The Pearl: Spring 2024

The Pearl

Cover Art by Aidan Meadows

The Pearl

The

Spring 2024

Last night in South Dorm during our nightly dorm check Renée asked us a question: in 80 years, what do you hope to think when you look back on your life? I sat, listening, to my roommates’ answers, imagining us 80 years from now. Will we know each other? I’ve lived with some of these girls for three years now. They have watched me grow, change, learn, fail, and succeed more in these past three years than my parents It felt unattainable to imagine a world eighty years from now, far away from CRMS, where we weren’t experiencing each other. I realized reality was running towards me faster than I expected. Some of the key people in my life that I rely on so heavily would be leaving in a couple of months I was overwhelmed with grief, something I’d never experienced for people still alive. It’s a weird feeling, to mourn something you still have. I felt selfish - selfish for wanting to keep someone who’s outgrown their environment It got me thinking about memory and how precious it is, but also how misleading It has been my ideology for a while that things that aren't serving us in life anymore, things we have outgrown, need to be left behind for a person to move on. This is how memories feel. People, places, and situations of the past are no longer in our lives for a reason We had to leave them to expand. We as people know this, yet we still reminisce about those past experiences. Memories look better in the rearview mirror; it is easy to feel sad to lose these people from our community, or to be sad to be leaving our community - but the truth is the sadness will pass, and time will go on. We will all continue to grow, change, learn, fail, and succeed. People who leave our lives aren't dying, they are simply outgrowing us. It isn’t something to be sorrowful about, but to celebrate This is what this issue of The Pearl is about Celebrating memories and growth in a beautiful coming together of art and literature from members of our community. A commemoration of diverse histories, leading into the future of next year. Summer will be here in a little less than four months, and in September, school will begin without people, with new people, and time will go on. So, while we have the present, let us, as a community, enjoy this time capsule of today's students' beautiful work. Don’t worry about what you will be thinking about 80 years from now, enjoy the people and time we have now

~ Kira Harvey

Six-Word Short Stories

In the winter of 2024, every junior at CRMS wrote a six-word short story in their English class. It was a competition - the prize being a featured publication in The Pearl. These selected students have been chosen among others to be in CRMS's literary and arts magazine.

News! Pregnant woman ’ s cravings gone wrong

- Kira Harvey

Zoom meetings, optional pants, ghostly world.

- Aidan Meadows

Sweet mother of god, zombie chickens.

- Jay Zimmerman

The Unnoticed

Zander Turner

Onmy16thbirthday,mydadasked:“Youfeelanyolder?”

“Youfeelanyolder?”

Ihavebeenaskedthisquestionamilliontimesbyamilliondifferentpeople

“Youfeelanyolder?”

Ialwaysanswertruthfully:

“No.”

Idon’tfeelolder,notreally.Ofcourse,I’vegrownandmybrainhasdeveloped,butthinkingpreviously,I donotfeelallthatmuchdifferentfromwhenIlivedinJapan,orNewYork,orNewMexico

Lookingbackonmypastlife,seeingpicturesorhearingstoriesfromfamilymembers,thereisastark differenceinmenow Ofcourse,comparingatoddlerandateenagerwilldothat ButwhenI think back,backonthe

memoriesIkeepfromthosetimes,theyfeelnoolder-andIfeelnoolderinthem-thanthememoriesthatIhave maderecently.Whyisthat?Well,Isupposeithassomethingtodowithperspective.

