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These are the columns I wrote for: The World Around Us. |
 OUTER SPACE BOUND Welcome to Outer Space Bound Where fantasy melds with real, Where you can walk on the edge Without tumbling in, Where you can sing To the night And no one can hear, Where aliens and elves, Mules, and frogs Dance in the sunshine And around and about The inward worlds Of our imagination.  We're going to start May off with stories that float on the edge of possibility. They aren’t "way out" there. Your mom could tell them to you, and you’d believe them. They’re great fun because we're not sure whether they're true or fantasy. We’ll begin with Rixtr’s. Supposing a spaceship landed in your backyard. What would you do? Would you be brave enough to check it out? Supposing aliens popped out of it -- aliens with purple heads and four eyes???  Ack! I probably wouldn’t dare to look. I’m a coward. I love to write about aliens, but I don’t think I’d actually offer a double-headed, six-limbed critter a piece of bubble gum or show him the poem I’d just written. Let’s see how brave Rixtr is: :
Another story that I have for you is about magic shoes. That’s something I wish I could find. With magic shoes, I could be braver. I could run faster. I could get better grades. I could even speak all the languages of the world. Wouldn’t that be great? Sigh. I haven’t found any magic shoes, yet. Have you? Could you please write me a story about what you’d do with your magic shoes. Don’t forget to tell me what magic they can do. I can’t wait to read your stories. Magic shoes that I slip on. Make me smart and make me brave, Make me fast, with lots of brawn. Please, make me always behave. (That last part is because, sometimes, not always, but sometimes I used to get in trouble, usually because I was talking in school. Sometimes it was because I forgot my homework, too . But that wasn’t exactly my fault. You see, I think it crawled out of my backpack when I wasn’t watching, and an alien chewed it up, and when I stopped doing battle with the alien, I was late to school, and then the alien started to cry, and his tears put holes in my homework so I couldn’t take it to school. You understand, right?).  Anyway, no, that didn’t really happen, and I NEVER told the teacher that excuse. That would have been lying, and I don’t believe in lying, just in writing wierd tales about aliens -- especially the ones I write for you. But, you probably see what I mean. It would be nice to have magic shoes that always made me do everything right. Don’t you agree? Boy, and all I was going to do was to introduce you to a great story about magic shoes. This is by Esprit. (Teens, this one’s for you.)
For the littles, here’s your story:
Sometimes fantasy is about the things we have all around us, like those shoes we imagine are magical. In the following poem, a hedgehog, which we call a porcupine, decides to investigate someone’s backpack. (This poem’s for you, teens.)  The Hedgehog A hedgehog snooped into a fuzzy, green backpack, But the surly teen owner gave a whoop and an “Ack!” So the hedgehog ran and hid in the bushes. Just then, a circus clown with several hard pushes Came heaving his cycle into the scene. The surly teen rolled her eyes and looked slightly green. She was impatiently waiting for her new blind date. She’d sat there long. It was a quarter to eight, And now this hedgehog and circus clown Had disturbed her wait for Pedro Brown. Restlessly, the teen paced back and forth, While the circus clown started to cycle North. But instead, he turned and said with the cutest grin, “Are you Sarah Smith? I’m Pedro Brown.” “Ack!” cried Sarah with a big letdown. Then she sighed real loud and said, “Yes.” “Let’s go,” said Pedro, and she said, “I guess.” She put on her witch hat and off they rode, Cycling together. They made the strangest load! But the girl left behind her fuzzy, green backpack, And the hedgehog bravely sauntered back. His nose went inside, and his body soon followed. If anyone saw, it appeared he’d been swallowed. But all that night, the hedgehog slept warm In that miniature dwelling the backpack formed. And for the younger folk, I wrote this one about the things I’d like my pets to do:  My Dog and Cat I have the smartest dog and cat in the world. They do my homework and always get me A’s. My cat cooks English muffin pizzas. My dog fixes peanut butter sandwiches. They’re a great couple of pets to have in the home. On Monday I taught my dog to play the piano. He played Chop Sticks like an artist. I was so proud of him, I taught my cat to play the guitar. Then the two made beautiful music. I played the drums with them until Mom told us all to be quiet. On Tuesday I taught my cat to mow the lawn. While she was pushing the mower back and forth on the grass, I showed my dog how to trim the bushes. Dad was so happy to see the chores done. On Wednesday I taught my dog how to vacuum. He cleaned all the carpets. My