The CLAW 2018

Volume II t 2018 Cedar Creek School t Ruston, Louisiana

The CLAW, V olume 2, 2018 Principal: Andrew Yepson Faculty advisers: Leeanne Bordelon, Jill Myers, and Alison Amidon Art instructors: Anna-Marie Weis and Buffy Walker Layout and design: Liz Craft Printing: Lapressco Cover art: Anna Davis, Anna Harris, Cameron Lewis, and Elizabeth Wood

Poetry

Table of Contents

A Poem, I Guess by Mary Julia Klug.............................................5 Alzheimer’s by Elizabeth Wood......................................................5 Shine by Gabbie Turner..................................................................6 The Unbearable by Kelsey Sena Tamakloe.....................................6 Early November Mornings by Cole Pike .......................................6 The Paradox Called Time by Collin Hill.........................................7 The Power of Faith by Rosey Lindsey.............................................7 More Than a Game by Reed Grayson ............................................7 Locker room by Riley Rasberry.....................................................7 Who am I? by Brennan Marie Roberts...........................................8 All Grown Up by Cass McCullin....................................................8 Seeds of a good life by Anna Houck...............................................9 panic attacks by Scarlett Branton...................................................9 Mo Co by Ashton-Leigh Morgan..................................................10 The Ninth of September by Heather Wilhite.................................11 More than a Mom by Megan Gallagher.......................................11 Friday Nights by Kevin Moore......................................................12 Football Chills by Chandler Hay..................................................12 Friday Night Lights by Abigail Hanks..........................................12 The Hunt by Dylan Yakaboski.......................................................14 Walking in the Dark by Hayden Ginn...........................................14 The Hunt by Griffin Granger........................................................14 Who am I? by Olivia Cuthbert......................................................15 He Saves by Katelyn Wyatt...........................................................15 Home by Katelyn Taylor...............................................................15 Fate of Art by Brandon Vessel......................................................17 Her Room by Kate Walker............................................................17 A Book by Gavin Witten...............................................................17 Lisztomania by Chelsea Johnson..................................................18 Body Art by Grace Everett............................................................18 The Vet and the Draftee by Gabe Walker......................................19 headphones by Ashley Palmer......................................................19 My First Sports Injury by Kate Myers..........................................19 When I Ask: by Cameron Lewis...................................................20 Everybody Talks by Micaela Jolly................................................20 Leather by John-Barron Johnson..................................................21 The Game by Henry Terral...........................................................23 Street shadows by Tobie Bimle......................................................23 Fridays by Joshua Riggs...............................................................23 No limits by Carlton John Rojas III.............................................23

Short Stories/Flash Fiction

Memories from a Coat’s Past by Chesney Nguyen......................24 Swan Song by Kenneth Ray.........................................................24 Helping Hands by Donovan Turpin.............................................27 Look Closer by Rebecca Bordelon...............................................29 No Response by Elizabeth Wood.................................................30

The Cougar Literary, Art, and Writing Magazine (The CLAW) is modeled after its predecessor, Cougar Reflections, which showcased the work of Cedar Creek students for three decades under the direction of faculty advisor Pat Haworth. The original cover art for Cougar Reflections (above) was designed by Donnie Barmore.

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John Skeeles

Essays & Memoirs Untitled by Mary Wynne..............................................................31 Grand(father) piano by Kelsey Sena Tamakloe............................31 The Nights by Chelsea Johnson...................................................32 The State of Oblivion by Navy Coggins......................................32 Failing at its Finest by Kevin Tamakloe.......................................32 education by Ashley Palmer.........................................................33 Art

Anna Harris...................................................................................4 Elizabeth Wood..............................................................................5 Gabbie Turner................................................................................6 Brennan Marie Roberts..................................................................8 Cass McCullin................................................................................8 Tylor Listle.....................................................................................9 Ben Slusher................................................................................. 10 Aaron Hickman........................................................................... 11 Carson Branton........................................................................... 13 Reagan Nguyen........................................................................... 14 Anna Davis.................................................................................. 15 Harper Nguyen............................................................................ 16 Jake Pipes................................................................................... 17 Grace Everett.............................................................................. 18 Cameron Lewis........................................................................... 21 Hallie Rambin............................................................................. 22 Julianne Brown........................................................................... 25 Katelyn Moore............................................................................. 26 Quade Wells................................................................................ 28 Mandi Gresham........................................................................... 29 Mary Julia Klug.......................................................................... 30 Mary Wynne................................................................................ 31 Mary-Arthur Weis....................................................................... 32

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Life Advice from 2nd Hour

1. Always put your name on leftover food in the fridge.

1. Losing a battle doesn’t lose a war.

2. There will always be people who say mean words be2. It’s okay to change as you get older. cause you are different. Sometimes their minds can’t be 3. Don’t let yourself have a bad day, only a bad moment. changed. But there are many more people who don’t judge 4. Do what makes you happy. you based on how you look or where you are from. These 5. Eat ice cream at least twice a week. are the people who really matter.

6. Always be confident.

3. Always say hey to people. You never know when you 7. Eat that whole, large pizza. make their day.

8. Don’t stress about the small stuff.

4. Treat the poor as well as you treat the rich – not specifi9. If you’re gonna swing, swing hard. cally – in general.

10. If at first you don’t succeed, skydiving is not for you.

5. Call an old friend every once in a while.

11. If you ain’t first, you’re last.

6. Be a purple cow. Stand out.

12. Eat dessert first.

7. Don’t punch with your thumb on the inside of your fist.

13. Don’t let little things bother you too much.

8. Dreams don’t work unless you do.

14. Hang out with your parents.

9. It is better to give than to receive.

15. Do what you want vs. what other people want you to 10. Work hard so you no longer have to introduce yourself. do.

11. Go and do instead of stopping and not doing.

16. Life’s like a box of chocolates. You never know what 12. Look elders in the eye. you’re gonna get.

13. If you ain’t first, you’re 17. Life’s like a pencil. You’re just last. waiting for the lead to run out.

14. Make time to spend with 18. Have faith that things will be okay your pets. even if they aren’t because if you wor15. Always keep your gun ry about it, you suffer twice. on safety.

19. Dress like you already got the job.

16. If you don’t pull the 20. Take risks. trigger, you’ll never hit the 21. Always brush your teeth. bullseye.

22. Never forget where you came 17. Give people the benefit from. of the doubt.

23. Tell your mom, “I love you.”

18. Always keep a charger 24. Pain is temporary, so go out with you. swinging.

19. Great Value tastes the 25. Minds are like parachutes. They same. only function when open.

20. Don’t step on a Lego.

26. You can’t fix stupid.

21. Don’t be the same. Be 27. Pain doesn’t last forever, so push better. yourself.

22. Do what your heart de28. Your mistakes don’t define you. sires. People will judge you 29. Play with your pets. no matter what you do.

30. Make mistakes and learn from Anna Harris is a senior and a student of 23. No one is in charge of them.

Mrs. Weis. She is a three-year art student your happiness except you.

31. Their opinion of you doesn’t matand serves as secretary of the Art Club.

24. Pray more. Eat more. ter.

Active in Inklings 2.0, French Club, Key 25. Don’t wear a hat in 32. Say you have a jar. The big things Club, and FBLA, she enjoys dancing with church. in it are your future, dreams, and the Emerald Entertainers.

26. When shaking hands, education, which are rocks. Then, you look in the eyes. have pebbles which are your belong27. Always smile at babies. ings. All the rest is sand that is just the small stuff. If you worry about the sand, you won’t Authors: Olivia Cuthbert, Megan Gallagher, Hayden Ginn, have room for the rocks or pebbles.

Griffin Granger, Abigail Hanks, Chandler Hay, Cass McCullin, Kevin Moore, Ashton Morgan, Riley Rasberry, CJ Authors: Joshua Bailey, Tobie Bimle, Scarlett Branton, Rojas, Heather Wilhite, and Katelyn Wyatt Graham Clary, Reed Grayson, Anna Houck, Rosey Lindsey, Chloe Marcus, Cole Pike, Anna Larr Roberson, Cassie Roberson, Brennan Roberts, Landon Spillers, Mattie Lou Stinson, Henry Terral, & Dylan Yakaboski

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POETRY Mary Julia Klug is a senior and an AP student of Mrs. Bordelon. She is a softball player, cheerleader, movie buff, avid reader, and lover of people and the mountains.

A Poem, I Guess.

They want us to spit our feelings out on paper to make poetry They want to grade me on how many ways I can say “I stand for…” or “I’m depressed” I mean honestly, I have some well thought out opinions and bold insight but who wants to read what I write?

I am only in high school I am too young to possibly know what goes on in the real world Obviously, every ounce of new information and current events I come by is straight from Twitter No one wants to hear me speak passionately on my favorite World War Two novels No one wants to hear my stand on abortion or gay marriage, or legalization of marijuana People still think I have my head in the clouds with no idea what the real world is like How could a stuck-up, privileged, middle-class, teenage girl possibly take in information, educate herself on a topic, and form her own stand on an issue?

The point is, for now, no one will take me seriously So why should I spill my guts only for people to either judge me, pretend to love me, dismiss me, or laugh at me?

The best I can receive at this point is a good grade.

I’ll keep my emotions and thoughts to myself until I know someone who cares to hear them comes along Thank you very much.

Elizabeth Wood

Life Advice from 1st Hour

Elizabeth Wood is a senior and an AP student of Mrs. Bordelon. She is involved in Art Club, Cougar Krewe, Drama Club, and FCA. She has also been active on the cheerleading squad and tennis team for the past six years.

