350 for 50

350 fo 50_2017We are incredibly pleased to announce the four winners of our annual 350 for 50 writing contest! Young writers were challenged to compose a short, 350-word story that included the sentence, “Every movement was in slow motion.” Winners from our four age categories each enjoyed a $50 shopping spree on Amazon. Congratulations to this year’s winners!

Illustrations by Aliisa Lee


OUT IN THE DARK
by Stella Zeng, age 10

“Are you ready?” the scientist asked, pressing a few red buttons on the machine, “Three, two, one, GO!” A blue chair spun around twice, and then she was gone.

“W-where am I? I thought I was supposed to be at my house, not hanging on a branch in some random place two hundred feet above the ground!” She cried for help, and tried to get down from the tree, “Help, help! I’m stuck!” She cried, but her words just drained away into the silence of the night. She was lost, in a gigantic, thick, forest, hanging off a massive rainforest tree. She started to make her way down, but it was taking forever. Every movement was in slow motion.

For a brief moment she looked down to the bottom of the tree and saw a glimpse of her skin. It was brown and furry! Oh no she thought. “I-I’m a sloth. Oh how the heck am I supposed to get back?” She said aloud, “I’m 22 and already getting lost in a bunch of trees in the middle of nowhere. I wish I could have a normal life sometimes.” Around her was filled with wet leaves and light brown tree trunks. She was definitely a sloth. “Wait, how will I get back to the science lab?” She wondered, afraid, “A giant teleporter and shape shifter isn’t going to appear out of nowhere ri… AHHH”

A giant, flying object came soaring through the sky. It looked familiar, like the one she had sat in to teleport here in the first place. It had the same blue chair, red buttons, and it had the same shape. She wondered, is this my way back home? With no hesitation she slowly made her way to the familiar machine, one claw at a time. She was right, it was her way back home.

Slowly, while making her way to the seat, she wondered whether this machine would work or not. Then, with a push of a few red buttons, the blue chair spun around twice and the sloth who was on the chair was gone.


THE HEIST
By Zachary Wen, age 11

Penelope was about to complete her legendary heist of the famed Zephyr Diamond, and her eyes widened at the dazzling diamond. Geometrical-shaped light glinted off the Alice Blue walls. Penelope’s hand trembled. Carefully, she placed her gloved hands on it, and quickly stuffed it in her bag. But something strange happened the second she did. Every movement was in slow motion.

What…? Penelope thought and turned around to see if anyone was behind her. No one. The sensation was unreal. Her skin tingled, her muscles stiffened. She could feel her heart pumping.

I need to get out of here! Her mind yelled. She started to run toward the exit with all her might but had barely moved from her original position.

And that’s when the alarm sounded. It deafened her, and the guards moved in, guns blazing. It was like a scene from The Matrix. Penelope weaved and dodged the bullets, and she felt a drop of sweat start to venture down her neck. The stakes were nothing like she’d ever experienced.

She disarmed the first guard and elbowed him in the face. Slowly falling like an injured bird, his body gave a jerk when he hit the floor and bounced up an inch. Ok, maybe you don’t have to do that for every guard, she chided herself: she was running out of precious time.
The door out was only a couple of meters away, but it felt like kilometers. She ran with all her strength, but still moved slow as a slug. Adrenaline was the only thing fueling her now, and her legs were close to giving out. She turned around to see the guards catching up and willed herself to run even faster. Her muscles burned and her bones ached.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, she made it through the archway, and looked back, to find, to her terror, a silver bullet zooming right toward her. Suddenly she realized it was the magic of the diamond. Now she had a choice: drop the diamond and live, or hold on to it and take what was coming.


MIRRORED FEARS
By Sofia Lachmann, age 13

“Five minutes to curtain!”

Our director’s voice sounded distant compared to the ringing in my ears and the lines I had practiced for weeks spiraling in my head. Every movement was in slow motion. The people around me, putting finishing touches on their costumes. The whispers of everyone backstage, reciting lines. My thoughts seemed to be the only thing in the room that was running a mile a minute. How could they be so calm, knowing they were about to go out on stage in front of hundreds of people, knowing they could ruin the night with one wrong word?