WhenlearningSpanishintheclassroom,youaretaughtthatthewaytodifferentiatethepreteritetensefrom thepresentperfectisthattheformerisdisconnectedfromthepresentgoings,andthelatterisconnectedtoit Stories andmemoriesfromthepastaresomethinglikethat Whenyouhearastoryorseeapictureofyourself,youareable tocontrastthetwocharacters:youthenandyounow Thedifferencesbecomeclearbecausetheyarelaidoutforyou

tosee-emphasized Memoriesaredifferent

Irememberthebluelightshiningonthewalloftheplane’scabinasIflewfromTokyotoNewYork.I

remembergettingachocolatecroissantwithmyparentsonthewaytodaycareinManhattan.Irememberinspecting aredantandcryingafteritbitmesoonafterImovedtoAlbuquerque.ButIalsoremembermyfirstdayofhigh

school Irememberhavingamullet Irememberreading Walden atwork Allofthesememories,whichhappened farapart,holdtheappearanceofhavinghappenedinthesameweekinmymind Irememberfeelingthesamein thosememoriesasIdonow-oldornew Notolderatall Idon’tfeelolderatall?

SurvivorsofDave’s10th-gradeHistoryclassprobablyremembertheconceptofcreepingnormalityor landscapeamnesia.Theideathatchangegoesunnoticedbecauseithappens…veryslowly.Timegoesunnoticed becauseithappens…veryslowly.Thefactofourchangegoesunnoticedbecauseithappens…veryslowly.Theprior dayhasnomajordifferencetothesubsequentone,andthesubsequentdayhasnomajordifferencetoitssuccessor Andsoonitgoesuntiladifferenceisonlynoticedthroughamomentofepiphany,wherethechangeisliterallyseen Thisgivesanexplanationtowhystoriesandpicturesareseparatedfromthecurrent,andwhymemoriesare connectedtoit

Memoriesareimportanttokeepandtokeeprecent,butonemustnotgetlostinthepast.Somanyclichès hailfromthisideaoftime’srelentlessjourneyforward,andwhileitisoftenanembarrassmenttohearthem,they holdanimportantgeneralmessage.Lifeisdefinedbytime;thereisnostoppingit.Staypresentandpunctual.

Nostalgiamakesacomplicatedlifeevenmoreso Eliotgaveusanexampleofanadageinclass:"Arollingstone gathersnomoss”Ifyouseeyourlifeasthatstone,alwaysmovingforward,thereisnotimeforyourpasttobecome attachedtoyou,themoss Maybethestonewillgetwet,haveamomentofreminiscence,butduetoitsnature,will notletmossgrowandtakeoverfromthatdampness

Photo taken by Sebastian Case

Front of the back of my mind

- Anonymous

You and me

Have this memory

I know it’s in The back of your mind

Somewhere you hope That you'll never find

Believe me I’ve tried To do away with mine

But it always finds a way

To the front of the back of my mind

To the front

Of the back Of my mind

Artwork done by Dylan Baker

Ode to the letter S

- Payten Jenrich

I can remember a time, at a much younger age, when I could not pronounce the letter S. A time when words would come flying out of my mouth, but wouldn’t have any substance, structure or shape Then, as I got older, my words morphed: they became words with syllables: two, three, four and five openings in my words, vowels spilling out all over the place with inexplicable meaning. And then, they morphed again: my words started to be surrounded by consonants; these were little clicks and pops that surrounded all those vowels bundled them into a little package to be sent off into the world of special substance in special styles.

And yet, one letter always stood out, the letter that was soft, the letter that didn’t make a click or a pop sound when you said it, but rather wrapped your voice into soothing formation a day of sunshine and concentration, a letter that was hard to say and yet worth the wait.

Some may say that the letter C has just as much substance: it is soft and curved and flowy. But C takes so many forms, sometimes the click of “clock”, and sometimes the smooth sound of “celery” Will this letter ever be able to make words plural? Will it ever turn your single flower into flowers? Your thin hair into hairs? Your one thing into many things? I don’t believe so.

S always takes over the conversation Whether it is the ps in pseudonym or psychology, or the ts is tsunami, it has its ways of inserting its presence in almost all the words we speak.

You know and love S, you just don’t understand its values yet.

Soniashnyk

- Kira Harvey

Prologue

The woman stood before the soldiers. She reached into her pocket and tossed them sunflower seeds with the reason being“ so at least sunflowers will grow when they lay down and die here.”