Alzheimer’s The voice of my grandmother, Unknown to even herself.

The whir of her brains, Fiercely blending and cooking, Sloshing and swirling, Inside of her skull.

She’s lost her memory, Like a needle in her history, Never to be found again.

I look into the clouds, Why my family?

Why my grandmother?

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Kelsey Sena Tamakloe is a senior and an AP student of Mrs. Bordelon. Active in Drama Club, French Club, Tennis, and CC’s music program, she enjoys watching movies, listening to music, and reading books.

The Unbearable “They were expected in December.

Like a Christmas gift from the heavens But everything changed in the seventh And a feeling of regret stuck with me forever.”

So cried the would-be mother Laying awake in her bed But her husband Had other thoughts in his head “They were a surprise, unexpected Like a terminal disease created from hell After the seventh, it all seemed so well Until she and her babies, together, fled.”

Cole Pike is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers. Cole is involved in Key Club, FBLA, and French Club. He plays varsity football and runs varsity track. He enjoys hunting, fishing, and sports.

Gabbie Turner

Gabbie Turner is a senior and an AP student of Mrs. Bordelon. She enjoys spending time with her dog Sadie, hanging out with her friends, talking, and laughing.

Shine The look in his eyes just told me… He loved me.

Not just the heart skip a beat love, no the love the shakes you to your core.

The love that destroys you just to build you back up again.

The fiery, burning, always there for you love.

His eyes held my future in them and there I could live forever.

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Early November Mornings The best time of the year The rut is in full swing and the deer are on the move.

Wake up at 5 A.M. and debate whether to stay in bed Or bundle up for the cold morning ahead.

Walk in the kitchen and fix breakfast And get prepared for that one shot.

Walk to the stand with dew on the ground The sky is still dark, the crickets are still chirping Get settled in the stand and wait for the sun to rise The deer start to move, but patience is key To wait on the deer you’ve been waiting for all year After several hours, the big one shows himself Take the safety off and aim behind the shoulder Deep breath. Aim. Squeeze the trigger.

He drops in his tracks, an overwhelming sight Hard work pays off, now there are horns on the wall And food on the table.

Collin Hill is a junior and an AP student of Mrs. Bordelon. In his free time Collin enjoys playing baseball, hunting, traveling, and playing Fortnite.

The Paradox Called Time It was the most joyous time of this life It was the most devastating time of his life It was a moment rich with love It was a moment riddled with sorrow It was a time of profound hope It was a time of unimaginable pain It was a smile unlike any other It was a face of agony never seen before It was prosperous dreams of an exhilarating future It was passionate memories of a fading past It was the arrival of an angel It was the departure of his best friend It was the lively baby in his left arm It was his dying wife in his right hand

Samantha Rose “Rosey” Lindsey is a junior. She is a member of FBLA, Key Club, French Club, and plays basketball and softball. In her free time, she enjoys writing, playing sports with her friends, laughing, and has a hidden talent for playing the piano.

The Power of Faith A moment of trust You put your faith entirely in something Not someone, but merely a feeling; an indescribable feeling One that can stop time, can move mountains, and can bring any wanderer back to his path One more powerful than any daring king One more beautiful than the most delicate sunset A moment of trust That if you fell from the highest cliff, He would catch you That if you faced evil, deprived of a weapon, you would not cower in fear, but would stand valiantly victorious That if you were a bird, you would soar freely, and you had never known that such a feeling could make you so free A feeling sweeter than innocence itself A moment of trust

Reed Grayson is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers. He is active in FBLA, French Club, and varsity baseball. He enjoys hanging out with friends, playing baseball, and traveling.

More Than a Game It was a simple game, nothing too special All you really needed is a bat and a ball Since then the game has changed…

It is all such a blur People come from miles and miles, to sit and watch the game Some people think it’s stupid, others live for it The atmosphere is my favorite part The sight, the smells, the sounds…there is nothing like it The two simple words “Play Ball” ignite a fire.

This fire brings people together, or even tears them apart I love this game I wouldn’t change it for the world You can be big or small Just make sure you give it your all It’s America’s past time It is … Baseball

Riley Rasberry is a junior. He is a student of Mrs. Myers and is active in football, track, FBLA, and Key Club.

He enjoys driving and hunting.

Locker room Green lockers Yellow bricks White shower heads Knobless door Broken sinks Smelly jerseys Wet cleats Dirty helmets Worn out shoes Sweaty white shirts Beat up shoulder pads Moist yellow gloves Loud speakers Preston dancing Lots of yoga mats Different colored towels

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Anna Houck is a junior in Mrs. Myers’ English class.

She enjoys riding horses and spending time with friends. She is active in the French and Art clubs at Cedar Creek.

Brennan Marie Roberts is a junior and an honor student of Mrs. Myers. She is a member of National Honor Society, varsity cheer, varsity track, Art Club, FBLA, and is a leader of FCA. She enjoys books, traveling, hanging out with her friends, and listening to music.

Seeds of a good life

Who am I? I am a girl who values friendship and kindness, even though Friendship is the hardest bond to hold.

I am a girl who loves to travel and see the world; The ocean is my favorite, especially the one in Spain.

I am a girl who cares too much and loves with all her heart.

Someone who overthinks and tends Brennan Roberts to be oversensitive.

I am a girl who didn’t love herself for a while, But learned to love everything about herself. Most importantly, I am a girl of faith But also doubt.

Who am I? I want to be a girl that holds friendships easily.

I want to see more and do more.

I want to see every ocean.

I want to love and care for everyone.

I want to stay strong in my faith.

I want to be the girl who knows who she is And loves who she is

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Cass McCullin is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers.

Active in Key Club, FBLA, French Club, and Yearbook, he enjoys scrolling through social media, drinking coffee, listening to Nicki Minaj, and learning Beyoncé’s Formation choreography.

All Grown Up I’m All Grown Up now Sixteen years old When I was little I had not a care in the world I used to run and be free No stress or drama to worry about Life was so much simpler The time passes by faster and faster My mother tells me I’m almost an adult I still feel the same I wish I could just freeze Cass McCullin time or go back to when I was nine But I’m All Grown Up now College is near Will I be accepted Only time will tell I don’t have to pay bills yet Or file my taxes I still have the freedom to sit back and relax I guess I’m not All Grown Up after all

Plant a thought as a seed Every little wild thought just plant as a seed Imagine it as if it was your own little thought garden Good ideas planted here, bad ideas there, memories there Every day check your garden to be sure everything stays When one idea fades away dig it up and plant a new one Everyday be sure to think more and more Eventually all those small seeds will become great big flowers One day your garden is no longer just seeds and dirt It has become a great beautiful garden filled with big breathtaking flowers So now what is there to do Your garden is full Your seeds are now flowers Well now take all your flowers and give them away Maybe to your favorite family member or person in your life Now your garden is empty again You look at it and see the bareness So what is there to do One word, Think

Scarlett Branton is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers. She is a part of the high school ensemble and takes private voice lessons from Mrs. Hockenjos. Outside of school she is very active in Strauss Youth Academy for the Arts and has participated in 17 shows in the past three years. panic attacks It starts as a pressure in your chest A rapid beating heart you think “calm down” you close your eyes you try to breathe but your lungs collapse you whisper “calm down” everything is numb yet everything hurts how long has it been? it feels like years someone says “calm down” every one is coming to hurt you your face is wet with tears you didn’t know escaped everyone yells “calm down” The chance of calm is gone you’re screaming and hurting trying to get away from the fear the fear that grabs you tight and you can’t escape you wish you could just “calm down” then all of a sudden it’s over your body has given up calm down

Tylor Listle is a senior and a student of Mrs. Weis. He is a two year art student and he plays baseball, is in Art Club, Cougar Cage, and is in the Chess Club.

He enjoys hanging out with his friends and playing baseball.

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Heather Wilhite is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers. She is active in Key Club, FBLA, Art, Drama, cheerleading, and track and field. She enjoys movies, music, being with her friends, and running.

Ashton-Leigh Morgan is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers. She is active in FBLA, Key Club, and creative writing.

Ashton enjoys reading, writing, music, going out, and dreaming.

The Ninth of September

Mo Co It starts with a name of a group chat late at night The name is only four little letters Just two simple small words Then I start to think some more and the words begin to flow I make a claim today. “It’s going to be big.”

I want it to move me To make me stronger To remind me that I’m worth more and the end is not now I will grab a marker when the time comes and press it against my wrists I will write those simple small words A reminder to me and for us When I look down, I will do it for them When I am on a stage, field, or right in front of the class, I will know that those simple black letters are there So I look down one more time and it will push me forward Mo Co I write.

It means something to me, but soon it will stand for us all Mo Co represents my ways, my fate, my inspiration Mo Co represents myself, my friends, my family I smile as I began to change the future because Mo Co represents me.

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He holds my hand very tight and doesn’t let go, He gives me warm hugs, that can’t be beat, He kisses my rosy red cheeks so sweet, He sings me my favorite songs, with his soft deep voice, He makes me Reuben sandwiches with turkey and cabbage, He gives me advice on how to go about my life, He loves me unconditionally, like no one else can.

Until it happened, He got really sick, But that didn’t stop him.

He fought long and hard, Until he left and the Taps played, Now present changes to past.