A tug on my dress brought me back from my maze of a mind. I turned to the young girl, who like me, was wearing the blue and white dress that hinted at our role in Alice in Wonderland. With her blond ringlets and round eyes that were filled with worry, I was transported to the memory of when I had worn that dress, feeling the same anxiety.

“I’m scared,” the girl whispered. “I don’t think I can do this.”

I could see the fear radiating off of her, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her skirt and her downcast eyes. It was impossible not to see myself in her, when I was about to go on stage for my first ever performance all those years ago. I softened, smiling as I pulled her in for a tight embrace. Her small arms hugging my waist, I told her the same words I had been told.

“It’s normal to be afraid. The only thing you can do is remind yourself that your fear does not control you. As we go on stage, just remember that being brave is being able to continue, even with your fear.”

As I encouraged her, I felt the words calm my own fears, settling my mind. I smiled again at the little girl, taking her hand as our act began. Together, we took a deep breath as the curtain rose, walking hand in hand onto the stage.

Fearless, even with all eyes on us.


IF THAT MOCKINGBIRD WON’T SING
By Claire Tang, age 16

In Kansas, the land-locked heart of America, fathers like to sing a song about mockingbirds: If that mockingbird won’t sing, Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring. It’s a song about replacing good things lost with new and better things, a litany of warranties.

On my eleventh birthday, my Papa gifts me a birdcage painted poppy-pink. Inside is a mockingbird with eyes like night pinned to glass. Papa tells me how he caught it with his two hands, how he climbed a mulberry tree and lay so still on one of the branches the bird mistook him for the sky. He had inched toward it quietly. Every movement was in slow motion. When the avian neared enough, he hugged it with a cold fist. It flailed against his palms with erratic simplicity.

I hang the birdcage up in my room, next to the window that the night fills with stars. The mockingbird doesn’t sing a note for weeks, and I joke with Papa that he owes me a diamond ring.

During the last dregs of summer, Papa tells me about the high-position job he received at a startup company in Singapore. He’ll be leaving Kansas indefinitely; his flight is on Monday.

“How could you leave?” My futile protests catch on tear-salted syllables. “Don’t you owe anything to the people who love you?”

But Papa doesn’t breathe a note. He just walks outside, his arms tight to his sides like folded wings. From my window, I can see him breathing in hard, beating pulses of air, like the flapping of wings. He’s crying. Every now and then, he raises his head to look at the trees or clouds or airplanes. At one point I think of dragging him inside, but it seems too rude. So I only wait, a small thing watching.

Night falls like a soundless film of gasoline, the sun bursting into a million flames of gold, leaving behind a diamond-studded horizon. Papa’s shadow grows longer and longer. I call for him to come home, but he doesn’t respond. Just slants his head back, a creature considering the sky.

Tigers in the (Mobile) Makerspace

We do plenty of children’s programs in our gallery space, but this fall we did a special event for a different demographic – Princeton University students! We’ve had a ton of amazing undergrads contribute their talents to Cotsen over the years, and we definitely wanted to send our love back. What better way to show it than historic tigers from the University archives?

The event was a collaboration with our colleagues at the Princeton University Library’s Makerspace, which is housed in the Lewis Library and features a multitude of ways for students, faculty, and staff to gets hands-on experience with artistic equipment and have creative collaborations.

Makerspace Specialist Ariel Ackerly made our gallery the first stop on her innovative “Mobile Makerspace” initiative, bringing a 3D scanner, custom stickers, button makers, and a Cricut machine to the Cotsen Library. She’s planning to visit other destinations on campus too!

There were two sets of images available for stickers and buttons. The first were Pokemon-esque folk tale creatures from a 2016 Cotsen event. Drawn by student Aliisa Lee, the cartoon creatures were paired with their historic tales. The most popular was Moon Rabbit from China. If you’d like to read more about the event, read the tales, and see more illustrations, you’ll find all that here.

moon-rabbit-artwork-by-aliisa-lee The second set of illustrations were from the Seeley G. Mudd Manuscript Library, which holds the University archives. Library Collections Specialist April C. Armstrong provided a number of amazing historic tiger images from the Princeton University collections, including the three you see below. April also wrote a fantastic blog post this week that features a brief history of Princeton’s tiger, as well as more interesting tiger images from the vault!