This is what a Ukrainian woman said to Russian soldiers invading her hometown, Henychesk The sunflower is Ukraine’s national flower and has been a symbol of peace in the country Ukraine in June of 1996 gave up nuclear weapons. To mark this moment in the country's history the defense ministers of Ukraine and Russia planted sunflowers at Pervomaysk missile base as a symbol of peace Now, in the present day, the two countries are at war Ukraine keeps the sunflower as their mascot of peace despite the conflict. Sunflowers can be seen outside the Ukraine aid center - Sunflowers for Peace - in London. In Reno, Nevada sunflowers are highlighted in an inspiring art piece with the word “Believe” being the main attraction Across the world wearing sunflowers has become a way to show support for Ukraine in the war.

My dining room in Fairfax,Virginia, about 8,028 km away from Ukraine, has stood as a living reminder of the flowers' message my whole life On the wall directly across from the dinner table hangs a large, framed painting of a sunflower field. Ever since I can remember the painting has been there. When the war began, it soon meant more to me than just the painting I often zoned out at during family dinners, it now stood as a reminder of the resistance and strength my people come from For my mom and grandma the sunflowers were their childhood and home, a beautiful reminder of their country I personally can not remember the sunflower fields, but they seem to be a part of me too. My hope is one day I can return to my grandma’s house in Ukraine, with my mom and see them for myself, but for now the painting in my kitchen will be my reminder of the people who aren't as lucky as me to be in a country without war.

For my There There project in AP Lang this year I turned my family's memories, dreams and hopes for our country into a short story The first chapter, below, follows my mother’s story, taking place in Vinnitsa, Ukraine in the year 2000.

Iryna Poirkova, 2000 (age 16)

Even at 6 AM the summer heat was thick in the train, my back sticking to the seat Looking out the window the city got farther and farther away as the countryside became clearer Despite the revengeful heat I longed for the train ride to end, longed for the 5 km walk to grandma’s house, longed for the juice from the fruit waiting to be picked, longed to feel my grandma's warm embrace. I missed it all so much. The sleepy heat mixed with the drone of the train slipped me into a mellow dream filled with the sweet scent of strawberries, the green grass under my feet and a jolt. My heavy eyes opened seeing the familiar train station before me. Grabbing my backpack I hopped off the train with a sudden energy. The walk was long, but when fueled with desire it went by fast Soon enough the gardens were in view, grandma proudly standing next to them as if they had been there, waiting for me, all year up until this very moment.

“Babushka!”

She pulled me in, rocking me back and forth I breathed her in, she smelled of the same sweet scent the strawberries from my dream consisted of, just like always.

“You must be so tired from the train, come inside, I have a surprise for you. ” She said still rocking me.

The truth was I wasn’t tired at all, all I wanted to do was to dive into the gardens at that very moment, but I didn’t dare turn her offer down She led me through the swinging door into the little house Nothing had changed, every little thing was still in the exact same place as the last time I was here, except for the kitchen table, which was now full of freshly plucked fruit, warm vereniki, colorful napkins and her favorite plates I gasped in joy, pulling her into a suffocating hug

“I'm glad you like it, I'm going to make us some tea.” She laughed, prying my tight squeeze off of her.

I didn’t waste a moment grabbing my plate. The filling warm taste of the vereniki reminded me just how much I've missed her cooking Grandma made them in such a delicate way, each one still having their own unique indents of the place her hands had closed them. We sat for a while at the kitchen table, trading stories and recent memories over tea and fruit.

“We have a lot of work to do for tomorrow, we better get started ” She said, grinning up at me from her cup.

I slid the work gloves over my hands and kneeled down on my knees, the hot sun glaring down on my back. Grandma and I worked tediously for hours, picking all sorts of fruits and vegetables. Picking the raspberries was my favorite part as I got to eat them as I worked By the end of the day I had two buckets full of raspberries. Proudly, I picked them up and walked them back to the house. The sun was setting slowly, grandma and I watched from the porch.

