? But what if she really is a witch? She’ll eat him up!” said John.

“Shut up John, he won’t get caught,” said Stan.

Time slowed down as Timmy traversed the open space between the bookcases and Mrs. Nezbit’s office. With each step he pictured Mrs. Nezbit’s talons grabbing his shoulders and her long hook nose pressing against his ear. “And where are you going my deary?” she would say with breath like road kill. And then I’d simply get kicked out of the library, thought Timmy. No problemo. She may scare the pants off everyone, but it’s not like she’s a real witch or anything. Timmy tried to persuade himself that there was nothing to fear, but his thoughts weren’t as convincing as he had hoped.

Timmy shook off his fear and tiptoed to the office door. With his hand on the doorknob he looked over his shoulder to check that no one was watching. Timmy’s heart nearly left his body via his mouth because there she was, towering over him like a dark cloud of doom. ***

The blood red lipstick contrasted horribly with the skin’s pallor. The red shawl swung in the air like a plumb line as she stooped to bring her face unbearably close to Timmy’s. She put her hands on his shoulders and, much to Timmy’s amounting terror, her fingernails certainly felt sharp and pointy. When she spoke her breath caused Timmy’s mind to reel, and her voice croaked like a soprano with a frog in her throat.

“Now what do we have here?” she asked.

Timmy couldn’t look her in the eye, so instead he stared at the spot where his friends were supposed to be. They definitely were there, but they just stood still, feet glued to the ground and jaws dropped wide in fear. Timmy risked looking Mrs. Nezbit straight in the eyes and instantly wished he hadn’t. The stare was cold and emotionless, the gaze a hungry wolf gives its prey before going in for the kill.

“Are we lost, child?” asked Mrs. Nezbit tilting her head to the side.

It took Timmy a few seconds before he realized she had actually asked him a question. He stuttered and blundered and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“Ye... ye... yes... ma’am. I was looking for the bathroom.”

Before Timmy could get over his surprise at his downright lie, Mrs. Nezbit spoke.

“Oh, well now young man, let me take you in the proper direction!” she exclaimed, waving a finger in the air, and cackling just a little bit.

She’s gonna take me in the bathroom and hang me from the stall door, I just know it. Mrs. Nezbit firmly took his hand and led him briskly to the men’s bathroom. Soon the bathroom was in sight and Timmy began to panic, though his asthmatic wheezes were the only indicators of his inner trauma. This is it. She’s gonna knock me off in the bathroom.

The bathroom! I’m gonna die in a bathroom!

Mrs. Nezbit’s voice awoke Timmy from his thoughts. “Well, here we are young man. Go on now.” They’d stopped in front of the men’s restroom door.

Timmy wasn’t quite sure he’d heard right. What was going on? Was this some kind of trick? There was the restroom door right in front of him, but Mrs. Nezbit had stopped, hands on her hips and waiting expectantly.

“Whaa?” Timmy squeaked.

“Well?” inquired the librarian impatiently. “Do you have to use the bathroom or not? It’s right there, Sonny.”

Timmy stood there still as stone. Wasn’t she going to eat him? Wasn’t she going to take him in the bathroom and do him in? Come to think of it, Mrs. Nezbit actually wasn’t all that scary. Timmy gaped at her, finally realizing that she was just a weird, old librarian lady, and not a witch at all.

He felt his feet moving towards the bathroom. His mind was still in a daze but his body had finally realized what was going on. The witch of Destoorbia Library was just a grumpy old lady! Walking over the threshold, he looked over his shoulder one last time at Mrs. Nezbit before closing the door behind him.

Brought to you by the letter J The Annotated Alphabet created by Caroline Schaefer-Hills and Diana Huff

Brought to you by the letter K Surrounded By A Fairtytale created by Ashley Hansen

The boy sits on the leather couch. It smells like... pears? Or maybe that's the pear upside down cake his relatives made. His belly is full. Five delicious turkey sliders, two pieces of cake, and two beers churn around in his tummy, making him drowsy. All his relatives sit or stand around him in the parlor talking, joking, laughing.

Despite all the noise and clamor from his family the melatonin in the turkey slowly puts the boy in a subconscious state. He still hears his relatives, answers when called upon, chuckles at the punch line of some joke he doesn't even really hear, smiles at the end of a funny story. But his mind starts to wander.

It's been awhile since she's danced into his mind. It's been awhile since the angel with the bright green eyes, the long blonde hair, twirled across his drooping eyelids. It's been a busy couple days. The boy's been up in the mountains with his family, hiking, climbing, visiting, good food, good people.

But now as he drifts off into a dream state, she dances as he dreams, of times not too long ago, yet seeming so far away.

His lids droop closed, and he leaves the parlor, his family, the smell of fresh pears, and is drawn into another room, a room he hasn't visited in a long time. Dim lights, warm, low illuminating glows strike shadows in the corners. Music plays from somewhere, the boy doesn't know where.

And from the shadows she steps, a beautiful girl in an olive green dress.

Blonde hair, vivid green eyes. She steps under one of the lights, the soft, incandescent orange glow making her skin and hair shine, her smile dazzling as she holds an arm up, hand bent upwards at the wrist, beckoning the boy to her. He doesn't think. He just moves. Moves to her. Takes her hand. And they dance.