Tiger pasted on the inside cover of the scrapbook made by Charles H. Shick, Princeton Class of 1892. Mudd Manuscript Library. Scrapbook Collection (AC026), Box 161.

1911 postcard series by Christie Whiteman. Mudd Manuscript Library. Historical Postcard Collection (AC045.)

From The Quindecennial (i.e., 15th annual) Dinner of the College of New Jersey (Princeton) Class of 1878, 1893. Mudd Manuscript Library. Princeton University Class Records, Box 10.

The Mobile Makerspace event was a huge success, with students (and staff!) stopping by to try equipment, ask questions, and get a fabulous button or sticker to take home.

Many thanks to Ariel Ackerly for making this event happen! A big shout out to April C. Armstrong at Mudd Library for the historic Princeton University tigers, and to Brianna Garden for digitizing them. Additional thanks to Brandon Johnson, Office of Library Communications, for the event images!

350 for 50

350 fo 50_2017Announcing the winners of our annual 350 for 50 writing contest! Young writers were challenged to compose a short, 350-word story that included the sentence, “The directions were unclear.” Winners from our four age categories enjoyed a $50 shopping spree on Amazon. Congratulations to all!

Illustrations by Aliisa Lee


WOW, THE FUTURE REALLY IS A SHOCK
by Scarlett Gong, age 10

Benjamin Franklin and Alexander Hamilton handed the Tesla dealer a stack of $100 bills and said, “Sir, we would like to buy a car.” The dealer seemed quite puzzled when he saw both Franklin’s face and the $100 bills! Franklin quickly excused himself.

“Your grandpa looks so much like Franklin on the $100 bill!” The dealer whispered to Hamilton.

Hamilton coughed nervously. “Err, does he? Sir, I just came from the Caribbean and don’t know much. May I ask what people usually bring when they leave their house? ”

“A smart phone, of course!” Pleased with the sale, the dealer started chatting nonstop with Hamilton.

Franklin and Hamilton finally regrouped. “This world is really a shock compared to 1777. My time machine works!” Franklin said. He began to research the new Tesla. He tapped Tesla’s touch screen with his quill. After some reading, he informed Hamilton, “The directions were unclear. Oh this garage is dark!” He took out a match and a magnifying glass from his pocket, “We must investigate this car further if we want to bring it back to Washington.”

Before he could light up his match, Hamilton stopped him and turned on the flashlight of a phone, “Mr. Franklin, I have something better!”

“Dear lord, what is this? Much better than my match! The light seems like the electricity I captured on my rod.” Franklin cried.

Hamilton grinned and showed him the phone. “It’s a phone. The car dealer sold me this. Look at this messaging App. You don’t have to use horses to send messages anymore! Also, a website here called Google can answer all your questions! ”

Franklin’s eyes were wide with shock. He scratched his head. “Wait,” he said slowly. “What if we use this so-called Google to find out the ending of the American Revolution? We can see if we won! ”

Hamilton’s mouth stretched into a grin. “Should we? I’m very firm we will win, even though the current winter in Valley Forge is harsh. Besides, Mr. Franklin, do you see any British flags in this future world?”


LOST IN A TRAIL
by By Emily Tang, age 11

Towering trees swayed and creaked in protest as the raging storm lashed the forest with pounding rain and fierce winds. My siblings and I huddled together in our nest, our feathers fluffed against the chill, as my mother impatiently waited for the storm to pass.

“ I have to get you guys food before you starve to death! “ She cried over the roaring wind. And then without hesitation, she spread her wings and launched into the stormy sky. I watched as she started to become a tiny dot in the distance. The thought of my mom being gone made me anxious, but worms sounded good to my stomach.

As the storm started to clear up, I really began to worry. It had been past an hour but my mom still hadn’t come back. The things that could’ve happened ran through my mind. Then, determined to find her, I mustered my courage and spread my wings for the first time, ready to venture into the unknown.