I was on the train again, this time it was even earlier - 4:30 AM. Grandma and I watched the sun rise from the window, with the buckets of fruit between our legs This train wasn’t as long as the one from Vinnitsa; it was only about an hour to Zhmerinka. I napped, my head resting on grandma’s shoulder; I dreamed again. This time, instead of strawberries, I dreamed of sunflowers. I was walking through a field of them, one near grandma’s house I was small again, so the huge flowers towered over me Walking through the field, it was utter peace. As I walked I saw a figure in the distance, they were saying something to me, but I was too far to hear.

“Ira, Ira, Ira c'mon we have to go ”

I awoke to grandma shaking me, we were in Zhmerinka. I quickly grabbed my bucket of raspberries and hurried off the train. The train station was busy and loud, but I loved it. The different stands each one with a different thing being sold, it was magical Grandma and I set up our booth A table with all of our fresh fruit (mostly raspberries) that we picked yesterday Soon enough we were in it Grandma made small talk with customers as I weighed and sold fruit. All sorts of different people and families came to our booth. I snuck raspberries to some of the kids while grandma and the parents talked, we mischievously grinned about it till they noticed When the crowd settled down for a second grandma let me go explore I walked around the market, discovering the other stands. Some were fruit and vegetables (like grandma and I’s booth), others were jewelry and other things people had made. I became entranced as I walked through the shops, each one so unique I stopped at a smaller cart The woman behind the counter is older like my grandmother. She gives me a welcoming smile as I poke around at the jewelry she has laid out on the table. My eyes land on a ring, it’s gold with a sunflower stamp in the middle. I think back to my dream; walking through the tall fields

“That one is one of my favorites. Try it on. ” The older woman says to me, snapping me out of my daydream.

I slip the ring over my index finger It fits perfectly

“It’s gorgeous. ” I say, placing it back down.

The woman gives me one more smile before I go. I walk the whole way back to grandma’s shop, the sunflower ring stuck in my mind When I get there grandma is packing up I tell her about the ring as I organize the remaining fruit.

“Sounds magical.” She tells me.

The train ride home is peaceful. I think about my dreams, the sunflowers, grandmother's house, the fruit, the ring I snuggle into grandma’s arm and breathe in her strawberry scent again She reaches into her bag -

“It’s no sunflower ring, but they do taste good.” Grandma says lightly as she hands me a bag of sunflower seeds

I smile a huge grin.

“Thank you babushka!”

I dig into the bag, grabbing a handful We finish the bag in no time

“Be careful, you know the story, you eat too many sunflower seeds and one will grow in you. ” Grandma tells me teasingly.

I giggle, she always told my brother and I that when we were little

“I'm old enough now to know better than to believe a story like that ”

“Don’t be too sure Ira.”

I rest my head on her shoulder again, sleep taking over my aching body. This time I dream of the seeds in my stomach They start out small, but grow larger and larger, until they are sprouting roots that anchor in my stomach. The seeds grow stems, reaching up into my throat and begin blooming at the end. They blossom for a while, slowly, until the big yellow flowers come out of my mouth, as if searching for the sun.

I sit, eyes wide, mouth open, flowers all around

City Stars

- Klara Greyvensteyn

Senior Speech

It was the night before solo on wilderness. My group was tucked on the side of some mountain in our nightly circle. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to go to my sleeping bag and hurry the return back to campus by a few hours But I couldn’t, so I sat in the circle and craned my neck up to look at the sky above me. The stars were stretched out before me in their infinite cosmos. They twinkled and blinked down at me, sparkling as they had for millions of years, reminding me of my small place, my blip of existence in the world compared to everything else I remember staring up at the stars, taken out of the talking around me, mesmerized by the sight of the Milky Way. The spell was seemingly broken when my thoughts crashed through, one loud and clear above the others: it looked fake.

