Carrie Anne Noble, Author

by Carrie Anne Noble Some people called Ruby a bad dog, and it was kind of true. The summer I turned eleven, my brothers, sister, and I found Ruby on our porch. She was sitting there like a fluffy, black-and-white, tail-wagging package left by the UPS man. A really smelly package. On the spot, five-year-old Janie named the dog Rubella Polio (words she’d learned from pamphlets in the pediatrician’s waiting room, being too advanced a reader for Highlights magazine). When I suggested we call the dog Ruby for short, the big fur ball jumped up and gave me a slobbery kiss. “You’re welcome,” I said, wiping the doggy drool off my cheek with the hem of my t-shirt. Ben and Doug, my three-year-old twin brothers, let the dog into the house before Mama could object. Not that Mama would have. Mama didn’t do much objecting back then. She didn’t do much other than stare silently at the kitchen wall. If Daddy had come back from the Afghanistan war instead of going to heaven, things wou...

The Sixth Treasure Tiny feet scamper across my cheek, up the bridge of my nose, and over my forehead. For a moment, I think I must be dreaming, but the sensation of something nibbling upon my hair is much too real. I sit up and swat at my head, dislodging the plump mouse from my tresses. With a squeak of dismay, the mouse scurries off to burrow into a clump of straw near the oaken door. I regret swatting at my head almost as much as I regret sitting up so quickly. It seems as though an army of elves is playing drums inside my skull. I touch the place where the pain is most fierce, finding a bump the size of an egg. Did I hit my head? Did someone else hit my head? What is this place, anyway? I look at about the room, turning my head slowly so as not to cause the elves to drum harder. The walls are made of heavy stone blocks, roughly hewn. High in the far wall, several little slits let in a few sunbeams. There is a bucket in one corner and a neatly folded, filthy blanke...