Untitled created by Jon Alexander

Brought to you by the letter M

I see flowers, a dinosaur, a motorcycle, and a racecar.

STRANGER The smoke in the room was so thick it made seeing hard and breathing harder.

Saloon's double doors creaked noisily on rusty hinges as a stranger walked in. The scruffy man wore weathered chaps, a shirt, and a hat – all black. A big iron rested on his hip as comfortably and as in place as a parrot on a circus master’s shoulder. Weekold stubble sketched dark patterns on his chin, and his eyes glinted beneath the brim of his hat.

The saloon’s patrons stopped what they were doing, not for long, but long enough to see the black-clad man come in. Payton Wolfe paused to view his surroundings with a knowing eye. In just seconds he’d taken in the whole scene: the poker players with their shiny hair, shiny coats, shiny hats; shiny everything, the ranch hands complete with chaps and vests almost as worn out as his, the pretty hookers with their corsets and tights, the bartender with his handlebar mustache, and the piano player, his hair slicked back and black pinstripe vest shining like a Black Beauty’s flanks.

The music, the dancing, the card games all resumed as the stranger sauntered over to the bar. Nobody felt quite at ease, though. They couldn’t think why, but something or everything about that stranger wasn’t right. Looking down at their boots so as not to catch his eye, a couple of big brutes at the bar shuffled over and made room for Wolfe, and proceeded to keep their distance from the man whose silent gaze was more menacing than that of a double-barreled, twelve-gauge staring you down.

Wolfe put his elbows on the bar, and when he spoke his voice shook like the very rattlesnakes in the underbrush just a few steps outside. “Bartender,” he said addressing the fat man with the fancy mustache, “Liquor. Now!” Baxter the Bartender eyed Wolfe with caution. Man has the face of a killer and eyes like Lucifer himself. Baxter tried to quell his thoughts and served up a shot of his second best. You never gave just nobody your best liquor, not unless you were sure they were good for it.

Wolfe downed that shot like a man dying of thirst in the desert. Anyone who’d been watching carefully might’ve seen his eyes flare briefly with a red glow as the drink sent tiny explosions through him. The again, they might not’ve.

The drinking went on for an hour, and the clientele began to forget the stranger’s very existence, though the cloud of vague unease remained. When the dusty cowboy stood to leave, a veil of silence again settled upon the saloon, and as before, the players stopped playing, the hookers stopped dancing, the piano stopped sounding and the cowhands stopped spitting yarns. Everybody watched as the stranger ambled to the saloon’s door.

The room seemed to get darker with each step and each clink of Wolfe’s spurs, and anyone who’d have been brave enough to look at his eyes would’ve definitely seen a faint red glow this time, almost masked by the shadow cast by his hat brim, but not quite. Wolfe pushed open the saloon’s doors and disappeared into the night, and everyone began to breathe again. They went back to their respective activities, but it wasn’t the same. A dark cloud hung over the saloon, and it wasn’t going away.

Brought to you by the letter O Alice in Wonderland created by Lindsey Dell

Once Upon and Twice Beside— Alice in Prepositionland John Pahl Once inside a time, behind a day and beneath a year, Alice—in ten and well astride her age—fell across a hole, which swallowed her up, a long deep swallowing, like a well around and over a stone. She sailed into, deep and far, within many seconds that seemed along an hour, until poor Alice landed with and among a blackand-white tiled floor.

By a moment, she’d picked herself up from off of (whew!) that floor and looked without (not within) and some around. On an eyeblink for the corner, she saw him, the very harried white-with-white rabbit who’d led her unto the dark-down entrance at the first place.

He looked to his watch, wound it around—which is to say up—pressed it beside his ear, and shook it out, muttering below his breath, “I’ll be late, late!” then looking to the watch hands, mixed across his face with sadness and worry both in.

On he ran, or off, Alice couldn’t tell, but knew she had to follow down on him for order to find some way up home. Somehow she knew he knew some answers around her questions, particularly which way home was at or on or in.

After too long, the white worried rabbit stopped running and began stopping, not on accident but by purpose. He stood around the foot of a giant fungus, a mushroom that grew down as much as up. There unto its top lay the same caterpillar Alice had twice dreamed beneath, on dreams with bed, to home. He smoked along, of his huge tobacco— or something fuming— hookah, frowning without, and finally asking at the fidgety rabbit, “On what time is it? And at what are you late?”

“Oh my,” the rabbit offered out. “I’m so to the lateness that I simply can’t stay at here to explain with it!” And on—really off—he scampered.

Before Alice could follow on by running at the vanishing rabbit, the caterpillar caught her on his sharpened gaze. “And who might you be, in now?”

“Uh, sir,” Alice managed to get off, “I’m Alice now and have been all beside, err. . . all along. Nothing ‘in now’ about or of or in me.”

“Ah, but aren’t you in now, on this very moment, you who go beside the name Alice?”

