CRIA Motmot Volume 3 Issue 3

The Motmot CRIA’s Online Creative Magazine Volume 3 Issue 3

Table of Contents Poems 1. Memories by Sky Cultraro 2. The Christmas Spirit by Michaela White 3. When the Tassel Turns by Matthieu Demore 4. Hate by Skye Boehme 5. As Time Flies by Valerie Guzman 6. Ode to the Pencil by Lucie Gouttenoire 7. An Ode to the run-On Sentence by Chris Crabtree 8. Ode to the Ottoman by Michaela White Essays 9. Essay by William Schell 10. On Intelligence by Gunner Klith 11. What Is a City? By Gunner Klith Short Stories 12. Short Story by Vir Goenka 13. Hitchhiker by Santiago Tricon 14. Hatch of Titans by Andrew Clarke Photography and Artwork 15. Manchitas by Zachary Sell 16. Iguana by Zachary Sell 17. Motmot Front Page Logo by Isabella Voeltz 18. Motmot Back Page Logo by Daniel Clarke Special thanks to the CRIA-tive Writing Club

The Motmot Co-editors Sky Cultraro Sienna Balecki Ren Owens Cover Art Isabella Voeltz

Faculty Advisers Chris Crabtree Jeremy Rasik Creative Consultants Zachary Sell Andrew Clarke Daniel Clarke

Poems by Sky Cultraro Michaela White Matthieu Demore Skye Boehme Valerie Guzman Lucie Gouttenoire Chris Crabtree

Memories Sky Cultraro It’s the collection of days not so long ago Times that I never want to let go The taste of tongue-staining blue birthday cake Not all memories were made at a young age Purple sea under the purple sky I couldn’t talk about it at the time Everything is flashing before my eyes But not because I’m about to die Singing our hearts out in the back of the car And texting while both looking up at the stars The bracelet that forever sits on my wrist Gifted during a time that no longer exists Hours spent in front of the mirror My reflection knew I couldn’t hear her I refuse to leave any version of me behind So I keep everything in my mind

The Christmas Spirit Michaela White Be ready for the holidays Be ready for Christmas galore Be ready for Christmas cheer Surround the fireplace Fill stockings with joy Watch the snow fall Breath the air Cold, but Warm

When the Tassel TurnsIn a few months, beneath the CRIA rancho’s sway, We shall gather and reflect on the echoes that linger, where our memories play.

Our high school days, finally coming to an end, Yet within us, our shared stories eternally blend.

Caps tossed, like dreams into the air, A moment remembered, beyond compare.

Friendships forged, many lessons embraced, In the yearbook of time, this chapter encased.

Big decisions made- some with tearful eyes, But we will all step beyond our limits, where the unknown lies.

Once our diplomas are in hand, we shall have the future's key, But we must remember that In each “goodbye,” a hello we must see.

The tassel turn, as symbolic art, Representing the end of a journey, but not of the heart.

Let’s take a moment to remember each other, Thankful for our shared memories, that led to the next chapter.

Matthieu Demore

HATE Skye Boehme

Hate Will come It will win Unless you fight Hate is like a wave It will not ever stop Fight or you lose everything Don't let it come, but it must come Because without it you can not love Without hate you will always be alone

As Time Flies Valerie Guzman In the garden of existence, life's tapestry unfolds, Threads of stories, intricate, diverse, and untold.

Each moment is a brushstroke on time's vast canvas, A mosaic of experiences, both frivolous and grandiose.

Yet, dawn always breaks, revealing the palette of a new day, Sunset paints across the sky, fading those moments away.

Dreams scatter across the starry night sky, Shadows linger as memories, sinking into the vast oblivion.

Life's journey meanders, an unpredictable ride, With no prescribed trajectory, But only the pulsating rhythm of passing time.

Ode to the Pencil Lucie Gouttenoire You sculpt landscapes into the paper,

Imaginative artists’ ruler

Crafting the hills and valleys

To measure reality.

