The Mini Marque | Vol 14

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Mini Marque

Table of Contents 4

6 8 10 11 13 14 14 15 16 17 18 20 20 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36

PB&J - Philip Jenevein Battle Scars: They Don’t Fade - Edward Ro The Anemic Tree - Mark Tao Randomness - Jason Peng Blank Sheet of Paper - Anonymous The Bowling Experience, Not Cool - David Li Crashing Down - Carter Langbert Metal - Harrison Lee Baby vs. 3-Year Old: The Battle for Attention - Blake Daugherty The Gingerbread House - Samir Ratakonda Judgment Hour - Andrew Li Sorrow - Nathan Han Rage - Nathan Han A Peaceful Day at the Pond - Ben Hao The Hunt - Christopher Wang Blossom - Keeton Brewster Chance - Jimmy Rodríguez Who Touched My Twinkies! - Myles Jones Captain Clean - Jonah Simon Basketball or Crime? - Austin Nadalini Falling - Joshua Kang Graveyard - Harrison Lee Food - Jahaziel Lopez Warrior - Ishan Gupta Night of Dark Intent - Mark Weisberg Day and Night - Nathan Han The Superhero Eating Chihuahua - Daniel Garcia Reality - David Vallejo

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36 36 37 38 39 39 40 42 43

One Minute After Midnight - Aaron Thorne Poems - Spencer Allan The Hyre - Mason Rareshide The Creation Myth - Billy Lockhart Monday Mornings - Wyatt Awtrey Being Out There - Ayush Saha Darkness to Light - William Haga The Staff Special Thanks

15 18 21 21 21 21 21 21 22 23 25 30 41

Cover - Nathan Han Skyline - Spencer Allan Spires of Justice - Mr. Mead Flower - Rohan Vemu Waterfall - Rohan Vemu FLOWRS - Ayush Saha FLRS - Ayush Saha Truchas - Mr. Stanbury New York - Ayush Saha Lake - Rohan Vemu Pecos - Mr. Stanbury Yellowstone - Rohan Vemu Solos Night - Mr. Stanbury Self-Portrait - Mr. Stanbury

Images

The journey begins on the next page...

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PB&J

Philip Jenevein | PB&J | 7th Grade

7 My hair is blown back By the icy gust of the fridge The wafting sense of fresh and food My eyes jerk from side to side rapidly, wanting Skipping over the milk Scanning through the meat locker What’s humidity control I have no idea of what a crisper is.

Then, locked are my pupils on my object of desire The strawberry jelly I reach for with contentment and finalization With the soft wheat bread of Kroger And the Jif peanut butter flaunting its Olympic pride with the sticker on the cap Happily I loom over the ingredients

I begin my master craft The knife and the spoon are supplementary parts of Who I am The bread I caress with the smooth spread of peanuts The jam a friend Before A victim of himself stolen by time But now at last We are together.

I twist the lid And with the pop that releases the bouncy and sweet aroma I love so much The smell of the strawberry I put in the spoon And with it like a fisherman’s net I bring out the jam.

The spoon my brush, the bread my canvas.

I place the jelly On the bread I know that victory is mine Both loaves now joined I am the Picasso of the loaf.

Today man has conquered sandwich I raise the creation to my mouth and consume This isn’t the sweet, juicy taste of strawberry.

This is tart, acidic There are seeds in between my teeth I have forged an abomination.

I wheel upon the jar I grasp it, turn it, and read the label on the canister...

But alas, I have failed myself, my sandwich, my life.

As chocolate chips to raisins, powder sugar to flour, It was...

...RASPBERRY

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Battle Scars: They Don’t Fade Edward Ro | Battle Scars: They Don’t Fade | 8th grade

P

ain. This word described it all. Pain was the only sensation I was feeling as the blinding fluorescent lights and the starchy white walls of the Emergency Room flashed before me. I was on a stretcher, rushing to the operating room where the doctors would treat the wound and stanch the endless flow of blood.

I stared up into the blinding lights with a dazed look. The only sensation that I could reach out and grab from my barely conscious state was pain. This wasn’t the best way to start off my toddler years.

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At the young age of three, I was a compact, error-prone boy with an extraordinary amount of energy. I loved to waddle around and visit new and unique places. Nothing could interrupt my rampage when I got going except for one minute but crucial action – falling. I did that often. With every journey the floor rushed up to greet me, yet I parted ways every single time.

One particular trip was different, however.

My living room was a battlefield of sharp objects, and I was the one who crossed the warzone. The jagged arms of the soaring grandfather clock and the broken corners of many tables and chairs made an accident inevitable. This journey started off just like any other expedition. I tripped and stumbled like usual, and I fell.

This time, however, my forehead made contact with an object. The acute edge of the towering grandfather clock delivered a punch to my forehead. The memory of blood flowing over my eyes is forever planted into my brain. The pain was unbearable. I battled with the intangible monster for my consciousness. He deactivated my ability to function. He discontinued all my clear thoughts. Then, the pain coerced me into a fitful sleep.

I awoke with a start. I was inside my dad’s sedan zooming down the highway. The buildings running parallel to the road blurred past me. We zigzagged past the other cars until we finally reached our destination. I drifted off once again, with the image of the starchy white hospital

building.

I punctured through my unconscious state for the last time and woke up with a throbbing headache and an unquenchable thirst. I cautiously surveyed my surroundings. I was in a compact and bland hospital room. Furniture was strewn across the cubicle and one chair was pulled close to my bed. In it, was my mother. She had stayed with me the entire night and was now awkwardly asleep. She stirred from her slumber when I cried out from my angry headache. I did not appreciate my mother’s sacrifice then, but now I realize that whatever pain I felt was a minor discomfort compared to the suffering my mom experienced.