“Sir, with respect, I’m here now, not in now, like in some box, nor am I beside my name, though I do go by my name, Alice, on all occasions.” She paused, then asked, “Is it just this strange place, or do you speak oddly? Your little words—what are they called?--the ‘ins’ and ‘ons’ and ‘besides’ to English—they’re prepositionals or something, I think. Are you teasing me by mixing them up so? Or is it just me?

Because even about my head I’ve had some thoughts as peculiar as your words, the bits and pieces mixed up.”

“Oh, I never mix things up,” declared the caterpillar, puffing across a cloud with thick smoke. “I always mix things down. It’s just natural to mix things down. But you’re the odd little speaker, my dear girl, saying things like ‘on all occasions.’ How upon this or even under your own world, can anything be on an occasion, any more than that silly rabbit can be on time. As though time were a mantle piece or end table, or as though an occasion were a plate you might place something on—or at!” He blew more smoke without his smiling lips. “And I must ask, when you go by your name, do you stop and say hello, or merely carry off, leaving the poor thing under your dust? And I won’t even inquire at what you meant in ‘mixing them up so,’ since ‘so’ has no up, down, or lateral in or on it.” He poked his finger among the smoke, then added, “Nor does up have the slightest bit about so.”

“Dear of me, you are mixed u—well, just mixed. I don’t pass my name like passing a lamppost when I go by it. I just go by it, meaning I’m known as, I call myself Alice.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call yourself too loudly, my girl. It can harm one’s ears and cause headaches. But if you were to stay within us, that is, remain unto those without us for this special place you’ve come at, you would sooner or later understand why the little words we use may serve us as we or they please—even as you mentioned a moment awent, that your own thoughts began taking new shapes, below your fall with the long hole.”

He puffed theway, looked after the smoke, and added, “Soon, staying at here, you may wonder why you ever talked things over, in home upon your parents, when it makes far more sense to talk them under or across. Or you’ll laugh with how silly it is to ‘fall in love with someone’ when it makes far more sense to fall over love—it is rather like a cliff, you know— onto someone, though there are some towards us who insist that we fall under love, but they’re unsane, or at least offsane, of my opinion.”

At this, Alice shook her head. “I can’t agree in that, but since you seem to know so much over everything . . .” she paused under a moment, sensing that her own words were not, well, quite her own. “I mean, since you are so knowledgeable, sir, could you perhaps tell on me--or is it at me?—how I can return for my home? Go at home? Does my question make sense? I do hope it does.”

“Oh, it makes sense all right. As much sense as any words coming over the tongue and without the brain. But I won’t tell you how to get in home, because I won’t need to, nor will you need me to do so, not unto you see this.” And he pointed on a white speck bouncing within the forest path that led unto and uptill and topast them.

“Ah” spoke the caterpillar, when the speck arrived, looking very much like the whiteto-white rabbit, still worried, much akin that harried one. On fact, it was the very same hurried, harried one. “You are forth!” spoke the caterpillar. “And just at time to guide our Misalice homeat, houseward, and toway.”

“Uh, well, if she must follow upon, then she must hurry along me,” the rabbit said, looking once more unto his watch, the hands to which twitched even as he stared to them.

“I’m on, right now!” And by that, he hopped under such speed as rabbits can.

“Please wait down or slow up, Dear Rabbit!” cried Alice. “I have longer legs but that seems to make them slower . . . slower.”

And of that moment, as Alice’s running legs slowed off, like stirring a stick around and within cold molasses on March, she felt a blade of grass brush beside her leg, tickling her up, waking her down unto the here and then. She was upwake, and all was right on the world.

So she ran along the grass, among the sun, unto the garden and up until her front door house. She was to home!

And nothing among her world in now and below, was ever the same—quite—again.

Rabbits, Pirates, “You need to get to sleep!” Mom scolded. “You have school in the morning.” I remember I lay in my bed upset once again that I had gotten into trouble. I shared a room with my sister, and I could hear the rhythm of her breathing as she slept in the twin bed across the room from mine. My mother had caught me writing past my bed-time again.

It was not the first time and it would not be the last. Not that I wanted to go against her wishes, but it was night when my imagination came full force into my mind, keeping me awake and restless. I did not dare turn my flashlight back on, and it was too hot to be totally covered from head to toe under the blanket.

Brought to you by the letter Q

and Castles

Read Me a Story Chairs created by Mike Cotter

Pamela Bennett

It was not my fault I could not sleep, and although I understood why I was supposed to go to sleep, I could not help but be angry that I could not stay up and write. There was so much to tell that I wanted to put down on paper. So many things in my imagination that I wanted to bring to life that needed to get out of my head and onto the paper. But I could not chance writing again. Unsettled, I looked around the room in the moonlight and the silhouettes of familiar things became monsters, and princes, pixies and elves. That was not helping, so I gazed out the window at the stars and thought about a million things as I listened to my younger sister sleep.

We lived in the country, and my parents had bought property and built our home just down the road from my grandmother’s house. We could see her house and barn from the kitchen window, and I would walk up to spend time with her at least two or three times a week. I did truly enjoy her company, but the main reason that I went so often was that my grandma was one of my best friends. My sister and I were the only children where we lived, and although I loved spending time with her also, my sister is six years my junior and sometimes I simply desired adult conversation other than my parents’, and that my sister could not provide.

