Issue 5 November 2011
A publication of Silver Pen, Incorporated
The Silver Pen Writers’ Association Presents a Silver Pen, Incorporated Publication
Kids'Magination Magazine Director and Publisher: Sue Babcock Fiction Editor: Kellee Kranendonk 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. Copyright ©2011. All reights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information contact email@example.com All stories herein have been compiled by Silver Pen, Incorporated under Kids’Magination Magazine. These are works of fiction. All characters and events protrayed in this book are either products of the author’s imagination or are fictitiously used.
Getting the Tractor Out
written by Hayley Linfield illustrated by Simon Turnbull
written by Joseph K illustrated by Margaret Dyer
Jenny Finds Her Magic written by Irene Davis illustrated by Rosemarie Gillen
Getting the Tractor Out written by Hayley Linfield
illustrated by Simon Turnbull
Grandpa Bill lived on a farm. The farm had fields and a bush and a large valley full of trees and wildflowers. The best thing about Grandpa Bill’s farm, however, was the pond. Not many farms in the area had ponds, and Grandpa Bill was extremely proud of his. In early spring, the pond would be full and sparkling, with water practically rushing from the springs along the feeder creek. Otter, muskrat, frogs, groundhogs, and snapping turtles made their homes in and around Grandpa Bill’s marvelous pond. Ducks could often be seen nesting nearby and some years, if you were very quiet, you could even see a pair of Canada geese. By late summer, however, the pond would often dry up, depending on how much rain and how much run-off from the nearby fields there had been. Sometimes the pond became a shallow, murky swamp, but other years Grandpa Bill could walk around on the pond floor and not even get his boots wet! One hot, dry day, late in August, when there was only a small puddle of brown water at the bottom of the pond, Grandpa Bill decided he would dig it out. Digging out the pond would be a big job he knew, but Grandpa Bill was confident. He had the machinery that could do it. He hurried inside the old, stone farmhouse. He would need Grandma’s help for this dirty job. “You want to what?” Grandma asked, raising her eyes from the daily newspaper. “Dig it out. Old Red will do a fine job. I just need your help to get it started.” Grandma stood up and sighed. “You’ll get that old tractor stuck, that’s what you’ll do.” Page 1
illustration by Simon Turnbull
“Nonsense!” Grandpa Bill scoffed. “It’s practically bone dry down there. They’re calling for rain this weekend. I’ll get that pond dug out this afternoon and we’ll have a beautiful swimming hole by Saturday.” Grandma still thought it was a foolish idea, but she pulled on her work boots and followed Grandpa Bill outside to the run-down, green barn where Old Red lay in wait, kept company by many mice and one family of raccoons. Old Red was Grandpa Bill’s International Harvester tractor. It had a removable mower at the back for cutting the trails through the valley, and it had a bucket in the front. The Page 2
bucket had long, dinosaur-like teeth, useful for gripping big rocks or felled trees. Grandpa Bill liked using the bucket for less dirty chores as well, such as picking cherries from the highest branches. Unfortunately, Old Red could not get going on its own. Its automatic starter had died long ago. In order to start the pistons firing, Old Red’s tires would have to start turning and Grandpa Bill would have to pop the clutch. He needed Big Black’s help to get this job started. Big Black was Grandpa Bill’s 1966 Ford ¾ ton truck, and although it was many years older than the tractor, it had a well-tuned, reliable engine.
It was Grandma’s job to back Big Black up to Old Red, close enough for Grandpa Bill to hook a length of chain from the truck’s trailer hitch to a shaft underneath the tractor. When Grandpa Bill was perched back atop Old Red, he yelled, “Hit it!” Grandma pushed the long stick shift into first gear and slowly released the clutch. Big Black inched forward as she pressed her foot onto the accelerator. Once the chain was taut, Grandpa Bill called out, “Faster!” Grandma pressed the accelerator a little harder and the two vehicles quickened their pace. Finally Grandpa Bill popped the tractor’s clutch and the loud clackety-clack of Old Red’s engine could be heard. Grandma stopped Big Black, jumped out, and loosened the chain from around Old Red. Grandpa Bill waved and, with a beaming smile on his face, started down towards the dry pond. As Grandpa Bill approached the pond, he slowed to a crawl. The bank was a tad steep and he didn’t want to capsize. When he finally got Old Red onto the floor of the pond, he decided the best place to start digging would be right next to the pool of swampy water. He lowered the bucket, tilted it so the teeth were aiming at the ground and started to dig. The ground was softer than he had expected, quite muddy in fact, but he didn’t foresee any problems. Once he got his bucket fairly full, he backed up, turned, and deposited the mud on the opposite bank. He hadn’t gotten more than three or four scoops when the ground started to become quite swampy. It seemed there was more water in the pond than he had realized. “Oh well,” he said to himself. “Old Red can handle this mud.” But just as he was about to take another load of dripping mud over to the bank, he felt Old Red start to tilt. He looked back at his large rear wheels and was surprised to see Page 3
that almost half of Old Red’s back left tire was embedded in mud. Grandpa Bill furrowed his brow. He put the tractor into forward to try to climb up out of the mud hole, but only succeeded in pushing it farther in. To make matters worse, now his back right tire was partly buried in the mud. Grandpa Bill sighed. Perhaps reversing would help. He pushed the lever to reverse, but that caused the front of the tractor to jerk up into the air. Now the back tires were almost completely stuck in the mud, and the smaller front tires were not even touching the pond floor.