Where thoughts bloom.

A channel for the unspoken.

A choreography on the parchment,

In your careful strokes,

A careful waltz

Create worlds,

Marked by the tempo of the words.

Breathe life

Your fine point of lead

Into the artisan’s myth.

A summit Only the bravest tread.

A tool of creation,

Interlacing letters unfold,

Painting images

Leaving a forest

Of bright days,

Decorated by graphite trails.

Or sketching melancholic views.

Weaving a labyrinth Filled with white roses.

Reaper of thoughts, Collecting them in jars

Pensive student,

Like fireflies.

With the contemplative gaze,

Plant them

Bites the wooden essence.

Into the earth,

Taste of metal,

With worn hands

Ocean water.

Sprinkle them with rain

A reminder of the present,

And watch them grow.

A guide For the soul.

An Ode to the Run-on Sentence

By Chris Crabtree

First, there is a canvas, pre-stretched and eggshell white, Leaning with the anticipation of color, Defining peace and morality, And, as expected, it’s patient and knows that color is the thing that really gives life, So, the blue comes first, with the lighter shade at the top and the deeper at the bottom, Blended in the middle in a marriage of sea and sky-bound together, Followed by the still darker horizon line whose solid and straight aspect rests in true fairness, And the yellow ball, the focus, the light, the teacher, hovers in the center of the top half, and the thousand reflecting flashes of gold dance atop the tips of wrinkled water, Leaping, disappearing, and returning; students, learning, changing, and moving on, while the red radiates into a dome around the yellow in a band like a wedding ring, and the orange between like daughters confirming the everlasting connection with yellow, And they, too, reflect with anticipation the offspring of a new reality, A new generation that will know the subtleties of becoming, And there’s purple because there’s always purple, but Sometimes, we don’t focus on wounds or bruises, But rather on a boat with purpose sailing away, And a pure white flower atop the plant on the shore completes a perfectly beautiful life.

Ode To The Ottoman Michaela White Ottoman 1 My dear blue Ottoman You provide space for my items to rest Your wide plains of fabric You carry deep history 5 Being introduced by the “Ottomans” All the way from Turkey You do a good job of providing comfort, but You can support more than just Soles of the feet 10 You support tired souls Weary from the journeys of life And you house material items Such as clothes or jewelry People think you don’t matter 15 Because you let people use you For their benefit But to me, You are my source of rest and relaxation 20 To me, you are Shelter

Essays

by Gunner Klith & Will Schell

Essay by William Schell A cashier inside a convenience store rearranges the shelves, her tired eyes illuminated by the fluorescent lights that buzz overhead. The monotony of scanning items and handling change is a routine she knows all too well. The beeping of the barcode scanner and the rustle of plastic bags become the soundtrack of her work. A middle aged man in a t-shirt with the sleeves cutoff raises his voice and swears at her because his coupon didn’t work. It expired two years ago. She looks at the floor to hide her face as she waits for the burning in her eyes to go away. Her mind wanders to what her friends are doing tonight without her and she thinks about quitting on the spot. An elderly woman with a cane comes to ask her if the special from the newspaper on oreos is still available.

“I’m not sure ma’am, I’ll go and check for you” Work is saying “have a good one” to every customer, no matter how rude they were. Work is not about personal enjoyment; it's about the fulfillment of a duty.

In the city park, a janitor sweeps fallen leaves into neat piles, the bristles of the broom scratching against the pavement. The park, a haven for families during the day, transforms under the custodian's care. He had come to the park daily when he moved to the city and would sit for hours enjoying the beauty. A leaf falling on the bench next to him used to cause careful examination and contentment. Now, Each leaf swept was nothing but one step closer to going home.

Work is the unsung effort to maintain the beauty that others enjoy.

Work is the obligation that converts wonder to indifference.