The few days I was locked in the hospital were heavenly. I did not have to move a muscle except for occasional trips to the bathroom. I was convinced the nurses who healed me were angels sent down to make my life fantastic. For that brief but blissful handful of days, I hated the healing process. I wished I could spend all my days at the hospital. That wish, however, did not come true.

Fully healed and ready to tackle the world once again, I was released from the hospital on a chilly, stormy day. The weather perfectly paralleled my mood. I was reluctant to return home from the luxurious life I had and I clearly expressed it. However, those lousy thoughts and feelings soon changed when I realized that my family and friends were waiting to make my life

10 amazing. Although I was able to do any average tasks by myself, everyone made an effort to prevent me from using any energy. I was treated like a king.

The pain is gone now, and in its place is a scar. A mark that will stay with me throughout my life. I might struggle to recall the unfortunate day someday later on, but my scar will stay by my side and will always attempt to keep the pain as real as possible. This physical pain was very agonizing for me, but it was minuscule compared to the suffering I felt from the days after the accident. A pair of eyes was always trained on me, preventing me from achieving any dangerous task. My mother, afraid that I would receive a matching scar, padded all the corners in the house with foam. A football helmet would have saved her a considerable amount of time and fluff, but football is not recommended for babies. Injuries as a small child do have their advantages.

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he Anemic Tree

The small anemic tree made room for Something uglier.

It moved to reveal a creature, with a Face like ropes, A voice like nails against a chalkboard, Eyes like miniature suns.

Mark Tao | The Anemic Tree | 7th grade

It asks you where you’re going, What you’re going to do, And how you’re going to do it.

The tree suddenly turns to ash, The peaceful day turns into chaotic night.

He then disappears, And you are forever left alone.

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R a n d o m n e s s

Jason Peng | Randomness | 7th grade

Nothing is ugly, nothing is bad.

But why am I the one who feels sad?

If this is the day that the LORD has made, Why is it not one that I celebrate?

Nothing is right, mosquitoes are wrong, And when will time ever be long?

One thing that does brings many others, But can that one thing ever bring another?

Today we read books, and the words are cool, But why can I not stop doodling in school?

If carrots and fruits help my eyes see, Why does nothing ever come to help me?

A masterpiece of art is what I draw, But why is a seesaw never a saw?

Now remember this poem as long as you live, For it tells a lesson (or not) to give.

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Blank Sheet Of Paper | Anonymous

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OF

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nk Sheet

The NExt Sheet IS

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The Bowling Experience,

I walk up to the lane. It is so noisy from people that are shouting to the click, click, click, of the ball machine. My ears start to hurt from all of the noise.

At the point of release, I step over the line and slip, Thud! That hurt. I get up and try again, this time more careful not to step over the line and, success! It’s rolling down the middle. I close my eyes and wait for the sound of dropping bowling pins and I hear them! Wait, what? It’s the lane next

Not C ool

to me, but no one is there. Dang it!

Strike for no one!

I try again and again but it always goes to my left, then my right, then in the gutter, then in the next two lanes.

It is kind of obvious I have a knack for getting other people strikes, so if you want to get a strike, just ask me when I am next to you.

David Li | The Bowling Experience, Not Cool | 6th grade

Crashing Down

Carter Langbert | Crashing Down | 7th grade

How like ropes it was,

Deformed and mangled

The roots of the tree holding on desperately,

It stood until it came crashing down

Not willing to tumble

From the peak of heaven

Without a fight.

To the depths of hell.

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Spencer Allan | Skyline | 7th grade

METAL Harrison Lee | Metal | 7th grade

We wait in the greasy air, The thick, oily atmosphere Of the robotic world.

A world full of metal, No uniqueness, no competition, A world full of literal equality, Robots everywhere, Working for nothing, No heart, no soul, no

mind, No feelings, vigor, or nature, Metal to replace them all, Dull and lifeless, hard and cold.

Metal as opposed to The soft, fleshy skin of a human, The chestnut-colored soft mud of the earth,

The magnificent, towering trees of the forest, The wide and infinite variety of animals, The sparkling and mystical look of water, The amazing inventions Created in the human mind, A world of beauty, life, and emotion.

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BABY

T

VS

3-Year Old

THE BATTLE FOR ATTENTION

he smile was wiped off my face as soon as my grandma hugged her.

My newborn sister was being passed around the room, and it was fine that people were patting me on the back and saying, “You’re going to be a big brother!” But now, my grandma, the one who used to be all mine, HUGGED that little bundle of hate and all things evil. I saw the baby as she was being hugged. The baby actually gave me a look, a look that declared, “I’m running this family now, bow down to me, or I will force you to.” That look ignited an eight week conflict between the two powerhouses of the house. The first thing that I heard when my new sister was laid in her crib was to not touch nor go near the baby. This was like a smack in the face to my plan, for I was actually planning to touch and go near the baby. Unfortunately, the job would not be as easy as I had hoped. I would have to return into my room for further reconnaissance and patrol to gain information to one-up my respectable foe. My three-year-old brain had trouble finding a way not to touch or come near the baby, but at the same time, to defeat and overthrow her power. After my mind churned and churned for some time, it hit me. The perfect plan. Push the crib over. No physical contact, and I don’t even come that near her. Now, to carry my

masterful plan out... As my parents made dinner and talked, I made my move. Stealthily hobbling towards her room, I made almost no sound, except when I bumped into a chair that made a creak. My parents didn’t seem to notice the sound, and I was relieved, for I knew that I could do much better than botch my plan because of an unfortunate chair. I reached her room. But, apparently the baby had heard the creak, and as soon as I approached the crib, her siren went off. She wailed like a baby, a dirty trick considering that she was a baby. But I knew what she was up to. I had to get out of there. Unfortunately, my toddler legs couldn’t carry me too fast or accurately, so I ran straight into the wall, but recovered and ran into my mom. She was furious.