This thought brought me back down; literally, I stopped looking at the stars and had to rejoin the world to grapple with what had just happened. For the next few minutes, I would steal glances back up at the stars above me, trying to reconcile what I was seeing with my own eyes, a pinnacle of beauty, a gate away into the great unknown, and I thought it looked fake the answer to why came after a moment of thought. I grew up in cities as a child. I was born and raised in Seoul, and in the 7th grade, I moved to Hong Kong. Between the light pollution of the two cities, the night sky was devoid of stars. The most you would get would be a planet Sometimes, you think you would see a star, only to realize with its steady movement, it was a passing plane instead. With this fact, I now understood why I thought the night sky on wilderness looked fake. I had simply never seen anything quite like it before.

However, this memory stuck with me, and one night, when I couldn’t fall asleep for the life of me, I thought back to this memory. The more I thought about it, the more I began to realize that while they weren’t stars in the literal astronomical sense, my childhood in the city was not devoid of them.

Because outside in the night, you could turn, pause, and look out over the shining sea of city lights The swirling mix of colors, flashing, blinking, some caught in a seemingly endless stream of movement that

danced and flickered around you. Shining like gold and silver, red and blue, purple and green, they stretched out onto the horizon before disappearing into the darkness beyond. They were stars brought to earth, built and held in the palms of humans, sculpted to our desires, and, at least to me, they shone with such beauty I could do nothing but stare sometimes.

These two contrasting images swirled in my head that sleepless night. It seemed poetic that these two titans, urban and nature, clashed together Seemingly always put against one another, fighting for who would end up on top. That one had to be better than the other, that one would hold some fatal flaw that, when pressed, would cause it to crack and crumble, leaving only one as the victor. But I don’t think this is so Because the night sky on wilderness and the city lights, they are both stars, and they are both beautiful. I know that one physically is not a star; city lights are very different from balls of gas trillions of kilometers away from Earth, but in a figurative sense, they are. Because when I look up at the stars on wilderness or on a trip, I am reminded of how small I am in the universe That my existence is a blip in time that nobody may remember. That the stars, as infinite and glorious as they are, sparkling in their beauty, gazing down at us as they have for billions of years as the earth persists around us, call to me. Our place in the universe might be small, but it is still ours And the stars call to us, a siren song, singing to us to find our place in the universe

Just as well the city lights. In a swirling sea of people and color, as glass stretches high above, you are lost in a sea of people A nameless face among thousands and a different kind of infinitesimal is born But along with it a freedom, as you stand in the sea of stars brought to life as you marvel at what we as humans are capable of creating. The city hums in your veins, in your blood, calling you to run the streets, to explore and discover Humans created a city of stars, a mark on the world that will inevitably fade one day, but it is enough that it once was, and through it, it calls to you to do the same. Your life might be small and forgotten in the grandness of the universe, but is it not enough that it was? To exist is a wondrous thing “We are made of star-stuff” is a quote I think of often

I think if it holds any candle of truth, this is what drives us. Humans, when we look at stars we are reminded of our place in the universe and are called to adventure To fill our small blip of existence with

something fantastic, to find new stars to fill our lives. And I think this is what this speech is all about in the end, for me to tell you all to find your stars, to find your adventure, whether they’re in the night sky or city lights.

Photos taken by Sebastian Case

Do You Remember When?

- Presley Vaitonis

Do you remember your childhood bedroom? What is different about it compared to the room you sleep in now? Is the room still pink, yellow, purple, green, or red? What was hanging on your walls back then, did you paste stickers on every corner or leave it clean to keep out of trouble? Do you remember?

What stuffed animal did you cuddle with while drifting your young eyes to sleep, or did a blanket give you comfort as you dozed off into your dreams? What was your favorite food or movie? Do you remember?