A surgeon walks briskly down a hospital corridor, the soft squeak of rubber-soled shoes echoing in the sterile environment. The task at hand is not pleasant. She has to perform surgery to give a man the chance at walking again after a car crash. Midway through the surgery she steps out of the operating room and throws up: the older she gets the more her stomach is affected by what she sees. Nevertheless, she briskly enters the room immediately after cleaning up. Crawling into bed later that night, the troubles of her job are replaced with the contentment of having a day off tomorrow.

Work is performing a surgery regardless of how it affects you. Work is dreadful the eighteen hour shifts that come between sitting happily at home.

A mother holds her four year old son’s hand as she looks both ways three times before crossing the street.

“Are we home yet?”

“Almost” The boy had asked the question countless times in just the past five minutes.

The mother could have done all the errands by herself in half the time as it took with her son. Doing them alone was tiring enough, and together it was exhausting. Rounding a corner she looks around to make sure there aren’t any unpleasant sights for her son to see. She doesn’t want him to glimpse anything that could give him issues later on.

Work is giving an answer even when all you wish to do is walk in silence. Work is constant vigilance to make sure your kid grows up right.

In the bustling cityscape, amidst the daily grind and weariness, individuals fulfill their roles without fanfare. A cashier withstands the tirades of discontent, a custodian tends to the park's beauty, a surgeon battles her inner turmoil for the sake of healing, and a mother tirelessly guides her son through the world. Work isn't always about personal fulfillment; it's a tapestry of duty, sacrifice, and unwavering dedication to maintaining the fabric of life. It's the silent symphony of responsibilities, weaving the threads of society's functioning, often unseen yet profoundly impactful.

On Intelligence Gunner Klith Last year I had a friend who went to CRIA and has since graduated. He did not try by any measure in any class that he took, got subpar grades at best, did not even bother to take the SAT, and did not bother to apply to college. He was, by all standard measures, not very intelligent. But he held something that I have not found replicated in anyone else I have ever met. He had a unique combination of two things: firstly, he was unapologetically himself, and secondly, he had an incredible ability to connect with people. If he wanted to be your friend, he was your friend, and if he was your friend, you were close friends.

While he wasn’t good at math, and couldn’t force himself to read a book or write an essay, he without a doubt held a certain type of unique intelligence. The argument could be made that being able to form bonds with people is more important, in our modern world, than being incredible at math. In a business conference, a sales call, or a cocktail party, getting people to connect with you and enjoy your company is what gets you in the door for funding or a partnership or a job. It is the people who are liked, the people who have connections in the right places, that oftentimes end up hiring someone else to do their math for them.

So what is intelligence?

The first response that comes to my mind, and the minds of most, is the most basic one.

Intelligence is a measure of your cognitive ability. How smart are you? Cognitive ability, however, the ability to think, is something that is unmeasurable and different in all humans.

Everyone possesses their own talents and way of thinking. Of course, I am far from the first person to postulate that intelligence comes in many different forms.

Intelligence has been redefined over and over again for more than a century. The question of what intelligence is holds many different answers, answers that are still changing. The first studies of intelligence came back in the 1800s with Sir Francis Galton. Not long later, Alfred Binet and Theodore Simon invented the now outdated IQ test, one of the first attempts to measure intelligence. In 1920 Edward Thorndike broke ground with his three intelligences model, theorizing that intelligence can come in different forms. And in 1983 Howard Gardner proposed his eight intelligences theory, the most standard model used when looking at multiple types of intelligence and its variations.

I believe intelligence to be, for most people, a means to an end. While some people search for knowledge for the sake of it, and there are many scholars who simply enjoy the journey of learning, for the most part intelligence is used to get somewhere. Intelligence can get you to university, or a job, or a meeting, or an audience. Most people don’t study hard through high school and university for the process of consuming knowledge, but for the opportunities they will be afforded once they have that knowledge. Intelligence brings people places they want to go.