I acted like I had no idea why. “I didn’t touch her, I didn’t touch her!” Inwardly, I thought that I had her perfectly played, and I let a small, confident smirk of victory cross my face. I knew I slipped up as soon as I was sent to my room to have a time-out.

Tears welled in my eyes, for I knew of no greater torture (other than spankings) than to spend five minutes sitting in my room, staring at the ceiling. At that very moment, I inwardly swore that revenge and, more importantly, attention, would be mine. During my time out, I came up with the most deviously clever bit of battlefield tactics to

17 ever cross the mind of a three-year-old. What if I sneak into her room at night? She’s asleep, my parents are watching television, and she’s asleep.

I emphasize the asleep part because her only defense, the cry, would be removed from her strategy. Night came, and I was out the door of my bedroom. Approaching my sister’s room, I had to be quiet and not so clumsy. This time, I was as sure-footed as a mountain goat and reached the target zone undetected. I approached the crib, and a game-time thought occurred to me: “Why don’t I pick her up and DROP her for good measure? My parents will never know, and the deed will be done.” I felt even better about my foolproof plan. I reached in the crib, plucked the

baby up, and let gravity do the rest. The wailing and screaming was ear-piercing and horrendous.

The only emotion I could feel was regret, because I had obviously not neutralized the threat if she was lying on the ground crying her eyes out. My mother came in, and I stepped off to the side, putting my hands up and acting surprised, but I knew, the chance would never come again to finish the fight. I was right. My parents kept a firm guard at the door at all times, and I couldn’t walk within ten feet of her door without being scrutinized. I had lost, but I prided myself with my putting up a fight against her tyranny. But in this story, the tyrant reigned on, until the next baby came...

Blake Daugherty | Baby vs 3-Year Old: The Battle For Attention | 8th grade

T

he Gingerbread House The gumdrops down its sides And will you just look at its size.

It looks so neat But I simply just want to eat.

But dinner first?

Do I really have to wait?

Is this truly my fate?

And finally desert had began.

As I reached for that ginger bread man...

To sit while it is in front of me Taunting me Straight from the kitchen, I can even smell the cinnamon.

Oh no!

Where did he go?

Then I realized where he ran.

He had gone to flirt with the Raisin Bran.

This is the worst.

I think I’m just cursed.

Samir Ratakonda | The Gingerbread House | 7th grade

18 Mr. Mead | Spires of Justice | Teacher

Judgment Hour Andrew Li | Judgment Hour | 8th grade

M

s. Steckler’s math room smells like my old school, Matthew’s Elementary. It smells just like the linoleum hallways and the carpeted classrooms.

I remember them as clearly as yesterday.

Those were the good days. We received no homework and had lots of free time. It was really relaxing.

Then, I receive one.

Before I got it, I knew that they existed, but they were just a distant fear in the back of my mind.

I would’ve never imagined getting one.

Just because I forgot a pencil for class doesn’t mean that I had to receive the bane of my existence.

But I need to live with my first blue card signature, an item that I will have to show my parents. It would mean certain misery and punishment from the Dragon, my mom.

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I could die. The unknown feeling of anxiety floods into my little 3rd grade body as my homeroom teacher asks me for my blue card, a little card that has a calendar on it. I reluctantly give it to her, and she scribbles down a little note.

I timidly look over her shoulder, and the note says, “Didn’t have required materials for class.”

As she hands it back, I realize that it’s a Friday, so that means that I have to get my parents to sign my blue card. If they don’t look at it and sign it, then I get another signature! It seems that I can’t get out of this one alive.

All through first period, I ponder on ways of surviving this predicament. During a math test, I don’t have enough time to do two simple problems because I keep thinking about the impending Doomsday. In science class, I am thinking about ways to hide the signature, yet get the card signed for Monday. I think to myself, “Should I tape another sheet of blue paper on top of the signature? No, that’s too risky.” I am called on to answer a question, but I’m too concentrated on the bigger problem that I’m scolded for not paying attention. Thank God that I don’t get another signature. Then, it’s PE, my favorite class of the day. We play dodgeball, my favorite game, and I am pegged out first! Then, the rest of the day is a blur... until school is over.

I have a Chinese school day-care. It’s usually a hell-hole, but today, it is heaven. I am able to stall for three extra hours before the Dragon picks me up. I do my easy 4th grade reading and math exercises very slowly. I can’t think properly.

Then the boring, frustrating, and hard Chinese class comes. I endure it, but only pay attention when the teacher calls my name. The only thing

on my mind is that stupid blue card signature. I can’t stop thinking about it. I am going to try to achieve a perfect year, a year without a single signature. I faintly hear the teacher say that the class is dismissed, so I sulk out of the classroom and trudge towards the gym, where all of my friends are. I try to have fun and play, but the time of Judgment is coming closer and closer. It’s hard to live with a blue card signature.

My mom picks me up earlier than expected. I nervously get into the car. The car ride home is unusually silent, but finally she asks, “How was your day? Are you OK? You don’t look normal.”

I lie and say, “My day was good. I had fun.

Everything’s fine.”

We arrive home, and since I’m in third grade, I have a bit of homework. I quickly finish that, and sooner than I know it, we’re eating dinner. I eat as slowly as possible because I know that Doomsday is afterwards. My mother, the fierce, unforgiving Dragon, likes to sign my blue card after dinner.

I have no more ways to stall. I guess that my life ends here. I say my last prayers as I give the Dragon my blue card and quickly sprint to my hiding place behind the doors of safety. I reach the sofa and table and somehow squeeze my little 3rd grade body inside the crevice. I hear my mom calling my name, but it’s faint because of the sound of the blood pumping to my head. Finally, I break. I start bawling. I cry for what seems like an eternity. The Dragon comes to comfort me. She and I have a talk and she tells me not to forget my writing utensils. After she explains to me that it’s not a big deal, I feel like a hundred

20 tons are taken off my back.