Well, I do. My room was purple with a handbuilt gray loft bed my parents made. Under the loft bed was a beanbag chair where I would read my treehouse books. Every time I sat down in that chair there was a new adventure for my eyes to steadily drift through and recreate in my mind I remember my white dresser and my disney princess guitar. I had a bookshelf that had my favorite book ‘Where the Sidewalk

Ends’ by Shel Silverstien. I would read those poems over and over and over again until I fell asleep.

Mesmerized by the rhymes that filled each page

When I tell people that I remember memories like this, I almost always get told it’s my mind making things up or that I just saw the picture and my brain did the rest. But I don’t believe this is true. One of my favorite memories happened at my grandpa's house I don’t know how early it was, but it was probably around 5:30 or 6:00 am, at least that's what I remember the alarm clock saying. I crept into my grandparents room, the floor was creaky and the door was squeaky and I tried my very best not to wake my grandma up, I had a feeling she’d tell me to go back to sleep So instead I straightlined to my grandpa who was peacefully asleep right before I used my tiny hands to shake him awake, and say “Wake up Grandpa,”. He would respond with “Give me five more minutes''. I headed back to my room and stared at my Cinderella clock until the five minutes passed. Continuing the process again I would wake him up and he would say five more minutes and this repeated a few times, but eventually he got up and we walked to the kitchen. I said I wanted to make something. I was imagining a huge cake, picture perfect like the ones in cartoons, but instead he pulled out some eggs, baking soda, salt and pepper. I can’t remember the exact recipe, but this sounds correct I mixed up all the ingredients that were at hand, more baking soda there, and a little salt here. I wanted it to be cooked in a baking sheet or cake pan, but instead we decided on a

skillet. When the cake was finished cooking on the stove, it wasn’t a cake at all, it was a giant omelet. I touched the pan with excitement and got my first ever burnt finger. That’s when my grandma woke up and got me a bandaid and put some chemical on the burn to make it heal better, it kinda stung I really didn't mind though because I was so eager to try this thing I just made, I was so proud. I sat down to eat my omelet and my very first bite tasted perfect. I loved it. And this memory, this was not a photo memory, this was my own, and my mind didn’t make it up.

I am aware that our minds are capable of confusing reality with false information, and that photos can alter the imagery we have in our mind. But there are some, some like this, some so simple yet exact, that it wasn’t from a photo. I will never let go of this memory or any of the memories that have and still follow it, at least until I have to My grandma has Alzheimers, so the importance of memories will always resonate differently with me, and I value them so much more than I ever did before her diagnosis. Memories are precious fragments in time, they create a form of connection, for your family and friends. And while each year that passes the memories you have diminish a little more, because all of us as humans are forgetful regardless of if you have a mind altering disease. Start Managing the importance of each one of them and try your best to hold on tight because if you don’t, your life will slip right through your fingers So do you remember?

Untitled

-

Daisy Cullwick

What was his name? I strain my memory as I look across the Manhattan Beach horizon, from the deck of my apartment, overwhelmed by the countless thoughts swirling in my mind. Why again? This was a question he said I'd ask, a prediction from a man whose name had faded into the recesses of my memory, my memory that was fading fast His face, however, remained vivid He was youthful, with pretty brown eyes and a cascade of blondish-brown curls, their texture likely altered by the relentless California sun, tamed by a thin layer of glistening gel.

I recalled rushing home yesterday after my appointment and jumping in the ocean, only coming up when my lungs screamed for air, attempting to escape the reality of my world. Now, my hair was stiff with salt, and my thighs adhered to the weathered old Costco chair my mom had bought for me as I pondered this man ’ s name. The entire appointment felt like a blur, a whirlwind of tests, conversations, and efforts to find solutions The only distinct recollection I have was the exhaustion that weighed down my eyes afterward and the way my face had stiffened from a tear-induced saltiness, leaving me in need of lotion.