Grandpa Bill shut off the engine and, muttering under his breath, climbed down from the tractor. Fortunately his boots were tied on tightly, or he would have lost them in the mud as well. He made his way out of the swamp and started up the valley trail to find Big Black. Grandpa Bill decided he would not tell Grandma about getting stuck – not just yet anyway. He was quite certain he could pull the tractor out with his trusty old pick-up truck. When he arrived back down at the pond with Big Black, he was relieved to see that Old Red had not sunk any farther into the mud. He drove the truck around to the opposite side of the pond and backed it up just to the edge of the bank. He did not want to risk getting Big Black stuck as well. He hooked one end of his chain onto Big Black’s trailer hitch and the other end around Old Red’s bucket. He then climbed into his truck, put it in bull gear – the lowest it could go – and started forward. As soon as the chain became taut, Big Black’s engine started to roar. The truck shook and the front tires lurched, but the back tires would not go. “Well, what the dickens!?” Grandpa Bill exclaimed. He looked out the window and saw his back tires sinking slowly into the newly dug mud he’d piled up so nicely. He tried reversing a bit, but it was no use. Big Black’s back tires were stuck in the mud up to the hubcaps. Grandpa Bill got out of the truck and slammed the door. He wasn’t done yet. You see, Big Black had a secret weapon. Big Black had a power winch on its front. The winch was a long metal cable, coiled tightly around a large spool. Grandpa Bill sometimes used the winch for pulling out old fence posts or rotten trees. He would hook one end of the cable onto the fence post and Page 4
engage the winch so that it coiled itself back around the spool. When the pressure of the winch became too much, the fence post would pop out. Grandpa Bill would use Big Black’s winch now, but instead of pulling out a tree, he wanted the winch to pull his truck out of the pond. To do this, he needed a really strong tree – one that the winch could not possibly pull out. He looked around. The old crab apple tree about thirty feet away would work well. It was at least a foot in diameter. It would certainly be strong enough to withstand Big Black’s winch. Grandpa Bill unhooked the chain from Old Red. “One step at a time,” he said to himself. “Once I get the truck unstuck, then I’ll worry about the tractor.” He let out the cable from the spool and hooked it around the crab apple tree. Then he disengaged the transmission by turning a lever on the truck’s hubcaps, climbed into Big Black’s cab, and stepped on the accelerator. The winch started turning. The cable grew taut. The truck jiggled a bit. Grandpa Bill smiled. It was working! The tree was strong enough. But before Grandpa Bill could even chuckle, there was a loud crack and the crab apple tree came crashing down towards him! Big Black remained stuck in the mud. Grandpa Bill disengaged the winch, climbed down out of Big Black (now covered in crab apple tree branches) and looked at the mess he had created. Then he sighed, shook his head, and started up the valley trail to find Grandma. “You got the truck stuck too?” Grandma asked, trying not to laugh. “I think I’d better call Wayne,” Grandpa Bill said, frowning. Wayne was their neighbour. He was a farmer and he owned a really, really big tractor. Wayne’s tractor was so big that it made Old Red look like a toy. “I’ll be there right away,” Wayne said, when he heard what Grandpa Bill had done. Wayne’s big tractor barely fit down the valley trail, and Grandpa Bill had to cut down a few small trees with his chain saw. When Wayne saw the tractor stuck in the pond, the truck stuck on the bank, and the old crab apple tree half lying on the truck, he couldn’t help laughing. Grandma joined in, and even Grandpa Bill couldn’t help chuckling. Page 5
illustration by Simon Turnbull
Then Wayne hooked his big tractor up to Old Red, climbed up into his tractor’s cab, and backed up. Old Red came out of the mud as if it were butter. Grandpa Bill had already unhooked the cable from the crab apple tree, and Wayne’s big tractor pulled out the old truck as if it weighed nothing at all. “Thanks Wayne,” Grandpa Bill called. “Any time,” Wayne called back. “But if I were you, I’d leave digging out this here pond for the professionals.” Page 6