I can remember spending time with my grandmother though, even before my sister was born. I think I was four when she read the story of “Peter Rabbit” by Beatrix Potter to me.

It was only one of many books that Grandma would always read to me when I was little, but as I became older, she would tell me wonderful stories of her true-life experiences.

My grandmother had nine children, my mother being the youngest of the nine. I recall being so upset and crying at her house when my grandma was talking about her great grandchildren. “What’s wrong Pammie?” my grandmother asked concerned.

“Why don’t you think I am great?” I asked my grandma through my tears. My grandmother laughed and put her arms around me and told me that I was her “greatest” grandchild but she did explain to me later the difference between being a grandchild and a great grandchild. It was a bit confusing at five years old, especially since most of my cousins who were her great grandchildren were older than I. My grandmother was a lively, heavyset woman with short, curly white hair and a big smile. When she was at home, she always wore a flowered apron over her dress. Her home was the perfect setting for a storyteller. It always smelled of fresh baked bread and other old-fashioned food smells. She always had a bowl filled with circus peanuts, chocolates, peppermints and too many other candies to mention set on the table. Beautiful English ivy plants grew throughout her house both inside and out. Her home was always warm and comfortable with big puffy chairs and handmade quilts. My grandmother’s name was Inez, and she was born on June 27, 1895.

She had, at the age of 16, married my grandfather, Louis, who shared her birthday but was born in 1889. My grandfather died in 1966, and although my grandfather died when I was three, I feel as if I knew him because of my grandmother’s skills at story-telling. Grandma would share with me wonderful stories of traveling by horse and buggy and many stories of new inventions (such as television, radio, cars and telephones). It was always fascinating to hear her share first-hand accounts of the introduction of these things that were to me, of

Brought to you by the letter S Bonne Maman “Grandmother” created by Laurie Schutza Product identity created for Bonne Maman Preserves

course, commonplace. She left this world in June of 1981, a year before I was to graduate high school. To my surprise on the day of my commencement, I received a graduation card from her in her handwriting (which I knew very well). Although I will always miss her, she left me with many gifts, a love of life, history and of story-telling.

My Grandma Rocho was not the only one of my grandparents to influence my love of literacy by creating desires inside me to create, perform or imagine. My grandfather Woodrow and grandmother Dorothy Cantrell also had a major influence in these areas.

Their influences were in slightly different areas, however. I loved so much going to visit or stay with grandma and grandpa. My father was the oldest of their four children, and this made them the same age as some of my mother’s older brothers and sisters. We could always look forward to time outside with my grandfather, who had an immense love of nature. He would pass on his knowledge of trees or other plants and would tell us stories of my father when he was little. Those true stories were always fun to hear. I looked forward to helping grandpa build a fire at night in the fireplace whenever I was to spend the night—in part because I love the atmosphere that having a lit fireplace creates in a home and in part because I knew that the music would soon begin. My grandparents both played instruments. My grandfather would play the guitar and my grandmother the piano. This gave me a love for music and inspired me to learn how to play the violin, and of course with that came the desire to read music.

My grandmother Dorothy, perhaps, was the most direct influence in my life, giving me my love for the written word. Grandma was raised by nuns at The St. Mary’s Lake Convent in Battle Creek after being left at the convent’s dock. She had a passionate love of God, and I would hear her saying her prayers late into the night when I slept over.

Many times she would recite the prayers in Latin, and listening to the words as I was drifting off to sleep created in me a deep desire to learn more about the mystical sounding words. It is a knowledge that I still pursue even today. Grandma’s religious faith has also had a great influence on me. I love listening to Gregorian chant and love the ceremony of the Catholic Church. After my grandmother passed, my grandfather gave me a gargoyle that belonged to her. It is the one true antique that I still have possession of, as it was sent to my grandmother from her cousin who was a priest at the Vatican in Rome. He was apparently able to do so when they were redecorating some of the offices, and it is said to be over 150 years old.

Along with visiting my grandmother, our family traveled frequently. My father would take our mother and us many places. Our dad always had a way of making every place we went magical. When we went to Florida, Dad took me to see “Pirate” ships and “mermaids.” I was six years old and my sister had just been born when I encountered my first pirate. My parents still have pictures of me at the wheel of the pirate ship. I stood just tall enough to be able to turn it. The mermaids were at Cyprus gardens, and I remember they swam so beautifully. I was totally in awe of them and of course, because I was so young, I had no idea that they were really underwater ballet performers in mermaid costumes. My father also took us to a ghost town in Nevada and to the Painted Desert.

With my sister being a newborn baby, my mother was busy a lot. So my dad and I would become nomadic archeologists. We would venture into the fields and along the tree line of the woods behind our house and we would dig for dinosaur bones. I do not believe I actually found any, but I did find a few arrowheads.

When we could not go adventuring, my father and I would spend time drawing and crafting and he would tell me stories. We would both draw as he told me of King Arthur, Blackbeard, The Count of Monte Cristo and Ivanhoe. Robin Hood was one of my favorites, and I can remember the first time Dad took us to a restaurant called “Sherwood Forest.” I was ecstatic! The restaurant looked liked a forest on the inside, with trees between the tables and a fountain that looked like a stream. I can remember being a bit disappointed that I did not get to meet Robin Hood, but the magical atmosphere of the place kept me very content. It was the prelude to the renaissance festivals that I would later attend and all the other adventures I would go on. My dad would tell me a lot about castles and knights. It seemed to be one of our favorite topics even when I had gotten a little older.