After a while, I become bored with the talk, and my mom can see that I am getting impatient, so she quickly finishes up and hugs me. Then, I wake up, just as class is dismissed. Ms. Steckler gives me a referral for sleeping in class. The feelings of anxiety and fear come flooding into my 7th grade body. I have to go through another one of those dreaded days. It is time for Judgment again.

This time, I am not afraid to face my mom, the unforgiving Dragon. I will be brave.

Sorrow Nathan Han | Sorrow | 7th grade

Our fingers tunneling the dirt Toward a tangle of false beginnings, Intertwined in a maze of life, Where encased in a cage, An apple of hurt appears, And the unsuspecting mouth chews.

Our eyes scanning the sky Toward a world of great hope, Lost in a sea of despair, Where in the brutal waters, A ray of sunshine glows, And the brave man cries.

Rage Nathan Han | Rage | 7th grade

Someone better be prepared for rage Rage is a monster, A fear in minds everywhere, A demon lurking in the air, A sign of distress, anger, and all the other things that haunt us.

Rage is a ghost, Weaving in and out of bodies, Devouring and savoring its victims.

Rage is a savage, An immortal evil, A mutant that shape-shifts to its needs, A horror that feasts on humans.

Rage is what life is driven by.

P

hotography Showcase Rohan Vemu Flower

Rohan Vemu Waterfall

21 Ayush Saha FLRS

Mr. Stanbury Truchas

Ayush Saha New York

Ayush Saha FLOWRS

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A Peaceful Day at the Pond Ben Hao | A Peaceful Day at the Pond | 6th grade

Rohan Vemu | Lake | 8th grade

A

s the sun rose over the glistening water, I strolled to the bank and gazed at my reflection. The stressful hike left me as stiff as a board, but frogs leapt from plant to plant and birds flew overhead, leaving me entranced. The pitter-patter of the tadpole splashing in the water rang in my ears. The cool water rippled, farther, farther.

Moss engulfed the rocks creating the perfect blend of colors. The lush landscape washed away my weariness and left satisfaction in its place. It was as if all the puzzle pieces came together. All was in harmony. My muscles became flaccid and all my stress vanished. That was when my life really started. I had learned that life wasn’t all about work, but about inner peace. It was on that day that I found a brand new meaning to life.

23 Mr. Stanbury | Pecos Mountain | Teacher

The A Hunt

aaahh! ... It was a bright crisp morning day. I felt like today was just going to be a perfect day with everything going as I would want it. I am a giant ground sloth so it may take me an hour just to travel one mile. I start moving toward the Indus River. Hopefully, I can find some food for myself along the way.

Christopher Wang | The Hunt | 6th grade

As the sun is at its highest, I pass through a small jungle. Hold on! Is that a Cecropia tree I see? The leaves on those trees are the lushest, sweetest out there. Oh! And don’t even get me started on the refreshing dew drops. As I crawl on toward to the Indus River with a full stomach, I hear some rustling and a couple of whispers. Hold on a second, that sounds like a group of Homo sapiens! I climb up the nearest

24 tree I see. Below me, I see a figure that looks like a sabertooth. One second later, I see something whiz through the air like a lightning bolt. I catch a glimpse of it. It looks like a short wooden stick, carved at the end, a carefully carved shape that looked like three sharp leaves. It strikes the saber tooth with a thud. The saber tooth drops to the ground like a rain drop and it roars with pain and agony. The sound strikes me, those cruel, cold-blooded humans, I’ll show them. Right as I am about to jump down on somebody, a Homo sapien charges past my tree, hollering a war cry as he stabs the sabertooth with a sharp stone spear.

The sabertooth is gone; it fell asleep in the cradle of death. I’ve had enough. I jump on the human, yelping and scratching him wherever I can and as hard as I can. He tries to hurl me off by grabbing Brewster | Blossom Keeton Blossom | 7th grade

I walk through the blossoming cherry trees, With springtime all around me.

But no fairies are to be seen, Even as I walk and continually dream.

Trees reaching all the way to the beach, Each giving me their fallen petals.

One lands in my hair, Only to be eaten by a bear.

me but I keep on scratching. He falls down to the ground, as still as night. I quickly climb back up the tree and hide behind a jumble of leaves.

As the rest of the clan comes back, they look befuddled at their dead clan member.

The saber tooth dropped to the ground like a rain drop and roared with pain and agony.

As they take the meat of the “asleep” sabertooth, I brood over what I have just experienced. I will never forget this inopportune incident. I have a hard time sleeping, replaying and replaying the scenes of atrocity. But I finally fall asleep with a clouded mind.

I reach out to touch his fur, But he’s gone like a blur.

I’m alone once more with the trees, The humming of a few lone bees, The drumming of the wood pecker, And the beckoning of the wind.

A silent tear moistens the dirt.

Alone in the forest, Alone.

C Jimmy RodrĂ­guez | Chance | 8th grade

H A N C E

Rohan Vemu | Yellowstone | 8th 25 grade

He was the one who was adopted from the SPCA

in 2007. He was the one who we were told was about five years old, but we thought he was more seven than five. He was the one who was reported to be a great dog around kids, which was good because there were two in our family, one seven years old and the other eleven. He was the one who we decided to call Chance, because he was given up to the SPCA, and we were his second chance.

He was the one who howled at any sirens that happened to come into hearing distance of our house.

He was the one who smelled like corn tortillas, even after we gave him thorough baths. He was the one who hated the feeling of cold water running down his long, shaggy fur. He was the one who, even though he weighed over eighty pounds and was taller than me on his hind legs, would not hesitate to jump into our

laps as though he was the size of a Chihuahua.