“Nah,” Grandpa Bill scoffed. “I’ll try again in a few days if it dries up a bit more.” Grandma shook her head. “Oh Grandpa Bill,” she said. “What will you think of next?” “Next?” Grandpa Bill asked. “I thought I might take the dune buggy back to the bush to see how wet it is there. I’d like to make a few more trails, and there’s an old mountain ash tree that needs to come down. I’ll get my big chain saw tuned up. There might even be a few puffballs starting. And maybe I’ll see some wild turkeys.” Grandpa Bill continued talking as they followed Wayne and his giant tractor up the valley trail. They would start their trip to the bush the following day. But that, of course, is another story…
AUTHOR BIO: Hayley Linfield grew up on ‘Grandpa Bill’s’ farm, not far from the tiny hamlet of Varna in South-Western Ontario. She now lives in the town of Goderich and writes a variety of short stories, essays, and poems. Most of her published writing appears on her website: web.me.com/ hlinfield/H.Linfield. ILLUSTRATOR BIO: Simon Turnbull specializes in art for children. You can view more of his work at http://turnbullkidsportfolio.com/
The Trick written by Joseph K illustrated by Margaret Dyer
“Shining, burning sun so hot,” Hibbletree said, shading himself from the sun and squinting, “makes pansies wither, elvsies rot.” Odlimarta laughed at the rhyme. The two ran under the shady porch of a cottage. Odlimarta dropped her parasol and collapsed on the ground, panting. Hibbletree walked up to the window beside the front door. “You’ve gotten tall,” Odlimarta said, getting up from the ground. “I’m glad. It makes spying so much easier.” Hibbletree stood on tip-toe, put his long, pointy nose upon the sill, and peeped in. He saw Odlimarta looking up at him, waiting for him to tell her what he could see. He didn’t know why he’d had such a growth spurt lately; maybe those mushroom caps he’d had for breakfast were bad. Wasn’t he normal size just this morning? And why did they come to this cottage today? Weren’t they going to town to play tricks? He couldn’t remember. Hibbletree described the room to Odlimarta: all the shelves dusted, a tile floor neatly swept, and a few stuffed chairs and couches covered in fine, soft cloth. In a sunny corner near a wood-burning stove and a water basin stood a plaster cast of a child, eyes closed as if sleeping. A woman touched the cast reverently as she passed. “She’s just put some bread in the oven,” Hibbletree whispered to Odlimarta, “and now she’s cleaning her dishes. She’s too tidy. And she’s proud of it, too.” His long elf ears pointed past the brim of his hunter’s cap, and his matching green jerkin and hose were trimmed with black, to match his Page 8
illustration by Margaret Dyer
black shoes. “The Fey Spirit sends us to set the proud aright,” he sang, “to help the broken-hearted, and to balance meek and might.” “And when the proud are boastful,” Odlimarta sang in return, “or the beaten become blue, the elf arrives to play the trick and keep the balance true.” Odlimarta giggled. She was dressed in clothes similar to his, but hers were sunflower yellow, trimmed with poinsettia red. She started to do a glamour-dance, and sing. Odlimarta always has a plan, Hibbletree thought. She is the very best, most perfect elf--just the right size and just the right self. She always knows what to do. She knows what to do every time they come to a cottage with a tidy woman, or find a lazy child ignoring his chores and sleeping in a barn. “She’s so very tidy,” Odlimarta sang, “She’s so very neat. But I’ve the very trick to knock her off her feet!” Odlimarta squealed again, and Hibbletree Page 9