I remember so much from the first day it had happened. I was only five years old. When I was little, I had always been introverted, scared of the world and what it could hold When I woke up the the morning of the day it had happened, the sky mirrored the navy blue of the walls in my childhood room. Emerging from my nest of a thousand pillows surrounded by my childhood room, I descended the stairs, each step creaking as if they had their own game of tag and my feet were it They groaned and wailed like ethereal monsters, much like the one that had taken up residence in my head, the one that would not leave me alone.

My senses abandoned me when the monster had come, leaving my world distorted I had only been five The monster had made me see things, or more accurately people. The first, a kind-hearted man, had guided me down the stairs as my mind had begun to cloud and they had started to warp in a way I had never seen His brilliant blue eyes and charming smile, paired with glasses perched on the tip of his nose,

were etched in my memory. He held my hand, warm and soft, as we descended. Then before my foot hit the carpet floor below the stairs he vanished, his warm touch slipping from my grasp as if it was never there To no avail can I remember the time between, I see the portraits hanging on the yellow-hued wall in the hall to the kitchen of my old home and that’s all there really is.

In the kitchen, a girl I had never seen before sat at our modest three-person table. She appeared to be my age, with the leftover plumpness of a pre-teen. Fiery red hair cascaded down her back in perfect ringlets. I remember my mother entering, greeting me with a smile, but entirely ignoring the girl I pulled out a metal chair, its plastic cushion melting into my touch, and I stared at the girl who would not return my gaze with her eyes fixed to the metal table.

Abruptly, the girl leaped up and fled the room, startling me into a scream My mother rushed to check on me, caught off guard when I asked who the girl had been. After that, she rushed me quickly into her old beaten car, where my childhood had been changed by another man with glasses, doing tests and shoving strange medicine down my throat That was the last time the monster had taken over, but now it was back and my mind had been wrapped in its claws slowly sinking them in and taking over my thoughts.

How had the past reemerged? How had the ruin of my tormented childhood returned? How had I let it come back? The sun had now transformed into a searing heat, scorching my back My thighs were firmly affixed to the Costco deck chair by now. Slowly, so as not to tear my flesh from the sweaty adhesive, I rose and ambled across the concrete deck toward the sliding kitchen door. Stepping inside, the cool embrace of the air conditioning breathed life back into my worn body Slowly, I try to re-remember the sequence of the day before, the day the monster had wrapped its talons back into my head. My day had started normally, I woke up went to work, a normal 9-5 for a woman living in Manhattan. I was on my way home when it happened, the world began to warp, the black tar began to move, swirling in strange patterns beneath my heel-clad feet. Suddenly the man was next to me, his eyes sweeter than the last time I had seen him, this time he stuck out his arm telling me to hold on tight as he led me across the moving black pavement safely to my destination.

“HONK!”

Suddenly my feet began to feel unsteady, the man nowhere in sight, my mind racing a hundred times faster, the pavement changing, moving to make it feel as though I was on a rollercoaster whipping and whirling me around

“SKIRTT”

The smell of burning tar engulfed my nose and a strange sensation of pain shot up my leg. And suddenly silence

I’m awoken by light shining harshly in my eyes, and there is the face of the man whose name I cannot remember. His blondy brown curls this time tamed by nothing falling in his eyes with their own free will. I remember him saying:

“Welcome back,” his eyes gazing into mine, the walls are a plastery white, the room around me is sickly sterile, his hands adorned by waxy blue gloves and a long white linen coat hangs loosely on his skinny frame The words coming out of my mouth next though cliché echo through the too-quiet room

“Where am I?”

The man is quick with his response:

“ Ma’am you are at the Manhattan Emergency Clinic, you were hit by a car You survived miraculously, but after a thorough examination, we believe you have a brain tumor.” As he uttered those last words, his voice wavered and trailed off, my mind shutting out all the words after. I knew what came next the "monster" had returned I could sense it, lurking, poised to feast upon my thoughts It clawed at my consciousness feasting on the fact I could no longer push it away, draining the life from my brain with its insidious, white, blood-drenched claws. The life within me was dripping away, as if the "monster" had returned with a determination to stay.