cat swept the floors. Mom kissed my cheek and said I was such a good boy. On Thursday I let my cat wash the windows on the inside. My dog washed the windows on the outside. Dad gave me a dollar. On Friday my dog made my bed. My cat cleaned the closet. I was really happy because my mom had kept bugging me about it. On Saturday I taught the dog and cat how to play baseball. Dog hits better than I do. It’s not fair. On Sunday we went fishing. Cat caught nine fish. Dog and I caught none. On Monday I sent my dog to the grocery store for cookies and soda for me and a dozen eggs for my Mom. I gave money to the cat, too, and sent her for ice cream, pie, and orange juice for Dad. Dog came back with dog cookies and soda. He forgot Mom’s eggs. I sure didn’t want dog cookies. Cat came back with pie and a catnip mouse. She forgot Dad’s orange juice. I took away the dog cookies and the catnip mouse, and I sent Cat and Dog to their rooms. Sometimes, I guess, you just have to do things yourself. I put down my book, took out my bike, and went to the store for eggs and orange juice. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Here’s another fantasy piece about a pet. This is a kind of poem called a lilibonelle: It has only four-stanzas, and each line of the first stanza (after the first) is repeated in the first line of each of the following stanzas. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  The Green Balloon The green balloon was deflated of air. It sagged from the arm of an old brown chair. Its string dangled limply, in sad despair. Neglected when its child retired elsewhere. It sagged from the arm of an old brown chair, Wishing for a partner to make up a pair. But no other balloons were near there to share The loneliness of its sad loss of air. Its string dangled limply, in sad despair, When suddenly a kitten, a tortoise shorthair, Charged the balloon with a “mew” debonair. The green globe rallied with amazing flair. Neglected when its child retired elsewhere, Now the balloon rose up with heroic fanfare. The kitten pounced. The balloon climbed the air. The two had a great time all around that chair. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Okay. It’s time for science fiction! This first story is for children. Aliens Aren't Green, I Don't Think Why is it that everyone thinks aliens are green? Do they like the color, or is it something they’ve seen? For I’m sure that aliens are not some shade of green. Aliens just aren’t like plants or long string beans. So why is it that everyone thinks aliens are green When that’s the color of leaves and Christmas evergreens? I’m pretty sure that aliens never wear green leaves, And they certainly can’t be trees. That I won’t believe. For how could an alien travel in a ship across black space If he were tree-trunk straight like an old, wall-high bookcase? I think aliens are blue, like the cerulean of sky, So that if they came to visit us, we would have to sigh. I bet it’s true that aliens are beautiful to human eyes. Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely if aliens were blue as sky? But maybe aliens are ruby red, crimson, or even cherry. Certainly then, we’d never find them the least bit scary. Of course, it’s always possible they’re truly orchid pink, But movies try to make them creepy, and that hue isn’t, I think. But maybe aliens are really yellow with orange and purple spots. Kind of hard to be frightened, when they look like flowerpots. But I’m sure that whatever hue we find the aliens we someday see, I don’t believe for a moment that they’re green. Don’t you agree?  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Then, I have a story for teens about an alien’s viewpoint of our recent landing of “Spirit” on Mars. Martian Visitor I hear the strangest sound. It’s like something landing on my parents' roof. I go up to take a look. We Martians may stay underground the majority of the time, but there is still access to the planet side. I climb the stairs, pausing several times to catch my breath. The way is straight up, you see. There is very little air now on Mars. To go to the surface means that one must close the outer membranes and hold one’s breath. We Martians are good at that. We have evolved so that we can go without breathing for an hour or more. Yet, I have no plans of staying that long. I only have time for a quick look. I hop up onto the final step and pull myself out. Most Martians never come out anymore. Way back in history, our race pulled in our antennas, along with the rest of our three-legged bodies, and built huge cities underground where we can decorate, minus the bombardment of constant meteorites, to our heart’s content. My favorite decoration is, of course, the mall where one can buy fifty flavors of Sinzar Rolls, those smooth confectionaries that melt in the palm of your foot. I love to stroll about in the lanes of shops, hopping with a lively beat, hopeful of catching the eye of good-looking females. But