saw the woman slip a moment, but then catch her balance. The woman looked at the floor for a wet spot, but didn’t find one. Hibbletree looked puzzled for a moment. “Have we tricked her before?” he asked, peering in the window. Odlimarta stopped her glamour-dance and crinkled her nose. “Before? Before what?” Odlimarta started to dance again. “Who cares about remembering,” she sang, “Or what happens day to day—it’s people care to ‘member—elves just care to play!” She laughed then, tilting her head back and falling over into a shady spot in the grass. “Let the Fey Spirit keep the tally, Hib—we just play the tricks!” She struck a dandelion, and its seeds rose into the wind and floated away. She watched them until they were out of sight. “I’m bored and feeling blue, Hib-whatever shall we do?” “You were playing a trick on the lady, but it didn’t work. She didn’t fall.” “You’re so good at remembering,” she said, springing up from the grass. She put one hand on her hip and wagged her finger, mock-scolding, “But not much good at rhymes. That’s not fun.” She walked over to him. “What do you mean it didn’t work? Get me on your back so I can see,” she said. He got down on all fours, and she jumped up, peering in. “A twinkle of the nose and a knock upon the door,” Odlimarta knocked very quietly on the door, “and the glass she cleans so slip’ry goes a-crashing to the floor!” Hibbletree didn’t hear anything, and then Odlimarta gasped. “The glass slipped, but she caught it!” “Caught it? The Fey Spirit . . .” he whispered reverently. “I think we’re at the wrong place,” Hibbletree said, still on all fours. “Maybe she’s not that proud. Maybe she doesn’t deserve it. Maybe the balance is already in her favor. Let’s go.” “Then why’d the Spirit lead us here?” “The Spirit plays tricks, too, Dilbie,” Hibbletree said. “I know that,” Odlimarta replied, and paused a moment, thinking. “But no. No, No,” she said, dancing on his back. “The fun’s not done.” He could hear the faint scrape of a straw broom across the floor as the woman swept. Odlimarta warmed up for another glamour. “Don’t try another trick,” Hibbletree said.
But Odlimarta paid no attention. “Broom and pan to sweep to, put it in the trash, and while you are a-sweeping, something else goes crash!” Hibbletree heard a heavy crash and the woman crying out. Odlimarta tinkled with laughter. “Ok, that’s enough,” Hibbletree said. “No,” Odlimarta said. “That one worked. She needs another one, I think.” “One is enough,” Hibbletree said, but Odlimarta didn’t leave his back. Hibbletree waited for Odlimarta to start up again, and then, quick as a rabbit, he rolled to one side. Odlimarta crashed into the grass. “Oh rude and fickle!” she shouted. “Oh inconstant and cruel!” She jumped up, her fists clenched, and stomped over to Hibbletree. She tried to put her nose up to his, but even with her head cocked back and standing on tip-toe in order to reach, she came up only to the middle of his chest. She scowled at him, fuming with rage, then suddenly she then burst out in another peal of laughter. “Oh, that was a good one, Hibbletree!” she said, falling to the ground, laughing. “Yes,” Hibbletree said. “You deserved it!” “I did, I did!” Odlimarta squealed, still rolling and laughing in the grass. She jumped up and placed her hands on her hips, thrusting out her chin, mocking a champion standing in triumph. “I was too proud of my mischief,” she said, smiling, then collapsing in a swoon, “and you brought my humble back.” Hibbletree smiled at her, but soon turned back to the window. He put his face against the glass and looked through. The woman was collapsed on the floor of her home, crying over the shards. He saw that the cast of the child was gone, now broken on the ground. The plaster cast seemed familiar to him, but he couldn’t remember why. “Hey! Your nose is gone!” Odlimarta shouted. “And your ears!” Hibbletree pulled away from the glass, realizing he could never have put his face that close with his long nose. He crossed his eyes and looked at his nose while he put his hands up to feel his ears. His nose, once jutting from his face the length of his index finger, had now shrunk. He could hardly see it at all. And his ears were rounded off and barely touched the brim of his cap. Page 11