He held my hand, so tight and didn’t let go He gave me warm hugs, that couldn’t be beat He kissed my rosy red cheeks so sweet, He sang my favorite songs, with his soft deep voice, He made me Reuben sandwiches with turkey and cabbage, He gave me advice on how to go about my life, He loved and loves me unconditionally, He is still here in my heart doing the same.

I love you Clyde Patrick Drewett, forever and always.

Ben Slusher is a senior and a proud student of Mrs. Weis for two years. Ben is President of the Art Club, active in tennis and football and enjoys coffee and lake days with his friends

Megan Gallagher is a junior and is a student of Mrs. Myers. She is active in varsity track and field, Spanish Club, and FBLA. In addition, she serves as Co-Captain of the Emerald Entertainers and Vice-President of Key Club. Megan has been dancing with Missy Crain since she was 3 and is a member of Louisiana Delta Ballet.

More Than a Mom She is beauty and she’s grace.

She teaches me to be kind and giving.

She is a leader who lives by example, and takes care of my family in more ways than one.

She strives to be a better person everyday, encouraging me to do the same.

She loves me unconditionally, just as her mother loved her.

Because of this unconditional love, she sacrifices herself for the greater good.

She is supportive in everything that I do, and wants the best for me.

She gives me valuable advice on my brightest and darkest days.

She will never understand the level of admiration I have for her.

I am her daughter and pal.

She is my mom, hero, role model, and friend.

Aaron Hickman is a junior and a student of Mrs. Weis.

He is involved in drama club, FCA, and chess club.

He enjoys spending time with his friends and attending football and baseball games.

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Kevin Moore is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers.

He is an active member in in football, FBLA and Key Club, and he enjoys enjoys playing sports, hunting, and fishing.

Abigail Hanks is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers.

Active in varsity cheer, track and field, and FBLA, she enjoys books, going to the park, playing with dogs, and caramel frappuccinos.

Friday Nights

Friday Night Lights

The smell of Fresh cut grass, The sound of Fans cheering for their team, The glare of Bright lights beaming down on you, The feeling of Everyone looking at, just you, The way the announcer says, Here come the Cougars!

It’s pregame rituals It’s “Will you put my bow in?”

It’s waiting for the boys to come out It’s prayers and anthems It’s exciting wins and tough losses It’s cool winds and bright lights It’s whistles, plays being called, and cowbells It’s the excitement of “First down in Cougartown!”

It’s the feeling of knowing you have something to be proud of It’s knowing there is no team like us It’s hearing the bell, knowing they played to the best of their abilities It’s post-game Waffle House It’s something I hold dear to my heart and always will It’s football season

The roar of screams As we run and score, After the game is done The greatest of them all, Is the feeling of winning!

These are the things that make Friday nights great!

Chandler Hay is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers.

He is active in football, basketball, and baseball and enjoys any physical activity.

Football Chills You wake up at 5:30 Monday through Thursday to go workout and condition, You spend most of your precious Summer working and grinding with your brothers You slowly build an unbreakable bond with your teammates through the countless sprints and lifts, You learn to lean on your teammates and trust them to pick you up when you’re hurting, You all suffer together when you do abs on the track, And just when you think it is about to get better, it gets worse Practices get longer, workouts get harder, and coaches get more intense, Coach Scott pushes you past what you thought your breaking point was, He teaches you how to play and play well while you are hurting,

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Before you know it, it is week one and we are all sitting in the field house, Chill bumps consume your body when you hear Coach Haddox start the prayer “Lord please forgive us in where we fail you…”

After his speech your hands are shaking and your heart is racing because you are so nervous, No one says anything as you single file out of the field house, The first thing you see is the tunnel of little kids giving you high fives and wishing you luck Your adrenaline pumps throughout your body as you sway with Coach Scott but you’re ready to play, You sing along with the National Anthem getting more nervous, You jog out on the field for kick-off return and hear “Number 21 Chandler Hay back deep to return” You steadily get more nervous until you see the other team kick the ball, You forget about everything – you are not nervous anymore You just catch the ball and run Carson Branton is a senior. He plans to be the first man to walk on the sun. He has been training for this by getting in the shower every night

and slowly making the water hotter and hotter.

This is supposed to emulate the heat he will feel when he first lands.

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Dylan Yakaboski is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers. He enjoys driving, hunting, and fishing.

The Hunt It’s the never ending game It’s waiting for hunting season.

It’s spending tons of money.

It’s composed of countless efforts It’s the dedication of your time, It’s the consistent effort of what to do.

It’s working hard, It’s hoping to achieve your goal It’s getting there early, and staying late till you can’t see It’s about seeing your game and getting excited It’s about deciding whether to pull the trigger, Or wait for something bigger, It’s about regretting whichever choice you made.

It’s about rushing home from school to get on the stand It’s forcing yourself out of bed, The hunt is a never ending process, that one never dreads.

Hayden Ginn is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers.

He is active in golf, Art Club, and Key Club. He enjoys hunting and fishing.

Walking in the Dark After a long strenuous hunt I had a great distance to walk in the dark The slightest movement I would jump Squirrels ruffling Birds chirping Coyotes howling Frogs croaking Mice scurrying Howls of coyotes growing closer I had doubts that I wouldn’t make it My destination wasn’t far Heart thumping Brain racing Everything goes quiet I’m safe

Olivia Cuthbert is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers. Olivia participates in FBLA, Key Club, Art Club, Cougar Krewe, and Spanish Club. In addition, Olivia serves as the voluntary executive director of her nonprofit organization, A Work of heART. Who am I? I am not what society tells me I am Or the number of likes I get on social media.

I am not the number at the top of my test Or the opinions of everyone else.

But I am my favorite books And the way I like my coffee on cold, winter mornings.

I am the lyrics to my favorite songs And the scar that sits between my eyebrows.

I am the blithe tears I cry when I laugh And how I like the sound of rain hitting my window.

I am the way I treat other people And how much I give to those around me.

I am my love for my Savior And my daily devotion.

I am my love for flowers But I am not what society tells me I am.

Griffin Granger is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers. He is active in baseball, football, FBLA, and Key Club. He enjoys hunting and fishing.

Katelyn Wyatt is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers, active in National Honor Society, Key Club, Spanish Club, Art Club, and CC’s music program. She enjoys singing, volleyball, swimming, eating, and spending time with family and friends.

The Hunt

He Saves

It was freezing the first day of the season.

That dark cold Saturday morning, Sitting in the duck blind with my boys.

Just waiting for the sunrise.

And the ducks to start flying.

And it all hits at once, The first light shows, The sky fills with ducks.

The calls start to sound, The dog starts to whimper, The guns get locked and loaded, The first duck lands in the decoys, No chance of him making it out.

Splat he hits the water.

The dog is determined to retrieve the first duck.

The Hunt has begun.

She is clothed in happiness But she is not happy She hears the humor But she is not laughing She can pick her head up But she does not feel strong She can see the open road But she still remains blind She can taste the front But she still feels behind She can feel her heart beating But she doesn’t feel loved She hears the hellos But she only remembers the goodbyes She can hear herself breathing But she doesn’t feel alive She will prevail But she cannot do it on her own She can do all things But only through Christ who strengthens her and her alone.

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Reagan Nguyen is a seventh grader and a student of Mrs. Walker. She loves drawing and painting and is in chess club. She enjoys spending time with her family, watching movies, and reading books.

Anna Davis is a senior at Cedar Creek and a student of Mrs. Weis. She is a first-year art student.

Katelyn Taylor is a sixth grader and a student of Mr. George. She is active in the Drama Club and Chess Club. Katelyn is an avid reader who loves books. She enjoys opera, school theater, dance, and spending time with her pets. Reading and science are her favorite subjects. Katelyn loves working on her iPad to complete school projects and playing computer games.

Home I see the molten grey moss on the old wooden fence I see the sharp silver roof on the old tin shed I see the small leafless branches on the old oak tree I see the damp brown floor on the outside porch So very proud of the memories of so long ago

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Brandon Vessel is a graduating senior and a student in Mrs. Bordelon’s AP English IV class. He enjoys plays in Drama Club, FBLA competition, reading dystopian novels, spending time with his brother, programming, and running in the park.

Gavin Witten is a freshman and a student of Mrs. Amidon. He’s active in Spanish, Art, and Key Club, and represents Cedar Creek on the cross country and basketball teams. He enjoys movies, music, spending time with friends, and Mediterranean cuisine.

Fate of Art

A Book

“Art seeks to please no one, With no more revelations.

Most ideas are all alone, With dividing implications.

I was around many years before Christ, And I hope to be around for many more I am a never-ending series of information.

People from all over stick their noses into me Even those who sail across the Mediterranean Sea I can make you laugh for days, like a hyena after a comedy show, Or cry for hours, like a small child stripped of a soft, stuffed animal Numbers and words dance across my front, back and all in between, And my ideas can quickly come onto the big screen You can find me at home, school, or work Also in the spacious shelves of a store.

I am a light in one’s way of life.

My thoughts try to climb into your mind, And make you gain a new level of respect for the world around you.

What am I?

Some will be accepted, After countless variations.

Perhaps we’ve been misled By color combinations.

These people we call ‘artist’: Progress limitations.

The work they call their best: Plagiarized creations.”

So said a pessimist Wandering the street, But a poor, starving artist Had ideas to compete: “Art seeks to please just one, Whose ideas are spread.

Grand designs he had spun, Coming from his head.

But if art happens to please none, And ideas cease to spread.

If the artist’s song is done, Then art itself is dead.”