The Importance Of Writing

- Sadie Neumann

SometimesIthinkthatifIdon’tdoeverythingexactlyright,mylifeisn'tgoingtowork out.Othertimes,Ijustwanttogowiththeflowandcrossmyfingersthatmylifewillworkout. EversinceIwaslittle,Iwastoldtofindapurposeinlife,tohavetopgrades,andtomakesureI gotintotherightcollege.Infifthgrade,ImentionedwantingtogotoHarvardtomygrandma, sheadvisedmetowritemyapplication.PerhapsIshouldhave,maybeifIwantedtogobad enough,mydesiretogotoHarvardwouldmakemewanttosucceed,toexcel.But,Ididn’twant togotoHarvardwhenIsaidthat,IjustwantedtomakemyGrandmaproudofme.

WhenIwassix,Iwastoldtofindapurposeinlifebymymother Shehadtoldmethat herpurposewasformeandmysiblings,herchildren.Itoldherminewaswhippedcream.A purposeinlifeshetoldme,wasareasontolive,toexistandthrive.I’mnotsureIunderstood thatatthetime.Istilldon’tthinkIfullyunderstand,Ithinkthatfindingpurposeisalifelong pursuit.Itchangeswitheachstageoflife.

Havinggoodgradeshasalwayscomeeasytome,Ihavealwaysfoundlearninginspiring andinvigorating.Infourthgrade,Icomplainedthatthereshouldbeschoolsevendaysaweek andthatthereneededtobelongerschoolhours.Whensummerrolledaround,Ifounditmuch toolongandcounteddownthedaysuntilschoolstarted.Mymindhasalwaysbeenfilledwith books:math,socialstudies,andessays.Ialwaysamwritingsomethinginmyhead,but oftentimes,itneverreachesthepaper.EvenwhenIwaslittle,Ihadanarrativegoinginmyhead, writingthescriptofmylife.

Inelementaryschool,myfriendswerealllikethattoo.Weallwantedtobeteachers whenwegrewupandplayedschoolatrecess.Itwasn’tuntilmiddleschoolthatIrealizednot everyonewaslikethis.Ilearnedthatmostkidsdespisedschool,andwoulddoanythingnotto go.Ihavetwolittlesisters,whodidn’tgettogotomyelementaryschool.Theirschool,instead ofteachingkidstobestudious,teachesthemtobecreativeandartistic.Mylittlestsister,whois eight,oftencomeshomewantingtoknitorsew,dance,andbuildfairyhouses.Ihavecometo realizehowmuchbothofmysisterslookuptome(mytwelve-year-oldsisterinsiststhatshe doesn’t).Ihavetobearolemodelforthem,andIhopetohelpthemcherishschoolasmuchasI didwhenIwastheirageandstilldo.Inturn,Imustbeopentolearningtobefreeandartistic(I haveneverbeenagoodartist),allowingmysistertoteachmehowtosew,orplayingimaginary gameswithheroutside.

Itismysisterswhoofteninspireme.Iwouldoftenmakepicturebooksformysister whenshewastiny,ortellmyothersisterbedtimestoriesaboutaturkeyfamilywiththreesisters. I’moftensurprisedbywhatIwrite.MostpeoplewhowritewillknowwhatImeanwhenIsay thewordscomenaturallyorthestory“writesitself”.Writinghashelpedmerealizethingsabout myselfthatevenIdidn’tknow,butfoundtobetruewhenIreadit.Eveninwritingthesetwo shortnonfictionpieces,Ihavesurprisedmyself.I’mstilltryingtofindmypathinlife,Idon’t knowwhatIwanttodo,orwhatmypurposeis.IdoknowthatIwanttocontinuewritingand readingformywholelife,IknowthatIwanttomakesomethingofmyselfandmakea differenceintheworld,andIwanttobeagoodrolemodelformysisters.Iwanttostayopento possibilitiesandwhateverthefeaturemayhaveinstoreforme.