Odlimarta began laughing, “Stop it,” she said, “Stop! Crossed eyes and hands on ears!” Odlimarta mimicked him, still laughing, putting her hands on her ears, crossing her eyes, and dancing about, flapping her elbows. She laughed some more, and spun around in glee. She stopped then, and looked around as if she were lost for a second. Then she looked up at the window like she had found herself again and began dancing as she sang another song. “Sweeping, wiping, dusting, sweep another turn, and while you are a-cleaning, the loaves of bread will burn!” “Stop it!” Hibbletree said. “Leave her alone!” But it was too late. Hibbletree smelled the bread burning. “Mischievous little elves!” he heard the woman cry. “Haven’t you done enough to me?” He looked back into the window and saw her sobbing on the floor of her home as black smoke rose from her oven. And Hibbletree remembered. There had been a fire. No—that wasn’t it, he thought to himself. He had started a fire. In the woman’s barn. It was very funny. She had been so proud of her neat and tidy barn. It was even funnier when the lady was chasing her cows and horses out of the barn but didn’t know the boy was in there. He had fallen asleep on the hay in the warm sun. Hibbletree had thought if the boy liked warm sun, he would sure like a fire. And if a bright and cheery day didn’t get him up to do his chores, then a little fire surely would! It was Hibbletree’s great work! Two humans taught a lesson in one trick! He had been so proud of that trick. He remembered how funny he had thought it was when he did that. It didn’t seem very funny now at all. Odlimarta danced a moment in glee over her trick, then stepped out upon the grass to follow the path to town. “Oh, the sun!” she said. She opened her parasol and started to walk away. “I want to have some fun,” she said over her shoulder. Hibbletree watched her a moment, then looked back through the window. “I’m hungry,” Odlimarta said. “My shoes are wet—did it rain today? Let’s go to the town!” Odlimarta started to skip away, but then stopped. Hibbletree stood where she had left him, still looking at the woman, listening to the faint crying. “I’ll go later,” he said, turning to look at Odlimarta. “I’ve never mentioned it,” Odlimarta said, grinning, “but you are the ugliest elf I know,” and laughed aloud. “You’re ears and nose are tiny and you’re Page 12
entirely too tall.” Odlimarta laughed again, ready for Hibbletree to chase her, but Hibbletree stood still and said nothing. He watched as a butterfly caught her attention. She followed it a moment, then looked back at him. Still he watched her, unmoving. She shrugged, then skipped away, singing to herself. Hibbletree watched her go and thought how very small she looked, and how very strange. Hibbletree stepped to the window and rested his elbows upon the sill. He watched in silence as the woman tried to put the pieces of the cast back together, still sobbing. He tried the knob of the door, and finding it open, walked in and stood by her. She looked up, startled a moment, then began arranging herself, wiping her tears. “Oh, oh,” she said, “I’m just a bit out of sorts.” “I can fix it for you,” he said, indicating the broken plaster. “I am very good at fixing things.” He reached to remove his cap, but found it was gone. He noticed then that his clothes were changed, too—now an offwhite homespun tunic and brown trews. “Thank you, but—” she said, “But who are you? Why did you come here?” “I came here to—help clean up,” he said, not really sure why he had come in the door like that. The woman stared at him a moment in wonder. She took him gently by the shoulder and brought him into the sunlight streaming in from the window. She turned his face up into the light. “David,” she said breathlessly. “Why, you look just like him. Ears, eyes, nose, just like my boy, just the same size he was when—” her voice trailed off. “My name’s not David,” he said. “My name is—” But then he found that he could not remember. Nor could he explain why sunlight felt so good upon his face.
AUTHOR BIO: Joseph K wrote his first story at the age of 5 as a submission for a children’s writing contest. He has been reading, watching, and telling stories ever since. He is very proud that this, his first story accepted for publication, is appearing in Kids’Magination. Joseph lives, Page 13
works, writes, and raises a new generation of story readers and writers in the Lower Rio Grande Valley, Texas. 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).