Kate Walker is a freshman and a student of Mrs. Amidon. Kate is an active member of FBLA, Spanish Club, Key Club, and Drama Club. She is also an advocate for FARA, Friedreich’s Ataxia Research Alliance, and plays a large role in rare disease awareness campaigns. She has always enjoyed reading, writing, and music.

Her Room

Harper Nguyen is a sixth grader and a student of Mrs. Walker. She is active in Drama Club and

16 The CLAW

ensemble and plays the ukulele. She enjoys drawing, singing, and acting with her friends.

She was organized, says the dresser With all of the drawers closed and The clothes folded neatly inside.

The unmade bed says that She did not have time to pull the sheets up this morning.

Says the backpack thrown in front Of the desk, she was a student.

Jake Pipes is a senior and a student of Mrs. Weis and Mrs. Buffy.

He volunteers at after school art camps and is the VP of Art Club.

He also participated in football and FBLA.

The open blinds, letting in a soft glow, Say she likes natural light.

The books on the nightstand Say she likes to read before bed.

The Holy Spirit lived with her, Says the Bible by the bed along with the verses on the wall.

The tennis shoes, looking worn, say she loves activity.

The phone charger tossed aside, Says she left in a hurry.

Something went well, say the pictures On the wall of the smiling child.

The signs around the room With positive words say that She is happy.

Something is so right, Says her life.

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Chelsea Johnson is a senior and an AP student of Mrs. Bordelon. She is active in FBLA as treasurer and a competitive member, serves as French Club President, and was a co-captain of the Emerald Entertainers her junior and senior year. When she isn’t working, she enjoys reading, going on spontaneous adventures with her friends, and feeding her ice cream addiction.

Lisztomania He is madder than a wet crow, More manic than a patient in a straight jacket.

-Cliff!- needle!- blackberry skies.

Grace Everett

Mother starts with a scream as he whirs fiercely -Cliff!- needle!- blackberry skiesthrough the door.

His voice chokes the room, Just as a cloud does To a dark and rainy sky.

-Cliff!- needle!- blackberry skiesHe screamsRed as an unripe blackberryAnd throws things in the air.

Needles, thread, and her favorite thimble -Cliff!- needle!- blackberry skiesFly about like rain.

We scatter down the stairs away from him, -Cliff!- needle!- blackberry skiesLike rocks falling during an avalanche.

The gentle green of the yard Cuts off like a cliff As our pounding feet hit the pavement.

Needles of pain prick bruised ribs As lungs expand to run away.

Again.

Just like every time, The sky is dark. Purple. Blue.

Black.

Blackberry skies, absorbing our sorrow.

Grace Everett is a 17-year-old junior and a student of Mrs. Bordelon. She is in AP English III and enjoys creative writing. She also enjoys singing, acting, and dancing at Strauss Youth Academy for the Arts, the local youth theater in Monroe.

Body Art Your skin is pale in the winter and so is mine, but my skin stays pale, even in the summer.

You become more sun kissed as the daylight comes out of hiding.

It makes your emerald eyes even more valuable than usual, and it coats your hair with gold.

My grey eyes paint themselves with blue from time to time.

My hands are always cold and the skin underneath my fingernails teeters on the edge of purple and white.

I may seem just as vibrant as you, but my mixture of purple and grey is nothing compared to your palette of green and gold.

Gabe Walker is a junior in Mrs. Bordelon’s AP English class. He is a member and a captain of the varsity tennis and basketball team. He enjoys video games, playing sports, and being with friends.

The Vet and the Draftee To sacrifice life for freedom is always just For death on a battlefield is always superior to dishonor A nation’s motives must never be questioned For the greater good is always fought for Chanted the seasoned veteran Gazing upon his old uniform But a draftee looked in disgust And replied with vitriol But one’s freedom is sacrificed when his life is given And good, honest men die begging to live, not for honor There’s no glory in being a soldier We’re only gears in a lying, unjust machine

Ashley Palmer is a senior and a student of Mrs. Bordelon. Active in Creative Writing Club, she’s approximately halfway through drafting her first novel (which does, in fact, have proper capitalization, unlike the two pieces published here). When she’s not writing or doing schoolwork, she’s hanging out with her sister, sticking her nose in a book, staying up late doing online research on whatever happens to spark her interest, sketching and laying down color to create digital art on her iPad, or hurriedly switching to the Spotify app to receive 30 minutes of ad-free music. headphones a husky voice keens a bittersweet lullaby as the piano longs for major chords but you only hear the sad minors an electric guitar screams louder than the crowd you walk to the beat of the drums marching, striding away

Kate Myers, a daughter of an English teacher, is expected to write marvelous poems, compose mammoth essays, and know the difference between its and it’s. A 7th grader in Mrs. Gleason’s class, Kate doesn’t like stereotypes, but she likes playing basketball, cheering on the sidelines, chilling in her hammock, and drinking Dr Pepper.

My First Sports Injury Chasing the ball Guarding the basket Avoiding the screen BAM Blood flowing Crowd gasping Time running Hands waving Not being able to breathe Not being able to talk Not being able to scream Not being able to stop To the sideline To the coach Past the bench To the corner Tongue burning Metal piercing Tears streaming Mixing with my blood Wiggling Testing Drooling Getting it unstuck Buzzer Teammates Water Locker room Laughing it off

away from them away from the cacophony of voices asking about the weather or your day fine, you say, fine fine fine you have a beat but no melody because the music is in your ears and you won’t let anyone else hear

18 The CLAW

The CLAW 19

Cameron Lewis is a junior and an AP student of Mrs. Bordelon. Active in FBLA, Key Club, and National Honor Society, she enjoys music, art, books, science, and poetry. Most of all, Cameron simply enjoys learning about anything and everything.

Micaela Jolly is a sophomore and a student of Mrs. Bordelon. Outside of school, she spends her time doing theatre, dance, and singing. Some of her interests include science, playing piano, reading, spending time with friends, and sleeping.

When I Ask:

Everybody Talks

I am riding shotgun at 11:36 in your car Stars winking down at me from above, holding your hand loose wrist and limp fingers Why? Because your hand was the closest thing within my reach and the only thing holding me together is your fingers intertwined in mine like glue filling the cracks of shattered glass keeping my broken pieces from falling apart onto the floor.

Lights flash, a blur, in between the darkness outside my window.

Being alone and being with you sound different But they feel the same.

I wonder if you too, can sense the loneliness in being together.

Did you even notice beneath the humming of the car motor And the blaring music on its radio and the city’s incessant buzz The silence? My silence.

Somehow, I have been drowning right in front of you all this time And you never noticed. Not even for a second.

You see, if this solar system were made of teardrops and storm clouds and every lonely, desperate thought then I am the sun.

The source of all the bitter heartache Can you feel it - the melancholy radiating off my skin?

Depression feels like mourning the loss of something you never had to begin with It feels like having a wounded spirit A dove with broken wings You never fly.

When I ask do you feel okay I am really checking to see if maybe you too can feel the waves of despair in the atmosphere like a sour, sorrowful note ringing in your ears I want to know if maybe you are as not okay as I am Or if I am really as alone as I feel.

Stepping out of that sultry car and away from you, Crisp autumn air embraces my damp skin I shiver as white, cloudy breath drifts upwards to a sky as infinitely empty as I am scattered with glimmering light I look up with a sigh.

At least in the presence of the stars, There is the comfort that Maybe someone else is looking up at them too.

They say it’s easier to love someone who is almost identical to you: Your faiths, your personalities, your beliefs all align.

No one person is identical to you, And scientists have proved that opposites attract

John-Barron Johnson is a freshman and a student of Mrs. Brasher. He is active in FBLA, Cedar Creek football and powerlifting and enjoys fishing, playing the drums, and reading.

Leather She’s the Sun in my rain But she causes all my pain She’s always playing games Always saying she’s going to change We will be content for a few days Then it’s back to our old ways

Lying and cheating as my heart is steadily bleeding And our love is constantly impeding I want to end it all But I can’t and I feel her start to fall Out of my grasp To love her is all I ask In the end we came back together Our relationship is as strong as leather

They say that marriage is hard.

It’s the best thing that will ever happen to you.

You make a vow to love someone for the rest of your life, It’s a legal document, Still with unsettled clauses, But you find a way to make it work.

They say that children are a blessing from God. God made children difficult.

They bring challenges to a relationship; They also bring love, joy, and excitement.

I believe that they are a blessing.

They say that watching a loved one die Is the hardest thing you’ll ever do, But don’t they go to a better place?

Earth is full of problems and hardships.

I think a loved one dying is a peaceful moment On a chaotic planet.

Find your opposite and one day fall in love; Agree that marriage will be hard, but make it work; Dream of having children, because they are a blessing; One day you both will pass, but know you’re going to a better place together; People say a lot of things, but it is how you approach it That will make these talks worth while.

Cameron Lewis

20 The CLAW

The CLAW 21

Henry Terral is a junior at Cedar Creek and a student of Mrs. Myers. Active in Key Club, FBLA, football, track, and Chess Club, he enjoys spending time with his family and friends, going new places, and listening to music.

The Game Whether it’s a day in the office Or a night under the lights They all lead to a certain goal A goal that had been set at The beginning of the season When you were sitting in the Locker room with your coaches And fellow teammates.

The memories to be made The work to be put in Will all lead to every high School athlete’s dream From the temptation of your teammates To take the field To the energy echoing from the Student section and the crowd Gives you hope Hope to one day be a Champion Tobie Bimle is a junior in Mrs. Myers’ English class.

