The Bison and the Blossom

The Bison and the Blossom

by

Rachel Cooke

(age 15)

Charlotte loved nature; she loved flowers and seeing the corollas spin and blossom, season after season. It was like her own personal, living sanctuary: gardens and botanical adventures, seasons, growth, and new stems.

 Her aunt lived in Saskatchewan and had invited Charlotte to come and live with her for the summer months. After a bit of research, Charlotte collected all the information she needed to look for and study new plants in the Great Plains that she couldn’t find in the city.

Now that she was actually here, roaming the land, scooping out all kinds of new and interesting things: plants, flowers, animals, and places. It seemed surreal, as if she were just in a dream.

A little fire orange flower tickled lightly against her ankle. Charlotte kneeled down and cupped it softly in her hands. Her eyes grew wide- a western red lily, with two different buds growing out of the same stem! How extraordinary!

Charlotte retrieved her small, leather book and sat down next to the flower to try to sketch its beauty, and hopefully, capture some of its rarity and amazement.

 First, she swept a brushstroke with the charcoal, forming a side of the stem. Then another for the disfigured petal spouting out of its left side.

Suddenly, she heard a rumbling from her right. Charlotte turned her head in both directions but could see nothing. The rumbling continued. It grew louder and louder. The ground seemed to shake, trembling beneath her feet.

 Charlotte quickly gathered up her art materials and crammed them into her bag, probably damaging some of it in her blind haste.

The undisturbed flower remained rooted in the ground behind her, uncaptured by Charlotte’s charcoal.

The thick, brown body of a bison appeared as a dot in her hazy vision. Trampling the ground, demanding it as his own. The bison’s large, oddly- figured body, hurdled towards her, solitary and terribly frightening.

Charlotte’s feet couldn’t move as she watched the bison coming closer and closer. Its pointed horns came into view and her heart skipped a beat. It ran towards her, and to her, it seemed like she was his target, even though he could never have known she was there to begin with.

He was now only fifty feet away, forty, now, thirty.

Still he came even closer- running alone, on a devastating mission.

The wind from his hooves and his breath blew the hair back from Charlotte’s face and caused her to lose her balance. She stumbled to the ground and the bison was gone-an illusion of the plains. She was left to wonder forever after the certainty of his existence. 

(Assignment for Lesson #12 - Climax)

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Maple Pecan Granola

How to make Maple Pecan Granola

by

Rachel Cooke

(age 14)

The first step is to get out all of the utensils and tools you will need for the recipe. You are going to need a medium sized bowl, a mixing spoon, a cookie sheet, a large sheet of parchment paper, and a small bowl and small spoon.

Next, pre-heat the oven to 350 degrees F.

Now, pour two cups of rolled oats, ¼ teaspoon of salt, 1 teaspoon of cinnamon, ¼ cup of light brown sugar ( or coconut sugar for a healthier option ), and ½ cup of chopped pecans  into your mixing bowl. Stir with a mixing spoon to combine.

Next, measure out 2 tablespoons of vegetable oil (or coconut oil for a healthier alternative), into your small bowl. If you use coconut oil, make sure to melt it first, until it is liquefied. Add ½ cup of pure maple syrup, and 1-2 teaspoons of vanilla, to your small bowl and then stir to combine.

The next step is to pour your wet ingredients over your dry mixture. Stir to mix together until dry mixture is fully covered and coated. If the oats and pecans are not fully coated, add more maple syrup.

Cover your cookie sheet with the piece of parchment paper. Then, pour your granola mixture onto the sheet. Make sure to use a cookie sheet that is big enough for the mixture to spread out thinly and evenly.

Put your cookie sheet into the pre heated oven and bake for approximately 25 minutes or until the granola has turned crispy and the pecans are brown.

When it is done cooking, take the sheet out of the oven, let cool for 15-20 minutes, and enjoy on top of yogurt, or with milk! Store in an airtight container for up to 2 weeks. 

(assignment for Lesson #10)



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(or know someone who likes to write stories)

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Summer Nights

Summer Nights

by

Rachel Cooke

(age 14)

Summer nights burst

With yellow, red, blue.

The days get hotter,

and everything's new. 

(assignment for Lesson #6 of Polliwog Pages Writing Lessons)

If you are between the ages of 12-18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

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The Catwalk

The Catwalk

by

Rachel Cooke

(age 14)

My silver and pink Miu Miu heels click on the tile floor of the long hallway. I reach the end, haul open the clean white door, and step into the bustling, overflowing room of eccentric people -people hollering, texting, bossing, ordering, applying, curling, braiding, pinning, traipsing, posing, smiling. Ahhhh, this is my element.

“Meredith Vogue!” a posh voice called from across the room. “Fetch me the mint green Chanel with the buttons up the side.”

That’s Jen. My boss. She is the manager of the entire Fashion Week and boy is that a big job, but also such an incredible title and honour. It’s still so inconceivable to me that I got the position as her assistant after seven years of working for her fashion business and in the industry. It really is a huge blessing and privilege.

The soft, expensive fabric feels nice in my hands as I carry it gently and carefully over to Jen, or rather over to the model she was styling for the runway rehearsal. We, of course, have to do a practice with the models before the show tomorrow as it is such an artsy and new type of show this year. The models have never done anything like it. It’s almost like choreography on the catwalk. Our goal is to do something so unique and trendsetting, that it will make fashion headlines and shock, as well as wow, the broad audience of critiques and celebrities. 