Jenny Finds Her Magic written by Irene Davis illustrated by Rosemarie Gillen
“Honey,” said Mom as she twirled Jenny through the air, “to celebrate your tenth birthday you and Dad and I will go to the circus on Saturday.” “Yay!” said Jenny, giving herself a couple of extra twirls. Unfortunately she twirled herself right into the kitchen cabinets and thumped onto the floor. Mom was smiling. “ The trick is to focus on what you want to do and concentrate. You’ll get it; just keep practising.” Saturday was bright and warm. Mom and Dad each held one of Jenny’s arms and off they flew to the circus. At the gate, a clown was handing out balloons. “Hey little girl, can I interest you in a balloon?” he said . “Sure,” replied Jenny. “I’d like a red one, please. And can I ride that elephant?” The clown boosted her onto the elephant’s back. “There you go,” he replied. Jenny tied the balloon around her waist and put her arms around the elephant. Wouldn’t it be nice if we were riding through the air! she thought. “C’mon, Elephant, let’s fly,” she whispered into the elephant’s ear. The elephant rose a metre, shook its trunk in amazement, and crashed into the tent, knocking over one of the poles, before landing with a thump on its Page 15
illustration by Rosemarie Gillen
belly. Jenny slid off and thumped on her bottom, which had been thumped so many times it felt permanently sore. “Whatever’s the matter with that elephant,” said the elephant trainer in astonishment. Tears were running down Jenny’s face, partly because her bottom hurt but mostly because she had messed up the magic again. Page 16
Mom gave her a quick hug. “Come on, let’s go into the tent.” Dad bought her a big pink candy floss swirl to help her feel better. They found seats right in the front row, where Jenny could see everything without having to peer around people’s heads. It was time for the circus to begin. With a roll of drums and cascade of flashing lights, the ringmaster appeared. Beside him was the elephant, who seemed none the worse for his flying escapade. “Say welcome to Maximilius,” shouted the ringmaster. The crowd roared. “Maximilius has a few tricks up his sleeve - er, trunk. He can lie down.” With much heaving and stretching, Maximilius lay down on the wooden floor. “He can roll over.” The elephant’s huge legs described a wide arc through the air, coming to rest with a thump that shook the tent. “But today, he has a special trick for a special birthday girl.” The elephant’s trunk snaked out, wrapped around Jenny’s waist and twirled her onto his back. Then he shook his magnificent head and slowly paraded around the ring. Jenny was ecstatic. Who could ask for a better birthday present? Suddenly Maximilius roared, reared up on his hind legs, and shot out of the ring. People scattered every which way, screaming. Jenny hung on for dear life. On went Maximilius, through the tent, through the field beyond, into the woods beyond the field, and still he went. What’s the matter with him? thought Jenny. Then she noticed that he was holding one leg in the air and barrelling along on the other three. Why, he’s hurt, Jenny realized. Suddenly she was no longer afraid. “It’s okay,” she whispered, as she concentrated on making his legs move more slowly.” Let’s stop now.” If ever her magic was going to work, it had Page 17
illustration by Rosemarie Gillen
better work now. And slowly, it did work. Maximilius shook his great head, snorted, and stopped. Jenny slid down, patted the elephant’s trunk, then carefully picked his leg up to look at the bottom of his foot. “Oh, you’ve got a nail in it,” she gasped. “You poor thing!” She had to help. Would her magic be up to it? Page 18
Just focus on what you want to do and concentrate, said Mom’s voice in Jenny’s head. Holding the elephant’s foot as gently as she could, she focused on making the nail come out. When at last it did, Jenny was exhausted, but she knew she couldn’t stop now. Blood was trickling out of a deep narrow hole. She had to get that fixed, or Maximilius might get really sick. Pushing her tiredness away, Jenny concentrated hard. A blue tray appeared, holding a bowl of warm soapy water and a large white cloth. Jenny gently washed the elephant’s foot. Next came an antiseptic cream, which she smeared on the wound. Finally she materialized a large white bandage and carefully wrapped it around the huge foot. Through it all, Maximilius lay quietly. Now they had to get back to the circus. But where was back? We have to fly up to see where we are, thought Jenny. She climbed onto the elephant’s back and said, “Let’s fly, Maximilius.” They rose a metre and crashed. Again they rose, a little farther this time before crashing once again. A third time they tried, and made it almost to the top of the trees. Then down they came, landing with a big thump. Maximilius was tossing his head and whimpering; Jenny was crying. Exhausted, she let the elephant lie down and lay down herself, resting her head on Maximilius. If only Mom and Dad were here, they’d fix this in no time, thought Jenny, tears running down her face. Then once again she heard Mom in her head. Just focus on what you want to do and concentrate. Okay, she thought. What I want to do is get back to the circus. She climbed onto Maximilius’ back, fixed a picture of the circus tent firmly in her head and concentrated on getting there. Slowly they rose, higher and higher, until at last there was blue sky around them. Maximilius swung majestically around until they were facing the opposite way to before. The forest beneath them disappeared. Then they were flying over the field and there was the circus tent in the middle of it. And there were Mom and Dad, waiting. Jenny landed, a huge grin on her face. “I did it!” she shouted. “I can do good magic now.” Page 19
Then Jenny and Maximilius walked into the tent. Round the ring they paraded as the crowd stood up and cheered.
AUTHOR BIO: Irene Davis is an award-winning writer, and a member of the Professional Writers Association of Canada (PWAC). She also teaches an online grammar course, which she developed, focusing on common problems. Irene is primary editor of an anthology of personal essays, titled Prose To Go: Tales From a Private List. She also contributed three essays to the anthology. She writes childrenâ€™s stories to please her inner child.
ILLUSTRATOR BIO: Rosemarie Gillen is a professional Childrenâ€™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