She is a member of Key Club, FBLA, and the varsity tennis team. She holds two leadership positions as head cheer captain and junior class vice president.

During the summer she enjoys spending time at the lake and traveling.

Street shadows

Senior Hallie Rambin is in Mrs. Weis’ 4th- and 6th-hour classes. Hallie enjoys spending time with friends and family and volunteering with her church.

22 The CLAW

Many walks of life walk these busy streets.

They walk beneath the shadows Of the buildings above From uptown To downtown We pass so many faces We cannot see The people beneath The shadow of the streets The faces we see Some old and some new Different colors and from different places All carry a story A Unique story The one we cannot see Underneath the shadows of the busy streets

Joshua Riggs is a senior and a student of Mrs. Brasher.

Fridays Waking up on a Friday morning The feeling is much different then any other day.

As soon as my alarm goes off I jump Right out of bed I’m excited I get dressed and go to school I’m anxious all day I can’t sit still in my seat I’m excited Finally Coach checks us out I go get ready I get on the bus We leave I’m anxious The bus ride is miserable I’m not relaxed at all Game time comes around Butterflies are bad The first play happens Bam, all my worries and butterflies go away I play my game Too bad I’ll never see a day like this again

Carlton John Rojas III is a junior and a student of Mrs. Myers. He is active in baseball and basketball. He enjoys hunting, reading, and fishing.

No limits How much more can I take?

Tired is the feeling I possess as I run yet another sprint My mind is telling me no more My heart feels like it could fail But I have teammates that depend on me, that need me, just as much as I do them I think to myself what if it was the night of an actual game?

Would I quit or would I prevail?

I keep questioning myself before the final sprint until I come up with my answer: I can take much more

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SHORT STORIES Chesney Nguyen is a senior and an AP student of Mrs. Bordelon. A member of Quiz Bowl, Key Club, National Honor Society, Cougar Ambassadors, and the co-president of French Club, she enjoys reading, writing, and spending time with her family.

Memories from A Coat’s Past He found the hair on an old winter coat.

Finding the coat had been an accident. While cleaning out stuff from his childhood home, he managed to drag the coat out from where it somehow had buried itself underneath a box of old, fading artwork that, for some unknown reason, his mom had to keep. But in the end, it didn’t really matter as he was too ecstatic that he had found the coat. To the outsider, the coat wasn’t anything spectacular with its bright blue hue and that weird plastic sound that it made whenever you moved around in it. To him, though, it brought back fond memories of late Friday night football games, of mornings where he had almost been late to school, and of waiting for his old truck to warm up in winter afternoon so that he could drive home.

Yet, the real accident was finding that long blond hair resting on the collar.

Seeing that hair somehow transported him to memories that he thought he’d forgotten. He recalled the day that they had first met, the first cold day of junior year – walking down the hallway, on the way to English (or was it Spanish?), when he collided with the pretty girl in his chemistry class. After much apologizing and a tad bit of confusion over whose books were whose, they finally were able to part ways. Yet for the rest of the day, he kept replaying the interaction over and over in his head.

However, their first real conversation happened about two weeks later. The pretty girl needed a chemistry tutor and their teacher had recommended him. The first session ended in disaster; he could barely look at her, let alone talk to her. But, somehow one study session turned to two, and before long, the blossoming friendship overpowered his nerves.

Finally, it all culminated at prom where he found her standing against the wall as date-less as he was. As the jokes and banter flew between them, they found themselves enjoying each other’s company so much so that when he shyly asked her to dance the last slow dance, she wholeheartedly agreed.

And thus began a whirlwind romance. They spent every waking minute together — between classes, at lunch, after school, on the weekends. Every morning, his phone would ring, and it would be her. At 9 PM, he would text her to talk about everything from their future together to their personal beliefs. They had the perfect relationship, the kind that some people could only dream of, the kind that you’d hear about in the movies. Every couple in school wanted to be like them, loving, long-lasting, untouchable. Their love was sure to last against the tests of time; it was certain.

24 The CLAW

But life, as life does, got in the way. As college approached, so did the end of an era. He couldn’t quite remember who exactly broke it off or when it happened, but he was certain that he was still dealing with the heartbreak throughout college. And even now, standing there, holding his old coat, he could still feel the pangs of old memories jabbing into his heart strings.

Although he couldn’t quite remember how that hair had even gotten there in the first place (though some faint, foggy memory said that she had worn it during a date night at the local fair), he still had other memories, ones of good times, of innocence, of young love. Carefully folding the coat into an old box, he thought about how he still had her number memorized.

Kenneth Ray is a junior and enjoys playing the bass guitar and fishing, among other hobbies, in his free time.

Swan Song “And welcome back to Tim and Larry in the morning, on 97.7 The Beat!” Bellowed Larry into the old mic, one of hundreds in the radio veteran’s collection, chipper like he was seemingly every time he opened his mouth. He had always been the more dynamic of the pair.

“It’s a beautiful Tuesday morning here in Seattle,” said Tim beginning his daily weather report, “a nice forty-two for your high today, and no rain, shockingly, in the skies today, but that Seattle wet-earth mixed with exhaust smell will permeate as always. High of forty-nine for those of you listening in Spokane and Yakama, and also clear skies.

It’s a tad warm for the eighth of December, but hey I’m not complaining.”

“Amen to that Tim-meister.” Larry said, turning his young-looking (for 54) and grey, stubbly face towards his cohost to flash him a smile. Although almost nothing but humor and random banter escaped the thin lips of Larry Colfert, he still managed to radiate a wise, mentor-like aura wherever he went. Especially to Tim, a good ten sum-odd years younger than him. “Now, before we get to our headlines for today, I’d like to make a very special announcement.” Larry continued, building suspense with the rising volume of his voice, “Because of you, yes you, listening right now on your way to wherever you work, Tim and Larry in the Morning is THE number one radio show in the WHOLE Seattle area!” Larry exclaimed, rubbing Tim’s head with his firm hand harder than Tim would have liked.

“Hey, take it easy I’m not one of those scratch off’s you’re so enamored with, ya old coot.” Tim Mabry jokingly told his friend and comedic partner of now almost 25 years.

Larry laughed off Tim’s comment and continued on his excited tirade.

“This past almost quarter century, gosh hard to believe things, seemed to radiate the only light Seattle ever saw, that, has been unimaginably wonderful for us, and thank other than dim streetlights in the rain and the occasional you all so much for making it possible. We appreciate you good performance by their Seahawks in a Super Bowl.

WAY more than you probably know and we hope that we “Now, here’s a good one from Miami, Florida, apparently can keep entertaining ya for as long as you guys will let a woman took her own, detached rear-view mirror into her us!” Larry bellowed into the ears of thousands of listeners local Burger King and...” likely beaming from ear to ear, thinking of the fond memLarry Colfert was cut off by a sharp alarm, shooting ories and laughs the pair of goofballs Tim and Larry had through the haven of their studio like a .22 round. This was given them, even during something as basic and menial as no ordinary severe weather alarm, like the men were used driving to work. to. It was a shrill, “Took the brief scream, like words right out a fire alarm but of my mouth. more urgent, that Thank you.” stood hairs on the Tim said, humback of necks and bly and kindly placed lumps in into Larry’s throats from anxmic. “If you iety. Larry looked hadn’t made my at Tim with a friend Mr. Colfslightly frightert here think he ened, but more so was funny, I’d confused, face. still be working “What in God’s at the Germ-x name was...hey factory. And no, Larry, what does before you call that fax say?!” and ask, that Tim anxiously isn’t a joke!” asked, referring Tim laughed, as to the sheet of Larry patted his government paper shoulder and coming through chuckled along their fax machine, with him. reserved only “All right, for fans faxing we have time things into the before the mushow on certain sic break at the segments; the top of the hour government could for a few wacky use it in case of headlines!” emergency...but Larry said exonly dire ones. citedly, looking Larry picked it up at the printed and situated his list of interestglasses. ing headlines “From the Defrom around partment of Civil the world he Defense...” Larry made before the read, each word show. Wacky getting quieter as headlines was he trailed off. As Julianne Brown is a senior and a student in Mrs. Weis’ class. She is a perhaps the he read the sheet, first year art student who enjoys working on many different types of most popular of he brought it closprojects. Active in the Art Club, Emerald Entertainers, and other extraall their seger to his face. curricular activities, she enjoys helping and spending time with others. ments. The two men, laughing Continued on and cutting up page 26 over childlike

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Continued from page 25 The alarm sounded once more, likely going through the mic to the ears of confused listeners. Larry’s hand began shaking violently as he approached the end of the letter, and he placed into Tim’s hands without a word. A look crossed the happy man’s face that never had before; absolute horror, and abject hopelessness. Upon seeing the color drained from Larry’s eyes, something that had never happened before, Tim urgently read the message too. His heart dropped, as if through the floor into the depths of the earth as the alarm screeched again. As licensed radio broadcasters, they were required by federal law to break the deathly silence on the air to tell Seattle the contents of the fax; that the mighty Russian nuclear arsenal was now flying high over the Pacific Ocean, and in a matter of minutes all the world’s troubles would be over. Especially for Seattle, a west coast hub and a main target of the oncoming missiles. The two men sat in the ugliest kind of silence humanly imaginable.

The three-siren alarm sounded once again, but bothered

neither man. They were legally entitled to broadcast the impending apocalypse...but what was the point? To torture people with news of an event out of their control? To make them and the rest of the world spend their final moments in a state of hysteria and abysmal hopelessness? It just didn’t seem right. Not in any regard.