He was the one with eyebrows the length of the hair on my head, and smooth brown fur that had to be shaved every summer so he didn’t have a heat stroke. He was the one who had a pink tongue with purple spots on it. He was the one whose face reminded people of the dog from the movie titled Because of Winn-Dixie. He was the one whose big brown eyes made people want to pet him. He was the one who, when he wanted attention, would nudge his head under your hand so that you would pet him. He was the one who, even when we were changing his water in his bowl, would come over to snuggle up with us. He was the one who, whenever people would come over, was commented on being adorable. He was the one who made us wonder every day why anyone could possibly want to give up such a kind dog.

26

He was the one who was the best friend to our other dog, Chica, a yellow lab. He was the one who would snuggle and sleep next to her when it was cold, and play with her until they were both worn out, and be with her until her dying day. He was the one who made it clear that he missed her terribly, even when we brought another puppy into the house to be with him. He was the one who would growl and snap at the other dog occasionally, but most of the time would simply ignore him, apparently hoping he would just go away. He was the one who never learned to walk on a leash properly. He was the one who was too stubborn to learn any tricks except for sit. He was the one who, when we threw a ball to play fetch, would not go to chase it, for he would rather be by our side than chasing some stupid ball. He was the one who would chase after dogs too close to our house. And even though he loved us with all his heart, he was the one who would gleefully make a dash for it every time we left the driveway gate open, running as hard and as fast as his old legs would take him, sometimes up to two blocks away. Yet he was the one who always came back, and would happily munch on the treats

W

we offered to lure him home.

He was the one who we could tell had gotten sick in 2011 because his eyes had the look of pain in them. He was the one whose red-brown hair faded into whiteness as he aged. He was the one who slowed down, day by day, week by week, until we could no longer ignore it. He was the one who lost all of his energy and playfulness when he got sick—yet never lost his love of cuddling, never lost his deep, soulful gaze. He was the one who suddenly became paralyzed in his back legs. And even as he weakened in those long weeks, he was the one who still found joy at howling at the passing ambulances as they went by.

He was the one who we had to carry into the vet so he could be put out of his misery and pain. He was the one we held and cried over as he died, on that horrible spring day in 2011. He was the one I held long after he was gone, saying my final goodbye, and taking one last, deep smell of his precious corn-tortilla fur before I left him in that room.

He was our Chance.

He was the one.

ho Touched My Twinkies!

Myles Jones | Who Touched My Twinkies! | 7th grade

I opened the pantry door looking for a Twinkie.

I reached in expecting a prize for nothing. My face was redder then Clifford the Big Red Dog. I puffed out more smoke than a volcano. I stomped upstairs. My feet were as loud as thunder. I heard a noise in the room next to mine. I know that room!

That is my sister eating the last Twinkie.

27 cleaned (or sponged, if you will) the floor with the dastardly Human Rust-Stain! He can go oxidize metal and porcelain somewhere else, certainly not in my beautiful city. Although, I had maybe a little advantage over him in that one, as far as powers go.

You know what would be awesome? If I could actually control the sponges with my mind.

I could use them to do my bidding! I could think: Go destroy that villain! Check. Go save the mayor!

Done-zo. Go make me a sandwich! You got it, boss. I wouldn’t be the laughingstock of the city then. I can see it now: the mayor awarding me the Metropoville Medal of Honor.

It would even maybe be worthwhile to switch over and be a supervillain, if, you know, my morals weren’t so, just, spectacular. I’d be unstoppable. My only weakness would be that new recruit at the superhero training school, Super Sponge Disintegrator or whatever. Meh. I could take him. I’m also afraid I might go mad with power.

I would be able to buy a giant skyscraper, outfit it with sponge décor, build my impeccably clean headquarters in the penthouse, and hire human henchmen so I can dress them up like sponges and blame them when something goes wrong.

MWAHAHAHA- mmm. Excuse me. I’m not sure what just came over me there.

But anyway, a man can dream, right?

It would be pretty cool to have near-sentient sponges. Of course, it’s a silly fantasy. You can’t really even defeat villains with sponges, much less control them with your mind. Well actually, or can you? I’ll be right back, I’m calling my neurosurgeon.

Captain Clean Jonah Simon | Captain Clean | 7th grade

Doesn’t having superpowers make one a superhero? Besides the mandatory use of said powers for good, there are no other criteria. Right?

The people of Metropoville don’t seem to think so. “All you can do is conjure sponges out of thin air. Lame. Real heroes have real powers,” they say.

And, well, they’re right. That is all I can do. But I’ll show them...

I should explain how I came about my powers. I used to be a truck driver. In fact, at the time, I drove a truck full of sponges. As I was on the interstate, I swerved to avoid hitting a bear that had escaped from the zoo. Before I realized what was going to happen, I rammed into a truck carrying toxic waste. As I fished myself out of the toxicwaste-sponge concoction, I noticed I could make sponges appear! From that day on, I resolved that I was going to be a superhero!

I know I’ve got what it takes to be a hero. I have the drive, the costume, and the sweet catchphrase: You’re about to get CLEEEEEEEAAANED UP!!! I think it has a nice ring to it. Anyway, I’m confident that it will work, unlike my parents. They never thought I could be a hero. They’d say, “You won’t be a hero, honey.

You’re far too unhygienic.” Well, I’ll show them. I’ll be the best! Well, I mean, with some practice.

There still aren’t many villains I can defeat.

Although, now that you mentioned it, I definitely

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Basketball or Crime?

An anonymous man pulls up to the door, He opens the door to a hardwood floor.

He runs and defender number one he’s approachin’ And the defender falls down for his ankles are broken.

For defender number two now he runs, And the defender is wondering if he has a gun.

There’s a large crack as a shot is fired, It was right on target and a shot he admired.

Now the man approaches the door, He got what he needed and he needed no more.

You may think this is a crime above all Or maybe it’s just a game of basketball.

Now with satisfaction he walks out that door; He’s only won one game, and he’s hungry for more.

Austin Nadalini | Basketball or Crime? | 7th grade

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F A L L I N G

The man felt his heart pound.

This was his first time Without any assistance.