My Aunty Betsy was another kid who did not try in school. I recall a famous story in my family about her. In highschool she took a Spanish class solely for the trip to Costa Rica that the class would take at the end of the year. Her parents, my grandparents, forbid her from going if she got less than a B in the class. Of course, my aunt got a C, but when the trip rolled around her parents were out of town. She hopped on the plane and traveled to Costa Rica, on her own, in the 80s, without knowing spanish, and without her parents knowing.

Now, my Aunt Betsy is the vice president of one of the biggest microchip companies in the world. While she didn’t go to an amazing school, didn’t get the best grades, and never considered herself to be “smart” by the standard definition, she is incredibly successful. It was her risk taking and adventure that brought her to where she is today. Is she intelligent?

Looking at intelligence as a measure of brain power, a measure of how far your mind can take you, she is definitely intelligent.

So if intelligence is a means to an end, once again, what is intelligence? Or better yet, where can intelligence be found? What constitutes intelligence?

Take my friend from CRIA. While I have no idea how successful he will be later in life, I do know this, the skills he possesses have the ability and potential to take him places. Is charisma a form of intelligence?

Using another example, take a kid who is not very gifted at math or literature or the sciences.

While he struggles at school, he takes a different approach than my friend did. He tries incredibly hard, and brute forces his way to good grades and test scores. With this undeterred work ethic, this student will likely become successful in life, despite not being as naturally gifted as others. Is he intelligent?

A comedian, a musician, an artist, a professional athlete, and an entrepreneur, all possess a different type of intelligence, none of which is taught in school. They are all intelligent in very different ways. While Gardner’s theory has only eight forms, I believe there are infinite forms of intelligence. Part of what makes humans the smartest and most advanced creatures on Earth, what drives our constant progression through history, are the millions of ways that people can be intelligent.

I believe that intelligence is something that can’t be measured or quantified, and shouldn’t be. The question should not be how intelligent are you, but where does your intelligence lie?

What is a City?

Gunner Klith

What is a city? While the easy answer is a large urban area, a relatively small place where a large number of people live, cities are infinitely more complex than that. A city is movement. The way that people function with and around each other is what makes a city. Like a human body and its organs, every part of a city can not exist without the presence of other parts. The intersection of people and the shared spaces in cities are required for a city to function and exist. There are businesses that couldn’t survive without people walking past them everyday, beautiful parks and museums that wouldn’t exist without people stumbling into them by accident. Movement gives cities life.

Cities are connection. What makes a city is the large number of people living in it. From people meeting, or stumbling into each other and forming a friendship, or simply walking past each other and existing, connection is what makes a city a city. Connection is the reason that cities where the most opportunities are, where you can find people in any field with any background or talent. While most cities are dangerous, it is mainly in the less crowded areas, in addition to intimacy, there is a certain safety in connection. In a crowd it is harder for anything to happen, people could see. As mentioned in Brent Staples’ Just Walk on By: Black Men in Public Spaces, it is alone that people find themselves in danger, not in a crowded space. The large number of people, and connection in a city also makes it all the more tight-nit and personal. “I like large parties, they are more intimate”, The Great Gatsby. Like a large party, in a large city you can find a private place in the crowd, a place only occupied by yourself and the people you want to spend time with. When living in a city, people often state that they hardly spend time in their apartments, but live throughout the city. In a crowded city, places like parks, streets or restaurants, become almost private places that people inhabit as opposed to their yard or kitchen Cities are culture. While every city shares common characteristics and qualities, cities are made by their cultures. From Philadelphia's Cheesesteaks, to New York’s Hot Dogs, to Chicago’s Deep Dish Pizza, it is the unique parts of a city that make it. Being in Los Angeles, or Mexico City, or Paris are all incredibly different experiences. Cities are made by their proud and distinct traditions and culture, the things that separate them from anywhere else in the world. The dense population of people creates a prevalent, recognizable and rich culture that can exist in no other place than a city.

Cities are movement. Cities are connection. Cities are culture.