Since that night long ago I have spent a small fortune on flashlight batteries.

Now that I am older, when I have a restless night and my imagination fills my mind, the darkness in the room fills with light and with the inspiration of rabbits, pirates and castles, my writing takes flight.

Vol. 1 No. 2

The Grim Magic Education failing?

Little Miss Muffet Press Staff Writer

Magical authorities begin to question education after Little Red Riding Hood’s lack of discretion regarding wolves. According to investigators, Red could not differentiate between a wolf and a human being, namely her grandmother.

While the Big Bad Wolf is being charged with criminal ingestation, Red is receiving therapy at the Sleeping Beauty Solace Center.

Authorities will continue Press Photo Courtesey/Sarah Chantland investigating, to find where the magical education system went wrong.

Until the investigation is complete, authorities encourage parents to talk to their children about wolves, and insist that they not associate with strangers, particularly those with big ears and teeth.

A breakthrough of Tracking Technology released by Hansel and Gretel Inc. Tom Thumb Senior Press Writer

After the repeated failures of bread tracking techniques, Hansel and Gretel, Inc., released a new positioning system in alliance with a foreign company, the Willy Wonka Factory. The new devices, called Glowing Gumdrops, are said to be the greatest tracking devices of our time.

“The Gumdrops are coated with an electronic sugar coating which increases their glow, and visibility,” said Gretel. “Mr. Wonka has also assured us that the stickiness of the gumdrops ensures that they cannot be moved by any mischievous forest creature.”

The success of the devices has yet to be tested by the Fairy Product Safety Commission (FPSC).

Brought to you by the letter T Newspaper Layout created by Anjanette Merriweather Written by Amelia Shugar

Your “Pretend” Told Fantastically

m m Times News Briefs of the Forest

Wedding Announcement After a long courtship, the Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Paper Ballerina wish to announce their engagement. The two will be married in the castle dollhouse on the Summer Solstice.

Leading Initiative of Talented Tinies in a Large Earth (L.I.T.T.L.E.) Club Led by Thumbelina and the Seven Dwarfs. Explore the benefits of being small! Office open seven days a week, although new members encouraged to visit on Tuesdays when Happy is working. Simply call, 1-234-LITTLE. Outbreak of child abductions Crimes against “first borns” have been initiated with the Wicked Witch’s attempt to hold Rapunzel captive for life.

Since the Wicked Witch’s plan was foiled, other cases of wickedness have been occurring, such as the Rumpelstiltskin’s latest attempt. Other suspects being investigated for malicious intent are stepmothers, and the Two Wicked Stepsisters. If you suspect any evil intent, or experience feelings of wickedness, please call 1-234-mothergoose direct.

Rapunzel donates hair for grand opening of new charity home.

At a historic event in fairytale history, Rapunzel will cut her hair for the opening of the well-secured home, Huff-Enuff, sponsored by the Three Little Pigs. At the opening the golden locks will be stretched across the red brick entrance, then cut by the famed princess herself.

“It’s for a good cause,” said Rapunzel. Although Rapunzel denied rumors of an elopement with Prince Charming, she emphasized that she would be buying a very tall ladder soon.

The opening will be attended by many fairytale elites, such as the elusive Cheshire Cat, Aladdin’s Genie, and the fabulous Fairy Godmother.

Having trouble growing crops? Then Jack has some beans for you! A few seeds from Jack, and you’ll have giant success! Just visit fairytaleweb.justgivemeastalk.com for details.

Once upon a time, there lived three otters off the eastern coast of Madagascar.

The oldest of the three, Otto, was the leader of the group, followed by Maurice and Jango. Their fur was brown, and the tips of their tails white. Otto was the most distinct of them all though: he wore a black eye patch over his left eye and sported a bright green Mohawk. Maurice and Jango had no idea why he dressed the way he did, but then again, they didn’t really care. They were otters, but not just ordinary otters, they were The Surfing Otters.

It wasn’t that long ago when they had the biggest adventure of their lifetime. In fact, it was just the other day. Being their biggest fan, I decided to follow them along, staying closely behind, but not so close that I got in their way. You wouldn’t believe what evil lurks in the deep water that is the Indian Ocean. Here, let me just tell you the story. Nobody wants to hear an old turtle like me blabber on about the trivial things in life. Just have a seat and listen close. I’m only going to say this once. This is the story, the epic tale, of The Surfing Otters.

***

It was a warm, hot day. The sky was blue and the sun yellow. The water was perfect: large tidal waves hit the beach from great heights and the wind blew at great speeds from the East. Out in the water, shredding the tides, was the leader of the bunch, Otto.

He wore a black eye patch over his left eye, had a bright green Mohawk, and sported the best pair of shades on the island. Like his two brothers, Maurice and Jango, Otto had silky brown fur and a white-tipped tail. His belly was white, too.