If he slipped Or misstepped There was no turning back But only falling downwards.

He was experienced With taking these journeys.

This was not his first, But it was his last.

The man thought His journey was almost over.

A few feet from safety, He let his guard down Letting his feet rest, He felt himself lean.

He thought the wind Blew him over.

He thought a bird Pushed him over.

Like an anvil, The man fell fast Until his instincts kicked in.

Without thinking, He felt himself mouth “Whoa.�

He was hanging down.

He would start falling But he had to let go.

He braced for impact As the ground grew.

Luckily for him He had a parachute.

J o s h u a K a n g | F a l l i n g | 7 t h g r a d e

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Graveyard

Mr. Stanbury | Solos Night | Teacher

Harrison Lee | Graveyard | 7th grade

I look around in the misty air, Full moon tonight.

Storm clouds darken the already black sky, Mossy stones, chipped and cracked, Infusing the area around me, I’m in the graveyard.

The soft padding of grass doesn’t comfort my fear,

Nor does the bright moonlight.

The slow drift of the clouds have now turned into a strong gust, The silent night, now thunderous and no longer enlightened by the stars.

The area around me is shrouded in darkness and contains the faint smell of death,

Pit-pat, pit-pat.

Even the rain is bleak and lifeless.

As the frigid rain pounds my jacket, I seek shelter.

When I look around, there is none.

Even the trees, With their leafless boughs, bare trunks, and lifeless auras themselves, They are of no help to me.

I search elsewhere, but can only find one thing: The burial chamber underground.

The burial chambers aren’t much help either.

Rotting rodent carcasses, cobwebs, and dust litter the ground, The place itself is worse than the open area, Colder and darker, dirtier and smellier, Decisions, decisions...

Pneumonia or the fright of my life?

Klang! ! !

The gate entrance to the cemetery has just closed, Even the security guard is leaving to get rest.

I finally decide to sleep under a tree, A tree which sparsely has life, its leaves dangling from the branches.

I close my eyes in fright and fatigue.

I wake up with the sun’s light in my eyes.

The storm clouds, blown away by the violent gusts of last night, The bleak cold, replaced by the radiant sunlight.

I am finally saved from nature’s fury.

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Food Noon, the only thing singing in my belly Should I eat a small treat?

Or should I eat a big feast Do I eat string cheese?

Or a piece of juicy meat Do I only eat the finger with the ring?

Or do I eat the whole thing Hmm, decisions decisions, on what I should eat

Jahaziel Lopez | Food | 7th grade

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Warrior

Ishan Gutpa | Warrior | 6th grade

My older brother was always the highlight of my day. After we both finished our warrior studies, we would return home and my brother would pick me up, throw me into the air, and spin me around. Sometimes I would feel like a demon in Ratin, the fire planet. Ever since mother had been sent to the desert and father had been chosen as a commander, Bronium was the only real family I had. It wasn’t until I found out that I was actually a mage – like my mother – that we realized our differences were what made us strong. Our brotherhood was feared through 15 galaxies, or at least that was what we told each other. Nothing could stand in our way. We were Bronium and Paradrin, the brothers who would do anything for each other. But despite that, there was one thing that I always hated – he was a warrior, and I wasn’t.

“From all kings to all peasants, all monarchs to all servants, cry out and shout, as Bronium, the noble leader of the raid of Zerphyn, commander of the Atrenian army, the greatest warrior since Sorum, enters the kingdom of Lorun!”

I looked around. I saw crowds of people staring at the gate while I was towards the back, leaning on a small fence guarding the mage tower; a large “community center” that only allows mages like me. The worst part about being a mage is that we’re isolated from the rest of the kingdom.

Mages usually don’t interact with other people, besides family, which is why I was standing behind everyone. Now, don’t get me wrong, I was twice as eager as everyone else there to see my brother,

but I have learnt that sometimes, it’s better to stay back a little bit.

“Here he comes!” As the gate opened, silence took over as my brother rode in with his majestic stallion, Norahn. Bronium rode over to me, and raised his hand.

“Hurray!” the crowd cheered, but my brother didn’t take his eyes off of me.

“I’ve waited a long time for this day,” he said to me as the crowd continued.

“So have I.” I tried to act casual, but on the inside, I couldn’t wait for him to get off his horse and walk with me through the old parts of the kingdom. I had been planning what we were going to do for over three months.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a scribe running towards us. I knew what that meant, and it wasn’t good. “Bronium, we’re under attack!”

“What! By who?” As the scribe and Bronium’s conversation went on, I realized that his visit wasn’t what I thought it would be. But what could I do? He’s Bronium. I swear he was born to fight.

“The regal dragons! What are we going to do?”

“Fight, of course.” The way Bronium spoke with his booming voice made it almost impossible to stop him, so I let him go. After five seconds, I realized that I couldn’t bear to see him go alone.

As I followed him, I could hear the sound of fire and battle. We ran as quickly as we could towards the battle field, and there we saw the most horrible thing I could imagine. Demons.

33 My brother turned to the scribe and asked, “Why did you tell us there were dragons?” As the scribe started to smile, my brother and I realized what was happening. We both started walking backwards as we watched the scribe’s flesh melt and reform. He wasn’t a man. He was a shape-shifter.

“RUN!” My brother dashed away, but I stayed. I went into my thinking mode, where I’m invincible. A demon’s strong point is fire, so therefore its weakness must be water. All of a sudden, I knew what I had to do. I closed my eyes and chanted, “Azetoid metriones zincous!”

Water flew out of my hands and flooded all the demons, killing every one of them. I watched as all of the warriors, including my brother, recovered and wondered what had happened. The battle was finished, and we had won!

In The Royal Castle: “You have done well, Paradrin.” The king’s voice was one that I had heard many times before, but he was usually speaking to my brother. “Thanks to your great deeds, our kingdom is safe again, and the demons have been demoralized. I have decided that in your honor, we shall construct a statue right next to Bronium’s. But that isn’t your reward. The imperial court has decided that from now on, mages will be allowed to join the army! You shall no longer be trapped in that awful castle!”