Short Stories

by Vir Goenka, Santiago Tricon, & Andrew Clarke

Short Story by Vir Goenka The dim red light shone upon the cabin; it was completely cut off from the outside world.

The walls were splattered with the colors green and red, like the house was a canvas. I stepped inside, and my foot hit something hard. I fell back and shined my flashlight down.

As I saw it I felt like I could hear my heartbeat. Louder. Louder. Louder.

Until it stopped.

A grotesque, butchered body lay in front of me as I looked closer I saw a name tag. “Jerry," covered in blood, and the words "You're next, Father," were etched on the label.

"Please," I said, as I stumbled back. "Please! It wasn't my fault!" I screamed to the sky. I knew that it was a bad idea. Its hearing is impeccable. I know that because I ran tests on it, I knew it was a terrible idea, yet I did it anyway. I ran back to my car and reached to start it, but I didn't have the keys.

"Crap, they must've fallen out when I fell," I said to myself. As much as I didn't want to, I ran back in. "Where are they? Where are they? Where are they?" I muttered, as I scrambled around. Suddenly, I heard a voice different from my own. Someone who can save me.

That's what I first thought, until I heard what it was saying.

"Father, why did you leave me? Why did you let them do this to me?" It roared, showing its unhuman body.

"It's not my fault," I half cried, half pleaded. Ignoring my words it started moving toward me showing its menacing teeth. As I stumbled backwards, my hands hit the keys. I grabbed them and started sprinting to the car. To my surprise I outran it and started the car. I floored the pedal and celebrated inside, but my eyes weren't on the unpaved road, and the car slid off in a cloud of dust. Thankfully, I survived the crash, but barely. My ears were ringing, and my eyes were covered in blood. I slowly heightened my gaze and saw it treading towards me. I tried to scream, but all I managed was to cough up blood.

"Help." I weakly muttered as my eyes fell closed.

Hitchhiker

By Santiago Tricon

I drive through the interstate ground going by in a daze., absorbing the bright view of the mountains as I drive through the desert. Not many people around this lonely road this time of year. Except that black car, a couple hundred feet behind me that’s been following me around for the past 6 hours or so. All of it as the sun sets down between the mountains.

Oh and did I mention the hitchhiker? Yeah there’s this hitchhiker that appears about every mile stretch or so, asking for a ride. He’s wearing a nice black suit and carries a briefcase with the initials W.C. Of course I ignore him, pretty weird that he keeps appearing every mile. Anyway I keep on driving and the rain settles in as well as the dark and so I realize I better start looking for a place to stay in.

Suddenly, my car swerves off the road as if something pushed it off, I struggle to breathe even as I realize I did it myself. Seeing that hitchhiker along the road did something to me, I go get something from the trunk but it’s missing, that’s funny, ain’t it? I get into the car and start the engine and continue on looking for a hotel. Finally I came upon a row of hotels with their varying names, finally I chose one, Craig’s Motel.

I get out of my car and head out into the check-in desk. As I approach the receptionist she seems quite shaken, as I ask her what's wrong, she says in a sobbing voice that her father William Craig had disappeared a few weeks prior. The police had conducted an investigation but neither Craig nor any possible suspects had been found. The receptionist handed me the keys and I wondered who had murdered William Craig as I headed upstairs.

I got to my room, got myself ready for bed, but then I heard a noise outside. I opened the curtains and I saw the black car that had been following me was there, oh and the hitchhiker in his black suit too. I kept looking but no one moved out of the car but the hitchhiker wasn’t there.

I went to bed and turned off the light when I heard it.

Some kind of hollow breathing inside my room. I turned on the lamp and there he was, the hitchhiker, I gasped, and asked who he was. He didn’t move or say anything and I felt this strong feeling grip me and I screamed as hard as I could. The hitchhiker disappeared, I rushed down the stairs, opened the door of the motel and rushed outside into the rain. The people in the black car got out with guns and yelled, “Martin Crane, you have been arrested for the murder of William Craig”! Put your hand in the air and lay yourself on the road. As I glanced towards my car I saw that the body bag in my car suddenly reappeared and the hitchhiker was no longer in sight.