“I...nobody...should have to feel what we feel now, especially not...now, that it....that it’s all over...” was the only sentence Tim could choke out. A few seconds after, Larry looked up from his state of dread and locked eyes with Tim. They nodded their heads at one another, simultaneously deciding about what to do with the message. The alarm rang out once again. Screech. Screech. Screech. Larry crumpled up the fax and tossed it in the bin, then proceeding to break the dreadful silence on the airwaves.

“Now then, sorry bout that umm...technical difficulties.

We’re gonna take our music break, here’s one I know you all enjoy. Thank you, Seattle.” Larry said, somehow in that same upbeat, Santa-like voice the people of Seattle were in love with. Fitting, at least Tim thought, that that was the last time they’d ever hear it. Larry selected a happy, poppy Christmas tune that was widely requested and adored by listeners around this time of year. As the song started, Larry looked at Tim for what would be the last time. Tim looked back at him with a look of “this is the end” written on his clean-shaven face. Suddenly, Larry reached under the desk he and Tim always sat at since the start of the show and pulled out a bottle of Louis Roederer champagne, along with two wine glasses he had brought from home. “I was saving this for the 25th anniversary broadcast but...I suppose now’s as good a time as any to open it.” Larry said, offering Tim one of the glasses.

“Yeah...I guess so.” Tim said, softly. The alarm sounded once again. Memories of the past quarter century flooded over the two men, like an ocean of a water that encompassed their entire lives and was telling them its final goodbye. As the song meandered its happy way to its conclusion, Larry raised a toast to the 25 years he and Tim had shared together. Tim raised his glass as well, and they clinked together as the two cohosts shared a drink for the last time. There they sat, in the silence, as time to the apocalypse ticked away, heralded by the screeching alarm as it filled the dreadful air.

Katelyn Moore is a senior and is a one-year art student of Mrs. Weis. Katelyn is active in cross country, track, Bible study, FCA, and Key Club.

26 The CLAW

Donovan Turpin is a sophomore and a student of Mrs. Bordelon. Active in FBLA, tennis, cross country, and CC’s music program, he enjoys theater, cooking, eating, sailing, skiing, and going to Disney World.

Helping Hands The boy is a year old.

The moth-eaten cloth swaddling him is itching his neck, but he doesn’t know how to tell his mother this.

She carries him swiftly through the foreign streets of Calcutta, eyes flitting down each alley and around each corner for suspicious characters. She glances down at her map.

Three more blocks to walk. One block, then turn right, go two more. The blue building on the corner.

It takes longer than she expects to reach the place. Street urchins lie sleeping on the hot, cracked sidewalk. Trees planted near the blue building can no longer stand the dry heat of the season; they seem to die as she passes them. She walks up the steep steps to the front door and stoops down on the narrow porch, placing the baby on the plain straw doormat.

She takes a marker out of the folds of her garment and writes a word on the cloth. The smell of the ink burns in her nostrils. She says a few words to him; he does not understand. He replies with childish joy and a little giggle, “Maan!”

“Mama!”

A few tears fall from her eyes. She takes his face in her hands and kisses his forehead. She looks into his wide brown eyes. Her hands leave his face. She knocks on the door and runs down the stairs and into the crowded streets.

He will never feel those hands again. One word: Hassan. ***** Hassan is six years old.

Every morning now he wakes up at 4:00 and takes the train with his foster parents to a marketplace in a nearby town to wash dishes for their restaurant without help. His foster father has a temper unlike any other when Hassan misses a spot on a soup bowl. He has to dodge the bowls (and sometimes knives) whenever his foster father throws them. His foster mother stands in the kitchen window, watching in shock, but also submission.

Tonight, much like many other nights, he gets home at around midnight to his foster parents’ room on the fifth floor of an abandoned apartment complex. When his parents are asleep, he sneaks into their room and takes his father’s pocket radio out of his jacket pocket. He takes it up to his cot that they have set up for him on the roof of the place and extends the antenna toward the night sky, tuning carefully to each station, listening to see what he likes.

He finds a station where a man is talking in English.

American English. He is announcing something. There is applause. Then he hears an orchestra begin. The music is strange, unlike any music he has heard on the other nights that he has listened over radio. It has strange beats and notes seemingly placed at random. But he finds energy in

the American sound, and soon falls in love with it.

He tiptoes back down his ladder from the roof and his silent hands slip the radio back into the pocket.

He creeps back up onto the roof, gazing into the stars, the American music still echoing in his head. That night he dreams with his eyes open and a soft smile on his face. ***** Hassan is thirteen years old.

For his past seven birthdays he has asked for American music books. His foster family managed to scrape together enough money from their restaurant profits to afford one each year. Hassan sat with his books on the roof, going through how it might sound in his mind, hearing the beats and the sound.

The piano was his favorite instrument. Unfortunately, his foster parents could only buy him the music, so he could only imagine how the music would sound under his fingers without the help of the keys.

Over the past few years, he has dug through the trash cans near the apartment complex for nearly empty tubes of toothpaste. Now he thinks he has enough.

This morning, he squeezed out the dregs in each and let them dry during the day. In the afternoon, he climbs back to the roof and uses the dried toothpaste as chalk. He draws a full scale piano keyboard on the concrete of the roof. Satisfied with his work, he descends his ladder to get his books from inside. As he is looking for his favorite one, he hears a loud boom from outside. He rushes to the window.

The skies are dark. Thunder. Today the rainy season begins. He rushes to the roof to see what has become of his creation. It lies in wet smears. He weeps into his hands as the rain falls like bullets onto his back. ***** Hassan is twenty-six years old.

He has just quit his job at the restaurant. He has saved up his money and finally has enough to move to the United States and fulfill his dream: to study music.

He leaves Calcutta by train; he watches through the window for the entire ride as the country rolls by.

When he settles in New York City after a few weeks, he visits a piano instructor’s apartment, hoping to schedule lessons. Luckily they are both free for the next hour, and so they begin a lesson then and there. Hassan has brought his music.

With broken English, Hassan asks, “Which one ‘middle C?’” The instructor nods curtly and shows him the key in question. Over the next five minutes, without help, Hassan plays the second of three preludes in a George Gershwin book he received the year before. His hands, gliding slowly and smoothly across the keys, never miss a note. ***** Hassan is twenty-nine years old.

He has become a sensation in the city. His instructor informs him that he has been invited to play at Carnegie Hall without looking up from his newspaper. Ecstatic, Continued on page 28

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Continued from page 27 Hassan works hard without help for the next three months to perfect his piece, a concerto by Gershwin: “Rhapsody in Blue. The night of the performance arrives.

Hassan stands outside the stage entrance, nervously rubbing his hands together. He sees a homeless man grumbling about something. “...stupid music...dirty curry muncher...”

Hassan politely apologizes for the man’s dislike of his artistry and kindly informs the man that he shouldn’t use those terms. “...stupid...I’ll tell you what not to use...”

As the man stands up, the piano instructor comes outside to tell Hassan it is time. The man begins to run toward Hassan and then knocks a brick into his head. As the man drags Hassan’s limp body down the alley, the last thing Hassan sees before blacking out is the piano instructor return inside without attempting to help.

He wakes up the next day in a hospital, his forearms in casts that seem too short. He can’t feel his hands, and his arm hurts just below his wrists. The doctor enters the room and removes the casts and fills him in on the rest of the accident.

Hassan’s hands were cut off last night. He would never play the piano again. ***** Hassan is thirty years old.

He despairs in his apartment about how his life’s aspirations were thrown out the window when the accident happened that night. He has to live with someone to help him get dressed, eat, and even bathe.

He leaves on his morning walk through the streets of New York. He finds one thing that this new city has in common with his old one: homeless people. As he passes by the same buildings as the day before and the day before that, he sees the same beggars from the day before and the day before that. “Please sir, just a little money?” He always tells them he had none to spare. Today one girl is particularly persistent.

“A few dollars to feed the needy?”

“No, I haven’t got any?”

“Are you sure, sir?” “Yes. Leave me alone.”

“Please, sir! My baby sister hasn’t eaten in three days!

Can’t you just lend a helping hand?”

28 The CLAW

Hassan stopped. He turned toward the girl and pulled his stubs out of his pockets. “I haven’t got any hands to lend.”

“I’m sorry, sir; I really am. But look around. There are people on the streets a lot worse off than you whose day you would make just by lending a few dollars in the place of a hand. There are tons of kinds of helping hands.”

“No one has helped me my whole life! Why should I help you?” “Why does anybody help anybody? There’s a good feeling you get inside from lending a hand: goodness in its purest form. If there’s anything that will give you new helping hands, that’s it.”

That day, Hassan gave away his coat, watch, wallet, and shoes to people he had never met before.

Hassan is fifty-eight years old.

Although he is now an old man, he is still a new man. He teaches piano to young children without costing their parents a fortune. He freely gives to the poor. He devotes time to reading and being kind to others rather than his former life of self pity.

Today Hassan is taking his traditional walk through the streets of New York. He passes through the bustling crowds, greeting every eye he meets with a smile. He sits down at his daily resting place, a bench where a homeless man waits. As Hassan approaches, the man slides down to allow room for him. They strike up conversation immediately.

As Hassan listens to the man tell stories about his youth, he suddenly collapses in cardiac arrest. The homeless man tries to call for help, but no one stops long enough to look.

Hassan, however, is in no real state of fear in whatever deep recesses of the mind still function when the heart stops. He knows that although his life is over, he has transformed the lives of others. Although his heart is ceasing to work, he has shown others that he has one.