After surfing up and down the largest wave in the sea, Otto swam to shore to greet his brothers who were finishing making a sand castle.

“Dude, the waves are gnarly today, why aren’t you guys out there? Did you see me shredding that bombora?!” he exclaimed.

“I saw a little bit. You almost beefed it on that flip,” answered Jango.

“Oh, shut up, you weren’t even watching, Jango,” laughed Maurice. “You were all right out there, Otto.”

“Are you kidding me?!” exclaimed Maurice. “I totally ripped that boggas.”

“Eh, I’ve seen better,” said his brother.

“You zip it, Maurice, nobody wants to hear your nonsense,” snapped Otto. “I’m way better than you’ll ever be.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Yeah! I’ll take you anyday.”

“This, I have to see,” laughed Jango.

The three of them grabbed their boards and headed for the water. On their way down the beach, the unthinkable happened. A cage popped up from beneath them and a bird flying above them dropped the top onto it, sealing them within.

“What the seashell is this?” exclaimed Otto.

“This would be a cage,” replied Maurice, sarcastically.

Handmade Book created by Kelly Feger

Brought to you by the letter u

Otto stared at him for a moment without saying anything.

“I’m just going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he added, looking around to see if anyone was close by.

“Hey, look! Someone’s coming our way!” exclaimed Jango.

“Who are you?” asked Maurice, to the unknown being.

“My name’s Alfred the Bear,” replied the bear, as he fixed his monocle. “I am sorry we have to meet this way.”

“What’s a bear doing all the way over here in Madagascar? Bears don’t live here,” said Otto.

“What are otters like you doing here? Otters do not live here. But then again, why are we in Madagascar?” replied the bear, somewhat puzzled.

“Yeah, dog, why are we in Madagascar?” asked Jango to Otto.

“I don’t know! That’s not important. Alfred, get us out of here!”

“I’m sorry I can’t do that, gentle dogs. Boss’s orders.”

“Yeah? And who’s that?” asked Otto.

“Dark Salmon. He ordered me to take your surfboards, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“Or else he’ll eat me!”

“DUDE, you’re a bear! You’re supposed to eat him!”

“He’s also paying me in fresh salmon.”

The otters all stared at him for a moment, not saying a word. Then Otto broke the silence.

“I honestly don’t know what to say. You’re a failure of a bear.”

There was a dead silence over the next minute or so. The bear then picked up their surfboards and swam into the ocean with them in paw.

“Now what?!” exclaimed Jango. “Our boards were taken from us, and we’re trapped in a cage.”

“How does any of this make sense?” thought Maurice aloud.

“Well, first off, we were running down the beach and sprung a trap of some sort…” began Jango.

“Dude, I didn’t ask how this happened. I asked how any of this made sense.”

“Oh.” “Guys, shut up! We need to figure out some way to get out of here!” intervened Otto.

“What’s that coming from the cave? It looks like a bat.”

A bat dressed in a bat costume landed next to them out on the beach.

“You guys need a hand?” he asked.

“Uh, yeah, if you’ve got any,” replied Otto.

“What is that, a joke? Do you even know who I am?” replied the bat.

“Uhm, no. I’m still trying to figure out why we were trapped by a bear whose objective was to take our surfboards to some fish out in the sea.”

“What’s a bear doing all the way over here in Madagascar?” asked the bat.

“How are we supposed to know? Are you going to give us a hand or not?”

“Bats don’t have hands, remember?”

Otto blinked a couple times without saying anything.

“THEN WHY DID YOU OFFER ONE?!” sneered Otto.

“Oh, you know, just to see if you guys needed one. I’ve got a collection going in my bat cave.”

“I give up,” exclaimed Otto. “Maurice, talk to the bat.”

“Is there any way you can help us out of here?” asked Maurice.

Brought to you by the letter V

Bromelaid created by Patricia Schaefer

“Is that all you guys wanted? Why didn’t you say anything? I could’ve gotten you guys out of here a few minutes ago.”

“AHH!!!” screamed Otto.

The bat jumped into the air and grabbed hold of the cage. He flapped his wings ecstatically as he lifted the cage off the otters and onto their sand castle.

“What are you?” asked Otto, in total surprise.

“I’m a bat,” he replied.

“Yeah, I figured that much. What’s your name?”

“The name’s Monator; Batmonator.”

“All right, then. Um, thanks for you help.”

“No problem! Are you guys sure you don’t want a hand? I need to get rid of some.”

“Dude! We got somewhere to be!” replied Otto. “Thank you for helping us, but we’ve got some bear tail to kick.”

“Bears don’t have tails,” laughed Maurice.

“Enough already! I don’t want to hear it,” responded Otto.

“Well, I wish you guys the best of luck. Tell Dark Salmon I say hi.”

“WHO IS THIS DARK SALMON?!” exclaimed Otto. “I don’t even know who he is, and he’s already driving me nuts!”

The otters ran down the beach and into the water. They swam over a mile through the tough waves before seeing a glimpse of the bear swimming with their boards.

“There! Let’s follow him!” exclaimed Jango.

Right then, the bear dove into the water and was out of sight.

“Where’d he go?” asked Otto.

“I think into the water,” replied Maurice.

“How?!”

