Pictures of my book!

In this blog post I will be talking about one of my favorite projects ever! This project includes reading an awesome book, researching an endangered animal, and even writing and illustrating our own books!

Earlier in my Language Arts class, we read this awesome book, Squirm by Carl Hiaasen. This book is about a 12-year-old boy from Florida named Billy. Billy’s dad left him, his mom, and his sister when he was younger and Billy sets out on an adventure to meet his dad in Montana. One reason I really love this book is because of how many important life lessons there are in this book; for example, not judging people too quickly, standing up for those who can’t stand up for themselves, and having curiosity and grit. I really don’t want to spoil this book for anyone, so if you want to find out what this book is about, I really recommend this book!!!

An important detail in Squirm is that Billy’s dad helps stop poachers from hunting endangered animals. When we finished reading Squirm, my class began to research an endangered animal. My class and I made our very own books with the help of local artist Peg Gignoux! I had the most fun ever making my book! Fun fact: We had to cut out all of the shapes in our books and glue them down!

Here is my story in words! (You can see my illustrations in the pictures above!):

Crunch.

My ears snap forward. Footsteps severed the silence, sharp and unnatural. I know what awaits behind me. My heart pounds against my ribs, it’s as if a flowerpecker trapped in a cage were trying to find its way out of my chest. Slowly, I turn my head.

I nearly flinch when I see that my suspicions are true.

A human.

To understand my fear, you would need to know that I have only seen a human once before; the day my mother died. The deafening crack of the gun still echoes in my mind to this day. BANG. The memory crashes over me like a tsunami. I hear her cry of pain, and I see her fall again. I smell the thick smoke crawling through my lungs. My paws tremble as the leaves beneath me crackle.

I’m not thinking. I can’t think.

I run.

I run so fast I feel the branches of trees nearby whip against my face. I feel the wind clawing at my fur. My lungs are burning like a wildfire. I run as if racing death herself.

I only make it a few yards before I feel my legs buckle, and I collapse into the cool, rich dirt of the earth. The metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils.

It hits me harder than a charging rhino.

I’ve been shot.

Slowly, I turn my head and see it, sticky red blood coats my fur, dripping into the forest’s dirt. I see the dirt welcome the drops of blood in a warm embrace, soaking each drop up one by one as the drops slowly become a steady stream of red.

The trees are spinning, I know it’s just for me, they’re spinning as if dancing one last beautiful dance just for me. This rainforest, once my home, my shelter, now feels like a cage wrapping around me slowly and carefully, making sure I’ll never be able to break free.

If only I had run, run faster, run sooner, I would still be alive.

My eyes flutter closed, and darkness swallows me whole.

I was one of fewer than 500 Sumatran tigers, or, as science knows us, Panthera tigris sondaica, left in the wild. Sumatra is the only island where my species still roam free. Or at least we try, but every day our forests shrink. The chainsaws roar. The trees fall with a loud BOOM that shakes the ground. The once endless mountains, forests, and lakes are slowly becoming endless roads, farms, and oil plantations.

As apex predators, Sumatran tigers stand at the top of the food chain, yet we have an enemy we are powerless against, humans. Humans hunt us for our beautiful, dark orange fur, striped with thin black stripes. They clear our homes for money while turning a once wonderful and lively jungle into a mechanical monstrosity.

If you really listen, you can hear the wind whispering through the trees, as if warning us of what’s awaiting in the near future.

Later, light seeps through my eyelids.

I breathe in air, but not the dust polluted air I had breathed before, no, I breathed in the clean air that I had forgotten even existed, and it was wonderful! I laugh joyfully as I feel dew kissed grass brush my paws. It wasn’t my home, yet it felt right. The air is crisp and cool, carrying the scent of earth and moss. The scent made me remember, as if a key had clicked in my brain, the time when I smelled these wonderful scents and took them all for granted.

My other senses come to life as I take in the great big mountains wrapping around me, it’s all wrapped in a mysterious yet beautiful silver mist. For a moment, everything feels alive. Hope flickers inside me like a fragile flame.

Then, I hear a rustle between the trees,

A snort.

I freeze.

I remember that sound all too well,

A wild boar,

My favorite!

My stomach growls; it feels as if a powerful thunderstorm were brewing inside me; I hope it wasn’t as loud as it had felt. Carefully, silently, I lower my body. My paws move as soft as feathers drifting through a warm summer breeze. The boar’s nose nudges a nearby mulberry tree, oblivious to the danger creeping right up behind it.

Each second ticking by feels like a lifetime gone.

Finally, I leap.

The mountains explode with sound, echoing away kilometer by kilometer. My claws find their mark.

As I eat, I feel energy coursing through my veins; just as quickly, though, I feel it seeping away as well. My vision begins to dim once again. My senses slowly flicker out like a dying flame.

Perhaps this is a dream. A glimpse into what my life could’ve been, a beautiful mountaintop overlooking the world, plenty of food, no danger within kilometers away.

I gasp once again for the wonderfully clean air around me, trying to take it in once more. I feel my breathing begin to slow.

I know I can rest now.

But somewhere in Sumatra, another tiger still walks between the trees while wondering how long until their homes will be cut down. Another pair of amber eyes scanning the shadows, watching for any sign of danger, running far too slowly away from a human with a gun. Another heartbeat slowly fading once again into the wind, no more than a rustle between the trees.

Our story does not need to end in silence.

You can help us by supporting groups like the World Wildlife Fund and spreading awareness about habitat loss throughout your community. Every home saved is another chance for a tiger, young or old, to survive another day in this cruel world.

You may feel like you can’t help me from where you’re from.

But sometimes even the smallest choice can help save a great big wonderful forest.

And somewhere on my island of Sumatra, a tiger might live because of it.