During Hassan’s life, his piano-playing hands never grew back, but he did get new hands. Helping hands.

Quade Wells is a senior and takes art with Mrs. Weis.

You can usually find him fishing or hunting and spending time with his friends.

A group of scruffy-looking boys scuttle among the vendors’ carts looking for dropped pennies with a jovial competitiveness. They shove each other playfully until one trips and sends a barrel of shiny oranges tumbling down the raked pavement. The seller calls their mothers horrible names, but they jump up, unfazed, and race off in search Look Closer of more coins. Trailing behind the rest, a younger boy wonders if he will ever learn to pick up pennies as fast as The sharp crack of paper being torn and crumpled rings the other boys. After all, he is the poorest and probably the out like a church bell every fifteen minutes. An artist’s hands fly across a new page as he empties out his thoughts. hungriest of them all and needing the utility of a quick hand A cat, wearing the contemptuous look that becomes cats so for stealing things.

Emerging from the soft haze of well, watches him with curiosity. She flour and crackling heat of the bakery, knows more about these artists and the baker’s son surveys the street with their frantic search for brilliance than idle annoyance. He dislikes the venmost cats, so her eyes laugh at his dors and their constant haggling with furious penmanship. As he ruins page customers, loves the musicians who after page, her expression grows more sing for their suppers at the street corand more smug. Sensing her amuseners, and envies the boys who weave ment, he laughs quietly and mutters, through the overpacked marketplace ‘’I’m sure you could do no better.’’ carts like they can never stop running.

He wishes that he had more time to He knows that all of these people are enjoy his work, but he feels that if he unfortunate at best, but they don’t ever savors the writing or drawing Mandi Gresham is a senior and have to live under the same roof as his or painting for a moment that he will a student of Mrs. Weis. She is a father. surely lose impatient clients. Tirelessthree-year varsity cheerleader.

Suddenly, as if waking from a terrily, he scratches on and on through the Mandi is active in several clubs bly monotonous dream, the artist shivnotebook, trying to fill it with perfectincluding: Key Club (officer), Fuers and looks up from his notebook at ly inspired ideas but instead drowning ture Business Leaders of America the scene before him. The cat is curled it with rough sketches of paintings he (FBLA), Drama Club, No White up in the little girl’s lap as she reads, will never make, characters he will Flags, and French Club. the girl’s hair curling gracefully over never write about, and dreams he will the open book. A tear falls onto the never achieve. The artist curses himpage, blurring the words underneath. self with his own writing, grumbling The storekeeper stands over her shoulder with a pained about his shortcomings the entire time. The cat lashes her look in his eyes and another book in his hand. tail, irritated by his self pity, and turns gracefully to watch The cat lounges on the windowsill as the woman smiles the street come alive as it does every afternoon. Only a down at her husband and his unnecessary but loving efforts few feet in front of them, people swirl by in their ordinary to appease her. Walking among the beaded, melded, and routine. gem encrusted jewelry on the table, the cat looks slyly at A shopkeeper offers a book to a little girl who loves to the artist as the husband decides which ring is best. read. She has nothing to buy books with, and he has plenty She scampers in front of the group of ragged boys, her of customers, but they simply enjoy pretending. She sits in claws poised for a wayward shoe, and picks a coin from the his store and happily memorizes text after text, amassing knowledge to carry her away from the awful girls at school. ground with her teeth. As she escapes with the penny, she Her heart settles as easily as the dust on the books she loves gives the artist a pointed look. The smaller boy runs, his inexperienced gait slowing him considerably as he chases when she is reading them. Realizing this, the shopkeeper after the older boys. The dust in the street clears, and the never fails to have a new book waiting for her, the smart artist sees the dismayed boy stare at the now empty road little girl, a granddaughter he never had. with no one to run next to and not a single coin left to take.

A window above the street opens like a flash of lightThe cat sits at the feet of the baker’s son, who still stands ning, its blue curtains flying out into the wind, and a womoutside the bakery, arguing with the world in silence. an leans out in search of her husband, who is clandestinely Carrying his father’s voice, the wind sweeps through the perusing the tables of gold jewelry in the street below. He boy’s hair and makes him grimace. He stands a little taller lost his wife’s engagement ring shortly before he proposed and stifles the devastation burning inside him. Resigned, he to her, though that was years ago. Still, he never forgave returns inside and the world passes him by. himself for it, and he searches for a pretty gold ring for The cat looks to the artist, but he does not look at her. his wife every time the marketplace is open. Though he He is frantically filling his notebook with perfectly inspired purchases only the most carefully crafted rings, his wife would never know the difference. She doesn’t like wearing ideas. jewelry.

An AP student of Mrs. Bordelon, Rebecca Bordelon, a junior, is a Cougar Ambassador and a Drama Club officer at Cedar Creek. She loves Broadway musicals, antique books, and Miniature Schnauzers.

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ESSAYS & MEMOIRS Mary Wynne is an AP English senior and is involved in the Spanish Club and the National Honor Society. She enjoys tennis, cooking, and writing.

Mary Julia Klug

No Response

By Elizabeth Wood

I lie face up, eyes forward. I try to turn my head, move my neck, but my body does not respond. I try to move my eyes, to see where I am; but, my body does not respond. I try to sit up, using the abdominal muscles I once worked so hard; but my body does not respond. Over and over again, familiar faces strain over my body at unflattering angles peeping and looking. Some even touch my cheek. One would think I were a sheep inside a petting zoo. Some flash me a smile. Not a smile one sees by the six-year-old with cotton candy in Disneyworld. The kind of smile that is forced. The smile at Christmas that you have to give the aunt you don’t like. Some shed a tear, which sometimes rolls onto my bedside. Not a normal tear, which is full of emotion -- lifeless -- the body’s last substance built up inside. I have seen many distant cousins, aunts, uncles, old friends etc., but no one I have seen recently, or someone who is really dear to me. It has felt like only a few minutes has passed when a grey faced, white haired lady, with a bun on top her head leans aggressively over my bed.

It is my mother. I whisper to her “I love you, momma. Get me out of this bed. Let’s go on a walk,” but she doesn’t

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respond. I yell, screaming at her, striving to notice any response. But she doesn’t bat an eye at me. No crinkle in her brow offers me the idea she is listening. My father, my dear father, with a flower arrangement in one arm and his other arm around my mother. “Father, listen to me, get me out of here!” but no response to my outcry is given. I have always hated being ignored! A few seconds later they turn their backs, never for me to see them again.

What is going on? Could I have just had surgery, explaining why I cannot move; and, I’m actually unconscious, which explains why my parents could not hear me.

Am I only dreaming, hallucinating from my pain-killer drugs? Seconds later, everything goes black. Not the type of black that occurs after my brother falls down the stairs, hitting his head. The type of black that someone else forces upon you -- as if someone has turned the lights out. My eyes adjust. I am in a box. Maybe I’m getting an MRI -testing is being done, surely. I hear whimpers, tissues being pulled from tissue boxes, and music. My name is being lifted up -- sung about. What is going on?

It all stops. A steady beeping fills ears, my eyes fill of white light. What is going on?

Flipping through the photo album is one of my family’s favorite activities. We have hundreds of pages of photos, and as an only child, I’m in almost all of them. My mother’s cell phone camera has a few hundred photos. Mine has over a thousand more. The shelves in my room are albums of sorts, with souvenirs of my childhood proudly on display. Our whole house is covered in photographs and trinkets. Obviously, our memories are very important to us, and we want to treasure them forever. But some memories can’t be stored. Some stay filed away in your mind forever, until something makes you remember. Maybe it’s a Christmas song or a clip from an old movie. Maybe it’s the smell of your grandmother’s perfume or the warmth from a crackling fire. But some memories seem to come out of nowhere. They are usually faint snapshots of the past, almost like photographs in your mind’s eye.

One of my favorite memories, one that I think about a lot, is the Halloween hayride I went on when I was ten.

I’m sure I must have stuck out like a sore thumb—I was a ninja warrior in a sea of princesses and fairies. My fake Styrofoam nunchucks and plastic sword gave me a sense of confidence I normally didn’t have. I talked and laughed along with my classmates, which was something I rarely did in school. Ironically, a flimsy costume mask made me feel more like myself than ever. I wish I could go back to that moment and tell that ten-year-old girl that, as happy as she was right then, life had much more in store for her than she could ever imagine.

And I would tell her that one day, when she is older, she will wake up and look in the mirror and ask, Who am I, really? She will spend years trying to answer that question by trying to fit in with the “cool” crowd and devouring society’s messages about her identity: Be pretty—but don’t spend too much time on your hair and makeup, or else you’ll be judged as vain and conceited. Be smart—but not too intimidating, or else people will think you’re a know-it-all.

Be perfect—but make it look effortless, or else people will see that you’re human, too.

And one day, she will look in the mirror and realize that she is enough. One day, she won’t have to dress up in a cheaply made costume just to feel powerful. One day, she won’t have to hide behind layers of foundation and lipstick just to Mary Wynne feel pretty, but she won’t allow

herself to be stereotyped as “shallow” for her interest in fashion, either. One day, she will feel comfortable with her own voice—so comfortable, in fact, that her teachers couldn’t imagine a classroom without the chatter of her and her friends. One day, the ten-year-old girl on the Halloween hayride will be as brave and strong as she’d imagined, but she won’t need a superhero cape, a plastic sword, or a paper crown. One day, she will just be herself, and that will be good enough.