Hatch of Titans by Andrew Clarke The night was cool with the leftover droplets of water from earlier that day when it had rained. Droplets fell off of the tropical leaves of a rainforest in Florida near Tallahassee.

Plop! A rain droplet had fallen on Dr. John Caballi who was trotting through the rainforest. The sound of cicadas filled the night as he walked calmly along the wet dirt, his black khakis covered in mud.

Caballi began to feel little mosquitoes and ants swarming around his legs.

Whack! He had slapped his leg in itchiness. Those critters! Caballi thought. They were such a nuisance, but I had to get back to the laboratory somehow. The roads were filled with those . . . things!

Caballi shivered at the thought of them.

If Caballi got back to his lab, he would be able to hide there since there was enough food in the storage room to last him months.

Yet it still made his body feel numb, the thought that perhaps they could also be in the forest.

That was probably even more likely since they used to live there. “Ohhh,” Caballi groaned.

He felt sick thinking that thought. His legs were shaking rapidly. He could barely walk. He had to get back to the lab quickly. He began to run, causing a ruckus as the twigs on the forest floor began to snap and roll around. His white lab coat, which he was still wearing, swayed along the wind as he sprinted, his legs and arms still quivering.

Then, he heard it. That bloodcurdling noise. “Reuwwwwww!” Caballi kept on running. “Ohhhh!” he said in panic and fear. The sound came again, closer this time. “Reuwwwwwww!” Caballi could not only hear its vocal sounds, but he could now hear it rummaging through the trees and bushes as well.

He ran and ran like he had never run before, even if his body was still aching.

His teeth began to chatter as his bottom lip flicked up and down. The rainforest seemed to become cold now. His skin was cold, his insides were cold. He felt like the only thing that was happening in his brain was the instinct to run and try to survive. Because that’s what happened to humans way back in the old ages when we still hadn’t built civilization. We would use our instincts to help us run, hide, and sometimes, fight back.

Wouldn’t that be great, thought Caballi. To fight back. Hmmmh, fight back. What was he thinking, fight back. The only way was to run and hope he would make it to the lab. He hoped he would make it.

Ruffling in the leaves of the forest aroused once more. “Haaaah!” Caballi said. “Ohhh, noooooo!” He was on the brink of shedding tears. He heard the sound extremely close this time.

“Reuwwwwwwww!”

As he heard the sound, he also recognized an unusually large and strange-looking tree.

“Haaaaaa, thank god!” said Caballi. He remembered that tree to be the large Dragon Tree that was located near the laboratory. “Yeeeesssss!” he shouted, a smile coming to his face.

Then, a snorting sound. Something was very close. Not just in the forest, but in his particular area. Extremely close. Quiet, you fool! Caballi thought to himself. You’ve drawn its attention, you blithering idiot! Caballi stood still, not moving an inch. He heard snorting sounds that sounded like a giant cat that was purring with viciousness.

The creature purred almost just like a cat, but unlike cats, this creature didn’t create joy and happiness. It created fear, panic, and pain.

“Reuwwwwwww!” the creature hissed. Then, suddenly, the creature jumped out of the bushes and pounced on top of Caballi. “Ahh! Ahhhhhhhhh!” screamed Caballi at the top of his lungs. “Evil beast! Die! Die! Die!” The creature was very lizard-looking, yet it acted like a bird, snapping at its prey then lifting up again before snapping once more. The sound of the creature’s jaws snapping sounded like a fridge made of bone, skin, and flesh slamming shut. It was like an alien from another planet gurgling and chomping on Caballi’s face.

Even with these snaps, Caballi kept pushing away the creature, as it was only the size of a large bird like a turkey or a rooster. Nevertheless, it still had a razor sharp claw on its foot and rows of sharp teeth.