 After laying down the coat, I walk around for a bit adjusting and prepping. This show is going to be epic.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 The next day I watch from the crowd as models of all shapes and sizes sashay down the catwalk to a thick layer of empowering, electrifying music that is lighting up their faces and making their legs just want to naturally pop out and strut to the beat. Yes, this is exactly what we were envisioning.  We wanted a show filled with beautiful, strong, bright girls, not starving, skeletal girls with slicked back hair and limited makeup just to please the trends.

 These girls are stunning. Glowing, healthy, faces and toned arms and legs that aren’t tiny and bony. They are proudly showing off the new collection that I, Meredith, had personally helped design. I pull my shoulders back a little and display a wide grin.

 Daisy, our true exotic girl, with long black hair and bright green eyes, comes smiling down the runway with tall red pumps adorned with small metallic bows, and a metallic dress that accentuates her  waist.  She stops in the middle of the walk and does a short thirty second, flowing dance routine that lead’s perfectly and seamlessly with the next girls lined up behind her. Julia, the next girl in line, has a bright neon purple bodysuit with gold zippers and sparkly gold pumps.

 This is definitely going to start some conversations and lots of trends. This is exactly what the fashion industry needs – a breath of fresh air, and some new ideas and shows.

 I feel proud and confident with my head held high as a journalist heads in my direction, small voice recorder box and pen and paper in tow. I’m happy to share my vision for the fashion industry. And about my success in this show.

 After seven years of hard work and dedication, I have finally gotten my shining moment. I am elated, and I wouldn’t have had the years go by any other way.

(assignment for Lesson #5 of Polliwog Writing Lessons)

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(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

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Vegetable Cake

Vegetable Cake
by
Rachel Cooke
(age 14)

Dawn dropped a dense slice of moist chocolate cake on a plate, silently praying that her little Beckett would eat it up. At his latest checkup the doctor said that he was lacking in vitamins found in fruits and vegetable, and she knew why. He hated them and absolutely refused to eat even the smallest crumb of anything nutritious.

 Earlier this afternoon, while she was scrolling through her Instagram feed, she had spotted a chocolate cake recipe someone had made using avocado and beets that claimed to not alter the chocolatey, delicious taste of the cake. 

Dawn immediately clicked the link for the recipe and got to baking. Hopefully, Beckett would like this and finally get some nutrition and vitamins after such an extensive period of time without them.

 "Come here Beckett!" she called loudly, her voice ringing into the playroom where Beckett was sitting on the floor building a lego sculpture. The joyful two year old quickly hopped up and ran to where his mom had set the cake on the table, a fork and napkin lying expectantly beside it.

 Dawn held her breath, tense all over, as he scooped up a piece and put it into his mouth. She awaited his sure-to-be-awful critique as he chomped away.

 "Yummy!" he cried as he put another piece in between his teeth. 

Dawn released her breath and sighed a giant sigh of relief. I guess I'll just have to be more creative with my cooking. Dawn was already planning the next recipe. 

(assignment for Lesson #4 of Polliwog Writing Lessons )



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(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

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Christmas Miracle

by

Rachel Cooke

(age 14)

 The old man shuffled down the church steps. A swarm of people were pushing through the wide doors, and although he knew he was holding up the flow, he couldn’t help that his hunched back and painful joints prevented him from hurrying down the steps like all the rest of the people seemed to want to do.

  It was a mesmerizing night. The moon reflected irridescent beams of light off the tall stained-glass windows - depicting Jesus’ miracles for the whole town to see. The stars glittered and sparkled above his head. Except for the chattering of the people surrounding him, it was still and quiet in the town.

 He stepped down off of the last step just as it started to snow - delicately and beautifully. Time seemed to stop. As the snow hung suspended twirling, in the air, the crippled old man reflected on previous Christmas Eves. The years when everything was cheery and delightful and the joy of the whole world seemed to be with him. This year he was alone. 

 The nostalgic moment ended as a young women lightly touched his shoulder and asked, “Do you have any Christmas Eve plans, Sir?” She smiled, and her husband came up next to her and said, “We would really like you to join us for a Christmas Eve dinner and tree decorating.”

 The old man didn’t know what to say. Why him? They didn’t even know him. Maybe this was his Christmas miracle.

 “I would like that.” 

(assignment for Lesson 3 of Polliwog Pages Writing Lessons)

If you are between the ages of 12-18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

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Book Attachment

Book Attachment

by 

Rachel Cooke

(age 13)

The rich, perceptive feel of a beautiful novel is one of the greatest feelings in the world. Through the time portal of the flip of a page, you can go anywhere, see anything, touch anything, smell anything, hear anything, if you let yourself become entirely immersed in the words of an author.

  My nose brushes the thick pages as I skim through them quickly and closely breathing in the deep, knowledgeable dust and age. (I can almost sense a good story through my well trained nose. All I have to do is close my eyes and take a big whiff of the ancient dust and my imagination goes wild.) I pick up one of the beautiful, old, brown and red books that are etched in ribbons of silver and gold and grip the hard binding securely as my fingers skim the crispy pages.

 I hear footsteps behind me and my fingers slip on the heavy cover. It falls to meet the paper below it, landing with a whump. Sometimes if the cover is shut too quickly or you brush the pages to fast, salty, dry, choking, dust, will land on the tip of your tongue and infiltrate your nose tasting horrendous and making it hard to breathe.

 

   I lightly stroke the rough, coarse cover on the aged book. It feels weathered but in a soothing way. I set the antique book back on its shelf with the others. With my books is my favorite place to be. It’s so relaxing but also so enticing as if every book is calling my name. I feel at home here surrounded by stories and adventures and characters.  As I turn around for one more glance at the alluring bindings, I can’t help but feel attached to each one and the story that it holds.

(assignment for Lesson One - Observation (CLICK HERE)


If you are between the ages of 12-18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

Send me an email. I'd love to read your story!