At first it was my fellow mages, but soon everyone else joined the cheering. As a tear rolled down my cheek, I looked over to my brother, and he smiled. I remembered our childhood. I remembered our memories, Bronium throwing me up into the air while I laughed and screamed. I remembered the time when our family was together for the last time, and how my brother was there for me. I remembered the day when I found out that I was a mage, and how I was so melancholy. But it was then that I figured out that no matter what everyone told me – I am a warrior.

Night of Dark Intent It looked as if a night of dark intent Those hidden figures shrinking from my sight As helpless I, bound to demise, Stood, shrinking into my oversized coat.

Mark Weisberg | Night of Dark Intent | 7th grade

The cold wind struck, hitting hard to the bone And I, abandoned to face it alone Shivers wrought me, dry tsunamis Flung me, hands and knees, onto the pavement

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All quiet below the sky Where the wind blows, the moon arrives and the sun decides to wave good-bye.

All quiet below the sky Where the night turns dark, the crickets chirp, and the bushes fall and rise with the beat of a drum.

All quiet below the sky Where the boy sleeps, the lights die, and the waves crash against the shore.

All awakened in the mist, Where the cars beep, the birds squawk and the prairie grass turns orange, doused in the light of the rising sun.

All awakened in the mist, Where the trees whisper, the birds sing and the voice roars among the crowd.

All awakened in the mist, Where the moon falls, the sun rises, and the day has begun.

Day and Night Nathan Han | Day and Night | 7th grade

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The Superhero Eating

Chihuahua

Chips scattered all over the floor, a mask next to my leg, and the TV showing a man swinging in the streets of New York was how all of my summer days began. Spiderman swinging through the streets with ease captivated me as a five-year-old. I always thought he could climb walls and throw webs because he was a professional superhero. I considered myself a superhero apprentice. I put my mask on and started running around the house trying to climb walls, but just slipped down the white painted walls, leaving fingerprints of nacho cheese behind.

I put on my superhero uniform that I had been wearing for over a week and looked for any crime. As I started my routine search through the house, I saw some cookies that were being held hostage in a jar. I climbed the cabinet and started to open the jar but then, out of nowhere, the demon dog came and cornered me with the hostage cookies. “Only some of you can survive,” I said as I threw some of them at the demon dog. The sacrificed cookies lay on the ground, broken, with chocolate oozing from the sides. “I will get you, demon dog,” I vowed as I saw him eat the broken, defenseless cookies.

The next thing I did was the most heroic thing a five-year-old could do. I leaped off the kitchen counter and onto the demon dog. Time

Daniel Garcia | The Superhero Eating Chihuahua | 8th grade

slowed down as I flew through the air, just like Spiderman. The demonic dog came

Time slowed down as I flew through the air, just like Spiderman. into my sights, but then I realized that he was too far away. The ground quickly came to meet my superhero face as I fell about two feet away from my foe. Hurt and on the ground, the dog charged. I stayed on the ground, remembering that on the Discovery Channel it said that animals could sense fear. I was trembling when the dog came near me. He came and started licking me in my ear, and I knew he tasted me.

But before he could eat me, the front door opened and I knew I was saved.

I rolled beside the dog and ran out the kitchen and into the arms of my mom. She knelt beside me and shooed the dog away.

She sighed and gave me the most disturbing news that could ever be said to a superhero in training. She said “He’s not real,” as she looked down at my uniform. I looked down and saw my legs tremble as the news sunk into my head. I thought that she was wrong. Tears slid down my

36 face as she explained her “logic.” I mean, how could he not be a superhero and swing through New York? A radioactive spider can turn anyone into Spiderman, right? It dawned on me that she could be right, but that was a slim chance. That was when we made the pact that changed my career as a superhero.

After many minutes of discussion, we came to a reasonable agreement. I could only wear my costume for Halloween and not every day. We also agreed that I would not torment our small Chihuahua and do any dangerous stunts like jumping off the kitchen counter and feeding the Chihuahua chocolate. That day my career as a superhero was crushed, and my awesome superpowers were taken away from me. I turned into a regular five-year-old, and although I had no visible powers, I knew that someday I would be a hero, even if I couldn’t climb walls.

Reality

David Vallejo | Reality | 7th grade

Reality, A veil pulled over our eyes.

It is only when we lift up the veil, Look beyond the horizon, Break free of the chains of our lives, And explore the newfound world, That light will shine down from above, And true life can begin.

One Minute After Midnight

Aaron Thorne | One Minute After Midnight | 6th grade

One minute after midnight the world turns pitch black One minute after midnight stars gleam from the sky One minute after midnight bats and owls awake from their deep sleep One minute after midnight 7-Eleven is not such a safe place One minute after midnight children snuggle with their teddies.

Spencer Allan | Poems | 7th grade

Poems

I like to write poems.

I like to write poems about poems.

I like to write poems about poems about liking poems.

I like to write poems about poems about liking poems about writing this poem.

Poems are fun.

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The Hyre

tire; otherwise the others will catch up.

The zombies start to tear at my car and the windshield, and I abandon the car so I can draw the attention to me and not the car. I know that the car is the only hope for me surviving; the zombies are too quick to outrun. I take my Concussion Rifle out of the car, shooting the Hyre-infected zombie with my weapon. He collapses to the ground as I shoot the only other creature in sight, a woman to the right of me. I have to give myself the pep talk I always have when I shoot someone, and it is that it does not kill them, it only stuns them. As I start to take the spare tire out of the back of the van, I can make out in the distance some of these humanoid creatures. I hurry to repair the tire, finishing when I see them approach within one hundred feet away.

I jump into the van, start the engine, and I see that the brain-deads are only a few feet away.