The truth behind this creature was that Caballi had sent two of his scientists to the frozen lands all across the world because they kept finding frozen eggs in arctic caves. Caballi and his scientists had studied the eggs and found that they were hundreds of millions of years old. Many of these Prehistoric eggs were found in Canada, Alaska, China, and Russia. He and his scientists didn’t realize what the eggs contained until he ordered his men to unfreeze them. They hatched, and out came a huge and deadly blast from the past.

Dinosaurus.

The egg of the creature that was currently attacking Caballi had been found in China, near Mongolia. It wasn’t found in the arctic, but rather the Gobi Desert. It had been preserved in the sand, later preserved with salt and sugar later on by humans. It was a Velociraptor, meaning speedy thief, and what a speedy thief this dinosaur was. It had certainly been speedy in catching Caballi, about to steal his life.

Caballi continued to use all of his strength to push away the attacking raptor. It was trying to nip at his face, but it still couldn’t break through Caballi’s hands.

Then, it rolled its head to the right in order to get past his hand and he began to bite it.

“Ahhhhhh!” Caballi cried. It was now interested in his arm and was tugging on it viciously.

Caballi then decided to tug on his arm until it was ripped off by the Velociraptor. It was a grand sacrifice, but Caballi knew that the raptor would start eating his arm and allow him to escape.

Screaming in pain, he began to run towards that laboratory nearby, but the Velociraptor was smarter than to play Caballi’s game. It knew that just an arm wouldn’t fill it up, but a full sized human would do.

It began chasing Caballi, but before too long, he had reached the little laboratory that was hidden under the forest trees. Caballi entered with his card and closed the door on the Velociraptor fingers. “Reuwwwwwww!” it cried in pain as it took its fingers out of the way.

Finally, Caballi was safe. He had lost an arm, but at least he had not been killed. Suddenly, he heard a bird-like noise nearby. It echoed in a manner so that Caballi knew it was coming from inside the lab.

Crrrrrrrrchchch!”

“Hello, Olivia? Olivia?” Olivia was a scientist that worked for Caballi. She was the only person besides him that had the card to open the laboratory door. “Is anybody there?” Then, a shadow appeared through the room. Caballi could see its blood red eyes in the dark that made his blood shiver. The shadow walked towards him close to the ground, like a man who was crawling on the floor.

Then, Caballi was able to identify what the creature was. His eyes widened. On the outside, there was the Velociraptor, and on the inside, where it was supposed to be safe, was a Queztalcoatlus.

It was a Pterosaur, or a dinosaur that could fly like the Pterodactyl or the Pteranodon.

The Queztalcoatlus soared into the air and tried to peck at Caballi. It was much, much larger than him. It was about the size of a giraffe. It completely knocked him over and started to peck on his flesh and bones. “Ahhhhhhhh!” Caballi screamed as the place where his arm had been torn off was being bitten by the Queztalcoatlus.

Through the other hallways and rooms of the lab came other shadows. Caballi recognized the Dilophosaurus, the Compsognathus, and there was even a young Tyrannosaurus Rex. He stared at the creatures coming his way. They must have come here because they smelled the stored food. The Compsognathids were going to wait until the other dinosaurs were done since they were scavengers, but the baby T-Rex and the Dilophosaurus would surely go right in for the meal.

Sure enough Caballi was right, but in this case that wasn’t good. The creatures gnawed at his body as he lay on the floor, knowing that he was the one who ordered the eggs be unfrozen despite the other scientists telling him it was a bad idea. They needed to study the eggs more, but he wanted a breakthrough discovery. He wanted to go down in history as a Nobel Prize winner and a top ranking scientist. He was a fool, and despite him wanting to live, he knew he was going to die from the consequences of his rushed decisions and thought that perhaps he deserved it.

Photography & Digital Art by Zachary Sell - Photos Daniel Clarke - Digital Design

Zachary Sell

Zachary Sell

Artwork by Daniel Clarke