If you were to be traveling by car down the dirt and dust road of Route 63 in Rominly, Maine (Which is a tiny little town that possibly no one has ever heard of,
and if you ask any other person about Rominly,
they will tell you that there is no such a place and to stop dreaming and to look out of your head,
as they did to young Morgan Prince,
several years after this story takes place)
and you happened to look out your window at the buttercup yellow house with a black roof and
you would have seen a little girl,
no more than five, swinging on her swing set at the side of the house,
a blank glazed look in her eyes.
If you happened to have the windows down at that same moment, you would have heard the creaking of the swing set, and the barking of the dog, and the clucking of the chickens from the backyard.
But only if you looked very closely could you see what that girl could.
And if, several days later, you were to be passing through a town near Rominly, and you were to look at a newspaper, you would have seen an article about a young local girl missing, disappeared out of her own yard.
And if you were to read that article, they never once mentioned Rominly. But you probably would wonder if it were the same little girl.
They called her Wind. And as you probably are right now, you would wonder where she went.
And what happened to the tiny little town of Rominly.
Inspired by ee Cummings
Where air meets earth
perched upon that
t e e t e r i n g
thats the one.
where blue meets pink
and purple meets blue
and everything is still.
just for that moment.
until it fades
Shoved into some
And the silence
The utter silence,
And that little
at the back
of your mind
So you ignore it.
Push it aside.
All these feelings balled up inside,
Crumpled in the back of your mind.
Everything you ever wanted to say,
But never got the chance.
Everything you always wished were true,
That you wanted to believe.
Everything that’s balled up inside,
waiting to be freed.
Every wish that you’ve ever had,
That only your mind can see.
Put tothe test.
then the other.
one hold at a time.
breath is heavy now.
the only thing that matters is the rock.
and somewhere along the way,
a cut appears.
red and bleeding.
but the only thing that matters is the rock.
s t r e c h i n g
your feet slide
and you hang
but fear is self created;
and the only thing that matters is the rock.
Sophia Lipkin, Age 12, Grade 7, Brooklyn Friends School, Silver Key