“Who cares. Just follow him!”

They went deep into the water and, to their surprise, found a large underwater volcano lit with some kind of underwater fire.

“I’m not even going to know,” said Otto. “Let’s just go find that Dark Salmon give him a piece of our minds.”

They followed a lit trail leading to the bottom of the volcano. There, they saw the bear handing the salmon the surfboards and the salmon giving him a bag of fish.

“Are we dreaming?” asked Otto. “There are so many things wrong with this picture. I don’t even know how the bear defied laws of physics; I simply don’t care anymore.”

They approached the fish from behind.

“Hey, Sashimi, what’re you doing with our surfboards?” barked Otto, abruptly.

“Ah, Otto, so we meet again,” said the fish.

“You know this guy?” asked Maurice, looking at Otto.

“Oh, it’s you. What kind of name is Dark Salmon, anyways? Where’d you get it, a seafood cookbook?”

“No! It sounded devious, and I liked it. What kind of name is ‘Otto’?”

“My mom named me; that was uncalled for. Why did you take our boards?”

“I wanted to learn to surf,” he replied.

“I don’t mean to shatter your dreams or anything, but you’re a fish. Fish don’t surf.”

“I was going to be that one exception! Until you guys showed up.”

“Give us our boards back! Stealing is wrong, especially when you break various laws of physics to do so.”

“Well then! You’re going to have to beat me in a challenge to the death.”

“You’re on. What’s the challenge?”

“Rock, Paper, Scissors.”

“You got this, Otto!” cheered his brothers.

It was a best of seven rounds match. Otto used his wits to beat his opponent.

Seeing that he was only able to use rock and paper, Otto decided to use paper— every single time. They tied at times, but Otto won whenever Dark Salmon used rock. The odds were on Otto’s side. After winning four rounds in a row, the otters took their boards and immediately floated to the surface. Once they reached the surface and safely swam back to the beach, they threw their boards on top of each other and called it a day.

“Do you want to go see that bat’s hoard of hands?” asked one of the otters.

“Sure, it’s not like we have anything better to do,” replied another.

And off they went, into the dense forest of Madagascar, not being seen again for another week, since they were led astray by Alfred the Bear, who thought they had asked to see Batometer, and not Batmonator.

Brought to you by the letter W Summer Days created by Laurie Schutza Kid’s t-shirt art for Traverse City Convention and Visitor’s Bureau

Brought to you by the letter X Red Riding Hood created by Sara Chantland

Duke ran around the corner and took out two guards with his silenced pistol. Their bodies hit the floor with a metallic thud, but the real American hero was already sneaking down the hallway. It curved to the right, leading to the room where the girl was being held. A large robot guarded the entrance, its red laser eyes glowing brightly. Duke wanted to remain undetected, so he took the cover off a nearby air duct and crawled down the shaft.

After climbing out of the air duct, Duke found himself in a large room with a glass dome ceiling. Atop a short platform in the middle of the silent room was a cage, with Little Red Riding Hood trapped inside. The little girl’s face lit up at the sight of her savior. Duke cautiously walked towards the cage. Just as he reached the edge of the platform, a box of blue energy encased him.

A booming laugh echoed throughout the chamber as video screens lit up along the walls. The pudgy face of a man wearing a baker’s hat appeared onscreen.

“Did you really think you could sneak into my base undetected, G.I. Joe field commander?” the Muffin Man asked, a cruel smile twisting his face. “Now you’re trapped by my force field, helplessly watching as your damsel in distress gets eaten.”

The video screens tilted away from Duke and stared at Little Red. “Now, I’ll prove that my muffins are superior to any food you can make for your grandma! Oh by the way, there’s somebody here I’m sure you’ve been dying to meet again.” The door to her cage opened just as a hungry wolf entered the room. She screamed and ran off the platform, trying to get far away from the wolf. It cackled maliciously, saying, “There’s nowhere to run little girl, and no brave hunter to save you!”

The wolf bounded towards the crying girl while Duke pounded uselessly on the force field surrounding him. With a loud crash, the tip of a giant beanstalk fell through the glass dome and landed near Little Red, while shards of glass shattered as they hit the floor. Everybody, even the Muffin Man, stared as a boy emerged from the tangle of greenery. He was a few years older than Little Red, wearing tattered clothes and holding an axe. The boy looked around in confusion, then noticed Little Red’s predicament.

“Well, I was running away from a giant, but I guess fighting a wolf works too,” Jack said. He stood between Little Red and the wolf, holding his axe defensively. The creature growled and leapt at Jack, its fangs aiming for the boy’s throat. Jack rolled to the side and severed the wolf ’s head with a swing of his axe.

The boy stared at the decapitated body for a moment, then asked Duke, “Are you a good guy?” Duke nodded and Jack destroyed the force field generators around the soldier’s feet.

“Well, I must admit this is an unexpected turn of events,” the Muffin Man said plainly.

“However, don’t think you’ve won just because you killed the wolf. Behold my unstoppable robot!”

The robot that had been guarding the door now came into the room, its red eyes gleaming in the sunlight. The door quickly slammed shut behind the tall machine. Its boxy body whirred and clinked its way toward them, slowly, with the certainty of an equation. Jack stared at the robot in awe and fear while Little Red cowered along the wall farthest from it.