The forest was a chaotic mess. There were tree branches and muddy puddles at every corner of my eye. Suddenly, I spotted a bright yellow feather that lay on the ground next to a knocked down tree. And then I saw another. Then another. I thought they were a trail leading to my mom, but they weren’t. The directions were unclear. The feathers were all over the place, like they were scattered. I called to her but only the echo of my own voice responded. It was then when I gave up. I flew to the nearest tree branch and let the drizzle of rain sink into my feathers.

While I sat on the edge of a tree branch, I heard a sudden rustle behind me. I thought it was a squirrel but when I turned around, my heart leapt with joy as I spotted my mother’s familiar form perched on a branch. She was safe, but her feathers were ruffled, and she looked exhausted.
“ Mom! “ I tweeted loudly. Then I flew faster than I ever could and sat next to her.


MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED
by Emma Peppler, age 14

It was probably a dumb idea to agree to meet my friends in the middle of the woods at an unholy hour of the day. But here I am, making a left at the collapsed shed and a right at the fork in the road. Once I reach the tree that fell down during some tornado, I’ll make a right and be with my friends.

The directions were unclear. They didn’t specify which of the thousands of fallen trees to turn at! My friends’ voices surround me as I walk and my feet, that are stuffed into wedge sandals a size too small, ache. My hair whips my face as wind rustles the trees and frogs noisily croak in the distance. My feet start to feel numb, which gives me relief from the excruciating pain of the sandals.

I turn, hearing Mari’s voice, my oldest friend, sharp and clear like pristine water on a tropical beach. Knowing she has to be close, I run off the path through a stone archway covered in moss. On the other side sits weeping trees and mannequins on a rusty bench. A little merry-go-round statue stands by the bench with zebras and tigers on it. Creepy.

Another narrow and tunnel-like archway isn’t too far off in the distance and so I run into it, convinced that my friends are just on the other side. Halfway through, I collide with something in front of me. Glass? I wonder. I run back to the beginning of the archway, but another pane of glass appears. Other than the throbbing of my heart, all I hear are two words repeatedly running through my brain: I’m trapped, I’m trapped, I’m trapped. A quiet ping brings me back to reality- a text from Mari.

Girly, u here?

Freaking out, I quickly text Mari back, no attention to punctuation or capitalization.

i dont know where i am

I sink into the cold ground, the pressure of a menacing nonexistent hand pushing me down. A little red exclamation mark and three dreaded words pop up on my screen:

Message Not Delivered


WHAT THE WATER GAVE HER
by Anjali Harish, age 15

The witch was a small man, but otherwise rather ordinary. He had white hair— like snow, not silver—, kind eyes, and a fondness for darjeeling tea. He called himself Mother.

The directions were unclear. But it was unwise to question a witch so she paid that as little mind as she could. The slip of paper bearing the directions crumples in the tight clutch of her fist, the writing surely too smudged and sweat soaked to be of any use to her now. She is glad that she had the sense to commit it all to memory before she began the journey.

Again, she thinks. Go over it again.

1. If you ever had a name, forget it. It is no use to you now.

2. When the bullfrog croaks for the third time, wade into the river until you see him.

3. He will give you a choice. Despite what he may tell you, it is a choice. Choose.

The river is a gaping maw when she reaches it. The reeds and rocks that line the bank form a fiendish grin. The water itself is the color of ink spilled across parchment and it blots out even the moon. It laps at her toes, gentle freezing nips, like snowfall, like delicate daggers.

A fat, bulbous frog lunges for the rock beside her, and croaks once.

Twice.

Three times.

She doesn’t breathe until the water goes over her head.

She doesn’t have to wait long. In fact, when he arrives, she wonders for a moment if she is dreaming it, because nothing has changed. Like he’s been with her the whole time. With a shudder, she realizes that he has. He stares at her, all bones and sharp shoulders, all artless boyhood and innocence, all nursery rhymes and ghost stories, and she sees him for who he is: the child she came here to destroy.

I shall consume you, her wicked unborn son sneers. It is decided.

He opens his mouth. A baby’s cry. A hyena’s cackle. Wide as the river.

She beats him to it.

No. It isn’t.