there will be other days for that. I stand, my eyes scanning the skies, the dunes, and the gullies. It is at that moment that homework, chores, and drudge lift into the mists. For I’ve just seen a sight I can scarcely believe -- a beautiful goddess -- spidery-topped, fat, squatty-bottomed, arms skinnier than Martian cattails, and feet, all rounded and roly-poly. It has always taken a great deal to make me pause and gulp. I am a product of seventy-two generations of watchers. I have seen alien beasties and meteorite monsters. I think I am immune to surprise, but I’m not. The sight of her opens my resting eyelids, and I stare. Her one eye is incredibly expressive. It rolls slightly, circulating, as if awed by the marvel of Mars. Breathlessly, I stare at her. I can’t pull my gaze away. I think at first that she sees me. She looks for so long in my direction, but I think the landing has exhausted her. She closes her eye shortly and falls asleep. I want to stay by her side and stare at her beauty, but I have to leave. Class is starting soon. I sigh heavily and then begin to cough. I’ve forgotten that the scanty of air prevents breathing. Kicking a couple of red Martian rocks in anger, I walk back down the stairs. Why does it have to be a school day when my ladylove finally comes to roost? I don’t tell anyone at school. I don’t want the competition. It’s a long day, and the teachers give me numerous tests. I perform perfectly, of course. I can do no less, being the product of seventy-two generations of watchers. However, the moment my classes are over, I rush back up the stairs, eager to study the maiden of my dreams. She is just waking, as I arrive at the surface. Her long, delicate arms stretch out. Her mouth yawns daintily. She must be dreadfully hungry for she reaches down and shovels several rocks through her large and delightfully adorable lips. She swallows them all and then turns a bit, hunting for some others. My heart goes out to her. I want to yell out and tell her I am there for her. I’ll do her homework, I’ll carry her books, I’ll bring her something tastier to chew, but at the very moment I am about to broach the matter, she begins to crawl forward. Such delicate steps. I think she must be a dancer, a queen on her planet. Every movement is a study of dainty rolling. Every centimeter or so, she stops. Then she looks about and scoops up some more Martian debris. I am amazed that she should find it so tasty. None of us do. We far prefer the more acid rock of the inner caverns. “Ah, sweet, lovely girl. I shall introduce you to my parents. I shall show you to my friends. I shall let you play with my Monster Game,” I want to tell her. My eyes at one point cast about for signs of her recent arrival. There are parachutes lying on the ground a meter behind her, orange, fabric ones. I am gratified that my angel has such good taste. That means she'll fit in perfectly. I hop up closer. It is at that moment, just when I am about to make contact, that my father and uncle pull me back. “It’s an exploratory robot,” they tell me. “A robot,” I call out, so shocked I almost breathe a breath of the shallow Martian atmosphere. “Careful,” says my uncle. My father throws his arm around me. “It’s a good thing you didn’t go any closer, son. That 'Spirit', as the Terrans have labeled it, is a spy machine. Terrans are attempting to move in again. Real estate on Earth must have gotten too expensive. Now they’re thinking of colonizing. We mustn’t let them know we’re here.” “But, Dad, are you sure?” Both my uncle and my father nod. They are watchers, after all. They know their jobs. Crushed, I let a tear wet my belly button. What kind of inhuman creatures disguise a robot like that? Don’t they understand that some of us are impressionable and on the brink of falling in love? How will I ever live without my queen, my maiden, my dreamy spider lady? Dad, probably seeing how upset I am, offers to buy me a new Monster Game. I manage to look depressed for at least another five minutes, and then I shrug. We head back down to the city. On the way, I forget about “Spirit.” I have more important things to ponder, -- like which Monster Game to buy and how I can get Dad to pick up some Rock Dust Pizza on the way home. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The next piece I have for you is another writing challenge for teens. Do you think you are up to it? ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I was given the following assignment for a contest I entered: Write a Travel Brochure and tell the Other Worldy travelers about why Planet Earth is a nice place to visit. Do you think you can write me a travel brochure and tell aliens why they should visit Earth? You could tell them about your soccer games, swimming in the oceans, a visit to an amusement park, life on a farm or whatever event or daily occurrence you'd like to write about. I sure hope you send them to me. I'd love to get to read them. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ (To the Aliens:) Earthly Tours - A Brochure Come to Earth Where the painted beauty of a sky of pinks, oranges, and purples delights you with color, Haiku: Earth Morning Someone lit rainbows Then melted them together Across morning's sky. See beaches of sand, washed by the tender licks of ocean. Swim in liquid water. Feel its soothing chill. Haiku:On Ocean Currents Seagulls glide the sky Tilting on a single wing, Gymnasts of the air. Communicate with whales and dolphins. Race against sharks with death-defying odds. Cast your eyes beneath the sea for peach corals, jade seaweed, the pinks and saffrons of tropical fish, and the utter darkness of a thousand lighted creatures that prowl below its depths. Green and Purple Octopus Ocean octopus With its eight, long tentacles Dancing with the tide. Watch the Earth's one sun splash into the waves, casting yellow ripples across the surface. Shadow of Light on the Ocean The lowering sun Spreads shimmering spiderwebs On the still water. Then cast your eye or eyes up into the Earth sky. See the blue, the white, the graying sky of nighttime coming. Cumulous, Stratus, and Nimbus Like frosting on blue Or archways stretching nowhere Clouds halo the sky. Come to Earth, the planet of spontaneous splendor, the planet of delicious danger, the planet of welcoming wonder. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The following zany adventure is just for fun: ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  I Was Swallowed By the Toilet I was swallowed by the toilet. I don’t know the reason why. One moment I was sitting. Then I traveled down the pipes. At first I held my breath, Afraid to breathe or smell, But I saw the fish were well, So I took a single breath. To my surprise the air Was clean as it could be. In fact, I think it smelled Why, yes . . . quite flowery. The sewer was a city With lighted little eels, And everywhere I looked Crabs were cycling on wheels. I swam among the swordfish Who escorted me along, And everyone was affable. In fact, we sang some songs. But then, the shark-like ruler, With a glower at my PJ’s, Sentenced me to prison Saying, “You can’t dress that way!” I guess I would have gone there Not knowing what to do, But the lawyer starfish, Kew, Demanded, “Order in the court.”  That starfish called some whales To tell just how I’d been: “Pleasant, but without a tail,” Which made the ruler grin. Thus, he reversed his first decision And let me swim away. I was headed for the television ( Over near an old stingray, When a squid threw me his hat While offering up a chat. I’d just sat down and propped my feet, And praised his watery suite, When Mother yelled,”Wake up.” My ocean scene solidified, And the bathroom came in focus. So, I flushed, washed and dried. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Recently my mother lost her voice. She said she’d swallowed a frog, which got me started on an idea for a fantasy. What if my mother not only swallowed a frog, but became one? I changed the frog to a toad, and wrote this poem:  Help! My Mother is a Toad! Someone turned my mother into a toad. Now she’s green, and all her legs are bowed. She sits on the counter looking so sad, Searching the drawers for her lily pad. I don’t know what it is that I should do. It’s been weeks, and she hasn’t improved. I think it’s a crime, but I’m not really sure. Dad says my worries are premature. But I don’t think mother’s should just sit there Looking like sci/fi nightmares. Her eyes are bulged, wide as two plates, Her stomach is round, though she’s really lost weight. Her color is off. Her voice has roughened. The warts on her skin have really toughened. True, she no longer complains of my room. But I miss her manner when she used to fume. Now the silence of her former scolds Is only “ribbit”, which grows old. For I haven’t got the faintest clue What she means. I wish I knew. And the fact that she eats nothing but flies Steals my appetite, I can’t deny. Yet my dad seems to think it’s all ok. I think he ignores it, anyway. But what will I do during conferences. See, moms as toads have consequences. They shouldn’t let a parent be a toad. Doesn’t it say that in the “Mother’s code”? So please, won’t someone tell me what to do. For my mother, the toad, makes me oh, so blue! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Those two are my offerings for Mother’s Day. Please write something for your mother. If you can’t think of a good story, go to the poetry section of The World Around Us for directions on how to write a beautiful poem. (Hey, don’t scoff. It’s really easy, and your mother will be soooooo proud!) I bet you didn’t know that May 2nd through May 7th is “Be Kind to Animals National Pet Week.” For that reason, I’m ending this column with one final tale by my good friend, Dan Moon.
May you have a wonderful May.  See you in June. Smiles, Shaara  |
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