Grand(father) piano

By Kelsey Sena Tamakloe My breathing slows, my mind becomes blank, and I begin. My hands move through the triplets like spiders lacing a web; they bounce like grasshoppers from one octave to another. I inhale softly, playing in mezzo piano, and exhale as the notes crescendo to forte. Piano is what I love, but it wasn’t always like this.

I have been playing piano for ten years, and when people ask me why I play, I usually respond with platitudes: “It’s an indescribable feeling” or “It’s what I was destined to do.” But really, it all started with my mother telling me and my twin brother Kevin that we would be taking piano lessons. He passionately tried to refuse; I, on the other hand, was willing to give it a chance. While Kevin hardly practiced, I played for thirty minutes every day. However, this usually became an hour because my mother would enter the room and spend half of my practice time just talking. A normal conversation went like this: “You know,” she starts, “my father used to play the piano.”

I nod my head.

“Yes, well,” she continues, looking into the distance.

“He really loved it. He would play all the time. Filled the room with music. I was so young when he passed.”

I nod again.

“He never let me play. He tried to get your Auntie and Uncle to, but they weren’t committed. He was very disappointed. But you would have been his pride and joy.”

I nod a third time, and she leaves me to practice.

My mother had never been happier, but unfortunately, Kevin quit that winter. You could see the pain in my mother’s eyes, the defeat. She didn’t force him to continue; she even let me decide if I still wanted to. But was there even a choice? I was now the only reminder she had of her father, the only way for him to be proud. The guilt ate at me: how could I take this away from her?

Years passed, and I just kept playing: spending more Continued on page 32

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Continued from page 31 time at the piano, learning new pieces, never complaining.

I was lauded for my recital performances, and even though the awards weren’t what was motivating me to practice, I still didn’t know what was — until I watched a boy play a duet with his grandmother at a Christmas recital. Everyone released a sigh of happiness when it was finished except for me. I burned with jealousy, knowing that it was no longer possible to have what that boy had—someone who loved music as much as I did. I replayed my daily practice “conversations” with my mother. “Pride and joy” echoed through my head; I looked at my hands—my tools. Suddenly I was reborn. Piano was no longer just a way to please my mother or help her make grandfather proud; it was now a way—the only way—for me to connect with my grandfather.

Now when I play, I imagine him there: listening carefully, towering over me, watching my fingers. When I look at my hands, I sometimes picture his instead, playing for me. And as “we” play, I begin to wonder if this was how he moved—his hands like spiders, gliding through a glissando, his breathing slow, swaying with the rhythm. When I receive my award each year at the spring recital, I look out at the audience and picture him sitting with my mother, trying his best to work the phone’s camera.

The sound fades, and my hands still—the grasshoppers stop jumping and the spiders finish their webs. Reaching the end of my song, I come to the conclusion about why I play. It’s not for the praise or recognition, and it’s not for my mother. It’s to gain a better understanding of myself and of my relationship to this amazing man, who I would have called my grandpa, and to continue his legacy.

The Nights

By Chelsea Johnson 1:17. My heart is pounding. Nerves twist and squirm against each other in my gut, and my breaths come out in short, panicked gasps. Painfully slow, the clock ticks down in seconds that feel like endless days. The quick stomping of boots, angry bursts of screaming, and comments of “Oh no, I think I have to pee,” fill the warm, night air. 1:01. The smell of sweaty boys mixes in with that of the freshly manicured grass and paint, creating an unmistakable yet oddly pleasing scent. Players thunder down the field, thuds of falling bodies joining the oomphs and grunts the boys emit. :47. The shrill of a whistle breaks my stare from the clock, igniting a new wave of panic. Nervously, I pull on the worn strings of my traditionally too tight hat and squirm away from a particularly sharp sequin poking from the seams.

Knees bounce and shoulders swing side to side, each girl fighting to keep her cool. :32. Poms rustle together, green and gold flashing across sparkling sequins as each girl throws her right hand in the air. Green in right, gold in left.

Mumbles begin to fill the air as each girl mutters, “come on, come on. Hurry up,” at the clock that is forever taking its time. :14. The breeze begins to pick up. :09. The lights

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Mary-Arthur Weis is a sophomore and is active in Mrs. Weis’ Art Club. She is an Emerald Entertainer and on the Cougar Tennis team. She enjoys music, art, movies and spending time with family, friends and pets. shine with the white intensity of the sun. :06. The noise of the crowd fades into a dull roar. :02. Backs straighten to attention, smiles paste themselves on faces, heads hold themselves high. :00. “Here we go, ladies.”

Navy Coggins a junior and an AP student of Mrs. Bordelon.

He serves in Key Club, Art Club, FBLA, Spanish Club, and Cougar Ambassadors. He is also a part of the varsity track and cross country teams and has been taking private voice lessons for two years.

The State of Oblivion

The sand stings my feet like sand paper grinding down at my bones after each step. My blood mars the white beach, red and delineating. Pain shoots through me like chilling electricity rushing down my spine; I can’t escape this place that once seemed so alluring. Steady, I push through the wind, eyes glued shut from the sea’s salty mist pelting my face. Sirens ring like a shrill scream in my ear, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.

Children’s sandals still lie pressed into the sand without feet to carry them out of the petulant storm. But I press on, unbothered by the wind that cuts through my clothes like knives. The fierce water climbs up my body, and the unforgiving waves pull me under into a swirl of confused wickedness. From under, the storm seems calm, quiet; everything moves in slow-motion. I feel like I can go forever without air—until I can’t. My fingernails rip at my throat; I inhale only to take the ocean’s cruel threat into my lungs.

The pain that stemmed from my shredded feet spreads to my whole body. My lungs burn scarlet, like the sun peering through the grey clouds that swirl above me. The last thing I see is that fragile light slowly turn from red to black.

Kevin Tamakloe is a student of Mrs. Bordelon. Active in varsity tennis, FBLA, and Cougar Ambassadors, Kevin enjoys reading books, listening to J. Cole, playing video games, and hanging with friends.

Failing at its Finest

At this moment, my temper flares. I rise from my desk burning with rage, and I start yelling at every single one of them. I call all my classmates—some of whom I consider to be my best friends—deplorable and racist. *** Opening the door to my French classroom, I am bombarded by the loud discussion of my fellow students; they are talking about the Ferguson riots. I do not know who prompted the topic, nor do I care, but I am immediately concerned by the few classmates making hateful comments about the riots and their participants. They agree that the riots endorse retaliation against the police force. Even though I want to speak out, I am not well-informed on the situation so I do not question what they say. As they continue to disrespect the people of Ferguson, I interject my beliefs every now and then, but I am not fully invested in arguing with them. The discussion eventually drifts towards the Black Lives Matter movement; they perceive it as black people claiming their superiority over other races. *** After this heated discussion, my relationship with my classmates faltered. We are all friends again, but the way I feel about them is no longer the same—I always hold my tongue around them. The same topic has been reopened for discussion on multiple occasions since that eventful day, and while I always contribute with similar thoughts, I respond without hostility. Looking back at the event, I realize that my forceful, negative response to their opinions could have caused them to remain stubborn about their views on the subject. By taking a “Malcolm X” approach, I failed to show them my truth; however, if I had been more like Martin Luther King, Jr.—patient and nonviolent—maybe my classmates would have at least respected my beliefs, if not modified their own.

Ironically, after a few years, I realize that I am the true hypocrite. I screamed profanities and made unnecessarily violent gestures in hopes of my voice being heard, but in

doing so, I suppressed other people’s opinions. I believed that my opinion was worth more than theirs. Why? Because I am black? What my classmates believe is just as important. I understand that life is not just black or white, right or wrong, but that there is a lot of gray area. If everyone in a community only has his or her own set of beliefs and does not attempt to understand how others think, then nothing will be accomplished. For a community, city, or country to grow, every person’s ideology must be shared and respected. I am glad that the argument with my classmates happened, because even though it hurt, I am now better equipped for the real world. There will always be people who disagree with me, and I cannot prevent that, but I can control how I react.

My goal was to change how my peers perceived the movement, but I failed. Instead of respecting their right to express their opinions, I attacked them. No one wants to fail, and because of the desire to succeed, many feel distraught when they do. I have wanted to stop trying to influence my community and be content with its world view, but I realized if I give up, injustice will reign supreme. I will continue and learn from my mistakes and become an outstanding respected leader in my community, as exemplified by Martin Luther King, Jr. I will persevere through my mistakes and see my failure for what it truly is: a chance to better myself. I failed, but through this failure, I am learning to do what is right. education

By Ashley Palmer I know a girl who has a sharp, analytical mind, who seeks the deeper meaning in everything. she should flourish in school, making all these new connections between history and science and literature. but no. she must take comprehension tests asking the color of Hester Prynne’s hair or the name of the community of her oppressors. she must listen to lectures with no discussion allowed (we don’t have time for that—lots of books to cover, after all) and fill in the blanks of the meaning of the scarlet A (when scholars still debate the subtlety of its meaning, when her own thoughts are more profound and do not fit in the blanks). she must memorize names and dates and forget them an hour after the test is over, never to connect the information to other eras and places. she must put subjects into little boxes, science separate from history separate from language—when really they are all connected, and she would see it, if only they would let her. as it is, she takes each test, moaning about the amount of homework she has, the number of tests she must study for, frustrated with her teachers and the whole system. she makes perfect A’s on her report card. but she does not reach her full potential. there is a genius inside her, if only someone would ask her questions that made her think.

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