“Boy!” Duke yelled at Jack. “Protect the girl! I’ll handle this.”

Jack nodded and ran back to Little Red. Duke grabbed his submachine gun and sent a storm of bullets towards the robot. They pinged off the slow-moving machine like rubber. Its head turned and fired two laser beams towards Duke. He managed to dive out of the way, but the beams bounced around melting the metal floor, eventually blasting the wall. The robot finally got itself under control, but Duke was already dashing towards the machine, weaving between the laser eye beams. One of them grazed his knee, burning Duke’s flesh and making him stumble right in front of the robot. It tried to crush him, but Duke rolled behind it and grabbed the robot’s shoulders. He took a grenade from his belt, yanked the pin with his teeth, and stuffed the explosive into the robot’s neck cavity. Just as its head swiveled around to face him, Duke jumped off the robot’s back, narrowly avoiding the red laser beams. He sprinted away as the robot’s head exploded in a ball of fire and its smoking body crashed to the floor.

“Curse you!” the Muffin Man screamed, blue veins throbbing across his face. “I won’t let you escape!”

The smells of smoke, burnt metal and flesh made Duke’s nose burn. He collapsed to the floor, clutching his injured knee. Little Red came running up to him and tore off a strip of her red hood.

“Here,” she said holding out the cloth to him.

“Thank you,” Duke said, tying it around his wound. A loud thud made them turn around; Jack had destroyed a part of the wall melted by the lasers, revealing a sandy desert outside.

“That robot accidentally helped us escape,” Jack said. “Now we can all go home!”

Little Red smiled, but Duke reminded him, “It’s not over yet.”

They all fled through the makeshift exit into the blazing desert. Outside, the sun immediately began frying Little Red, forcing her to take off her red hood. A gust picked up and blew sand right in Duke’s face forcing him to walk backwards until the wind died down.

“I have a military Jeep parked on the other side of those sand dunes,” Duke said, pointing straight ahead of them. “We can escape if we make it there.” Just as they reached the base of the dunes, a short figure appeared atop the hill; it was the Muffin Man! “You all made a valiant effort,” he proclaimed with a blueberry muffin in hand. “But it was in vain; soon, my economic and military empire will take over the world!” He took a bite of his muffin and smiled. “Sorry, I got a little bit ahead of myself there. I suppose I’ll settle with watching my gingerbread army crush you instead!”

Upon his command, a massive wave of three-foot tall gingerbread men charged down the sand dunes. There were thousands of them, all armed with candy canes and gumdrop grenades.

Duke started shooting his SMG into the crowd, tearing apart dozens of gingerbread warriors.

But for every soldier that crumbled into pieces, two more took its place. Soon Duke had only his pistol, firing blindly backwards as they retreated from the terrible smell of hot gingerbread.

Suddenly, Little Red tripped and fell, screaming as a gingerbread man raised its candy cane over her. Jack leapt towards her, blocking the candy cane with his own body. The boy was bleeding, but managed to chop up the gingerbread man with the last of his strength.

“No!” Little Red yelled. “You can’t die, Jack!”

Slinging Jack over his shoulder, Duke ran to them. The trio was quickly encircled by thousands of gingerbread men, all staring anxiously at their master for the signal to land the killing blow.

This is the end, Duke thought as he pulled out his last grenade, determined to take some of them down with him. *** “It looked like the end, when all of a sudden Buzz Lightyear came flying from the sky and blasted them all with his awesome laser!” Matt said as he flung all the gingerbread cookies out of the sandbox. G.I. Joes, stuffed animals, and windup robots littered the sand around the eightyear-old as he twisted Buzz Lightyear in the air.

“Then Buzz captured the evil Muffin Man,” he said while knocking Buzz into a baker doll.

Matt picked up his sister’s doll covered in red cloth and said in a high-pitched voice, “Thank you for saving us, Mr. Lightyear!” Matt set all his toys in the middle of the sandbox.

“The group thought they were safe. However…”

“Matt!” his mother called. “Your friends are here!”

“Okay, Mom!” Matt said. He grabbed his upside-down cardboard box, flipped it, and began putting all his toys into it. After emptying his shoes of sand, Matt put the box by the backdoor and ran through the house to greet his friends. Chris and Timmy were listening to their iPods when Matt got to the family room. They both looked at him and chuckled.

“Were you playing in your sandbox again?” Chris asked. “Why do keep playing with those stupid toys?”

“Yeah,” Timmy added. “Movies let you actually see the action. Playing with pieces of plastic is for babies.”

Matt frowned. “That’s not true! I’m not saying I don’t like video games and movies, but playing with toys lets you use your imagination.”

Chris and Timmy rolled their eyes, but let the argument die as Matt turned on his Wii. Matt knew they didn’t believe him, but that was all right; he was already planning his next adventure.

Jack and Duke want to capture Cobra Commander. Little do they know that Cobra is in league with the Evil Overlord Humpty Dumpty. All is silent when the duo arrives at Cobra’s base. Then…

“Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.”

-Albert Einstein-

Brought to you by the letter Z String Thing created by Laurie Schutza