As my car lurches into motion, I speed onward and then turn onto a side road and shut off my headlights. I see the safe house a few hundred feet further, and I speed to it. As I pull into the driveway, I see the HoloGraphic Scanning Device.

Man, technology has really taken off since 2034, I say to myself. As I am scanned, I wait to receive the tone that alerts me that the scan has recognized me as a non-Hyre infected person. As the tone beeps, the garage opens, I drive into it. There are no lights in the garage, as they do not want to attract any ‘unwelcomed visitors.’ As soon as the lights came on, hundreds upon hundreds of the dreaded humanoid creatures have surrounded my car. That’s when I realize. There was no safehouse.

It was all a trap.

Mason Rareshide | The Hyre | 6th grade

Nothing surprises me except two things: I’m alive, and the disease-infected humans are still alive. I don’t know the story all that well since the electricity in this place is still out, but I know a few things are for certain. I know that a disease was released by a Viral Disease Service called the Hyre.

The Hyre slowly eats at your brain, taking your compassion, and essentially, your humanity. People who became infected have no hope. There is no cure, no matter what scientists have tried to produce. If you catch the virus, you are dead.

Here I am, in a van with little food, water, and my Concussion Rifle. The Concussion Rifle does not kill the Infected, just stuns them for a short bit of time, hopefully enough for me to get out of the sticky situation.

I take the van onto the deserted highway, turning off my headlights to avoid being seen. I have heard that there is a safehouse only a few miles away. I decide to head there to refill and hopefully find some more food and water.

I drive down the highway about three miles, only to be greeted by hordes of the brain-dead humans. As I speed by, some of these barely human people jump on my car. My car starts to rock as they pound on each of the windows. One of them has a glass shard with some dark red smeared on the end. This concussed human with this simple weapon slashes at my tires, reducing the car to a slow drift until it violently swerves into the brick wall on the side of the street. As my van shudders to a stop, I know I must be quick in repairing the flat

38

The Creation Myth Billy Lockhart |The Creation Myth | 6th grade

S

limy and green, big and round, made of stardust and magic, the glump appeared. It was the building block of our galaxy.

It could be molded to the whims of whoever first used it.

The problem was that there wasn’t anyone to work with it. Then, out of the darkness, popped a gigantic figure with a sole purpose: to sculpt our world.

Mountains and ridges, rivers and oceans, animals and plants, all were sculpted by this immense being. He enjoyed earth, as he called it, but it wasn’t as sophisticated as some of the other planets he had seen. He had to decide whether to stay or whether to go.

As his three-million year rule ended, an unlikely new animal had evolved to have a leadership role on earth, and that was the mouse.

Mice had been the first ones to lay claim to the small, usually grimy, and dark places where no other species would have liked to go. These swamps,

caves, and tunnels were where mice thrived. They went to places where no predators were, bred, and left with their numbers.

Fast forward three million years, and monkeys started evolving. They had acquired bigger brains mostly, but less hair, longer limbs, and had begun the art of oral communication. As each generation passed, they

became increasingly human.

The animals referred to them as “brutes, cannibals, and barbarians.� These were violent and omnivorous and wreaked havoc in the animal kingdom.

To this day, we humans seem to have set a path of destruction for our beautiful world.

Monday Mornings Alarm clock buzzes Tired eyes slowly open Snooze button is pushed Wyatt Awtrey | Monday Mornings | 6th grade

Being Out There A knit of gravity.

The feeling of weightless fun.

Literally dancing with the stars, And you touching the moon.

Then you hear the snap!

A CRASH,

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Ayush Saha | Being Out There | 7th grade

A BAM, A BOOM! Cast into the open.

Floating into darkness.

And when you see that blue dot fade, You too will find that you fade away

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Darkness to Light William Haga | Darkness to Light | 7th grade

I

was pushed down into the darkest depths. I felt like this was the end of the line, that I could go no lower. I couldn’t keep the insecurity and emptiness from consuming me. My personality was being whisked away and was replaced with a controllable puppet that could be picked up and thrown.

I couldn’t keep the insecurity and emptiness from consuming me.

That puppet personality took over me, leaving me with nothing but the darkness growing inside of me. When I hit that bottom, I hit hard. The only people that I thought might come down there with me were the people whom I called friends. Those friends did nothing but turn around and kick me. I realized something about the few people I considered friends: they were not allies. This enabled me to look back and reflect.

I had missed how those people who had pushed me were goaded by those so-called “friends.” Then I did something that I thought I couldn’t do: I fell further. I discovered what I have felt to be the most desolation and solitude. For a long while, I lay there sulking, but eventually came to move, to try and find some light, just the slightest ray to quench my needs. Instead, I found this source of light, which I crawled towards. It was someone else, but instead of trying to push me, he gave me a hand, to lift me. He lifted me up to find more people and the feelings of desolation, solitude, and darkness flushed out of me and I was filled with a sensation of being complete. Soon, I started to get closer and closer to these people and they helped me to embrace my true self. While being with these new people I learned much about myself.

I felt I had been unlocked and the key was my new learning of the definition of “friend.” I have always heard this but never fully understood it until now: “There is always darkness before light.”

STAN and his awesome work with this magazine.

Mr. Stanbury | Self-Portrait | Teacher

BURY

T R I B U T E

TO

Mr.

A

THIS PAGE IS

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42 Spencer Allan

Eliott Ford

Submissions Editor Template Designer Photographer Lead Singer

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Submissions Editor Writer Chief Template Designer

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Ayush Saha

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submissions Editor Flyer creator Photographer

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Being Awesome Writer Editor

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THE STAFF

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A Special Thanks

for helping to make this magazine possible: Mr. Holtberg Mr. Westbrook Ms. Weber Ms. Rubarth Mrs. Townsend Mr. Foxworth Mr. Sberna Jonathan Ng Halbert Bai

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