things i wrote in high school

I was sitting next to that dorky clown slide. Didn't make sense to have a three foot

kiddy slide at a middle school. Then I remembered that I used to go here during my

elementary years. Now I was back here again for the third time. The second time was my

middle school days, they were quite full of sorrowful occurrences. The kids who went to

elementary here got transferred to a different school, but are now back due to growing

older. Sounds confusing and it is but that's not why I came back. I had a score to settle.

Maybe more than one but I had one specifically in mind.

I walked around to the front of the school and passed the flag pole on the way. I

could have gone into a side entrance but walking through the front door made it more

official, more personal. I walked past the lunch room. Oh, the lonely deadly disgusting

lunch room. I hated sitting alone next to the kids equal to my status. I was a lonely

redheaded and as scrawny as a stick. My dad had mentioned on more than one occasion

that the wind might blow me away. They called me pickle boy because I liked pickles. I

remember my first day eating in a rush then going to the playground but no one was

there. Besides that's a different story, I re-focused and headed to the art room. Passing the

office I remembered sitting in there, that's all. I don't remember being in trouble or

anything just sitting, or standing, something. I also passed the bathroom on the way. It

was the first bathroom I used with urinals. It was a new experience and I was quite shy

about it. It was also the first time that I learned to ignore the stupid scrawling literature on

the dirty walls. I passed the nurses office. I think I tried to go home "sick" once but it

didn't work.

The art class. Mrs. Petter. .. no ... Mrs. Pennington was her name I believe. She

was short and stout like a teapot but had a face that was wrinkled and angry like a worn

out pillow. She now strikes me as a grumpy lady with nothing but criticism perched on

her lips like a crab. I liked art class it was my favorite. In fact I even respected Mrs.

Pennington until she sent one of those crabs to bite my conscience. I'll admit I was a

rowdy kid at times but adults have more responsibility on them then I did at the time. I

stood in the door way waiting for the inevitable and necessary to come to pass.

She started class, who knows how, I don't remember. She was teaching the class

something relevant to art but irrelevant to this story. I watched my self fidget. I was

probably working up the courage to say something random and stupid to the person next

to me. It came at the wrong time. Mrs. Pennington was not pleased and I was blushing.

"Excuse me! Do you take medication?" she asked this after she was done with the

lesson so she wouldn't attract attention. But attention could sense the contention and

came anyway.

"No." it was such a blunt question it deserved an equally blunt answer. Beside the

fact that it was totally of subject and caught me off guard like a phone call during dinner.

Her reply was smart and sharp "Well you should!"

At that I couldn't say a thing. One, she was a teacher and second the crab of

critical words had me by the throat. She pricked off to help a student whose hand was up

and mouth was open.

With that said and done I would have gone home and sulked in the thought.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I shouldn't be myself. Maybe I should be more like AJ or

Aaron both of whom were cool and quiet.

But I was there again. I walked through the half of the door that I hadn't walked

into yet. Once I was through I waltzed right up to her and said my fill.

"Mrs. Pennington you're wrong. I am almost eighteen now and I am a perfectly

mature person without medication. People respect me and I respect myself. Thank

Heavens I did not take your recently idiotic advice. If I had I would be less like my self

and more like you. I would hate life and my self. Mrs. Pennington you're wrong, dead

wrong." A punch would have capped the whole thing off but I didn't do it I was the better

person for it.

I did not stay for a reply. I did not need to explain or anything. I had done my

business, and was now content with it.

Besides I wanted to look at the playground one last time.


Song


Blue Shoes


1 Verse

Walking on the park thinking I won't be home til' dark

Sitting on the bench and I won't worry and inch

I don't care about my hair or my shoes

Cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

2Verse

Wheelin' on the grass like a clown out of class

Cause I took off the mask made of glass a little too fast

Now watch it fall from my hands and come un-glued

Cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

Chorus

Blues shoes in the city

Blue shoes aint they pretty

Blue shoes, cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

3 Verse

I tum from the park as the dark turns out of me

I look at the city gleam and gleam and gleam

But all it makes me want to do is scream and scream

About this itty bitty park city dream

Chorus

Scat Bridge

Chorus

Fade Out



The Seed, the Sting, the Redemption, and the End


Patience,

It hurts you, and all you can do is thank it.

It sits calmly while you pace.

It smiles, but you clench your heart.

It teaches, and you strain.

It knows, and you know it knows.

Oh, then the filth draws nigh

Fear,

He bites, and you scream inside.

He chews and your sanity lingers.

He sucks, and pale you become.

He jests, and you become pathetic.

He lives, and you die.

Oh, then comes an aurora

Hope,

She heals, and you breathe again.

She hums, and you open your eyes.

She whispers, and you move.

She speaks, and you stand.

She shouts, and you do too,

You do too, you shout for

Joy



Lost


I long to be a lost boy, the kind of boy that would rather not wear shoes. The kind of boy that would live in a tree, just because climbing them is so darn fun. The kind of boy that could fight the

indians, and tease the Pirates all day long. The kind of boy that doesn't have a bed time, and doesn't

have to worry about cooties or the things that comes with them. The kind of boy that can breathe in

nature and live in an eternal summer. The kind of boy that wishes on shooting stars. Wishes that...

. . . that I never had to grow up; I never had to learn arithmetic. I wish that death was never a

reality but always what happens to the loser of the game. I wish I didn't have to live in a world of

turmoil and grief, but rather in a forest of peace and bliss. 1 even wish for ...

... yesterday. Yesterday I was a lost boy. 1 was four and only had to worry about food and staying away from my Captain Hook. I could play the same game for hours and not lose patience. I could take naps on a daily basis. I could run, and scream, and that was typical for my age, and nobody cared. I could cry in public, I could stain my shirt. I could even ...

But now, now things are different. I can't forget to brush my teeth. 1 can't be late to class, or get a failing grade. I can't run in the halls. I can't laugh out loud. I can't blow my nose without being

conscience of what people think of me. I can't even sleep at night.

Because as I grow older, as I get bigger, there is more I'm "supposed" to do. The lost boy is

buried deep and deeper in my heart. I try to let him out, but I'm not supposed to. So, I find ways to let

him out. I play video games, and live through the action. I read books, and live through the plot. I watch

movies, and live through the story. I watch kids play, and live through their antics. Because I can't live

through myself, no, that wouldn't be proper. The lost boy becomes a lost man, and the lost man cries for

the lost boy. (Much ado and thanks to my creative writing class. And an especially big thanks to Mrs.

Stanton, who taught me that it's okay to wear glasses even though 1 don't need to.)

7

Balletic Beauty

I am an individual fellow, a lad. She is graceful, a modest, pure maiden whose features

beam with laughter and delightful contentment. I awe, I respond with an unvarying

double-take, and sail, take ·wing, and soar. She flows and ensues, but time befalls our

stretch of fancy, our flight and our lastingness.

5

LOST

I am a lost boy, the kind of boy that would rather not wear shoes. The kind of boy

that would live in a tree, just because climbing them is so darn fun. The kind of boy that

could fight the Indians, and tease the Pirates all day long. The kind of boy that doesn't

have a bed time, and doesn't have to worry about cooties or the things that comes with

them. The kind of boy that can breathe in nature and live in an eternal summer. The kind

of boy that wishes on shooting stars. Wishes that. ..

I never had to grow up; I never had to learn arithmetic. I wish that death was

never a reality but always what happens to the loser of the game. I wish I didn't have to

live in a world of tunnoil and grief, but in a forest of peace and bliss. I even wish for .. .

Yesterday. Yesterday I was a lost boy. I was four and only had to worry about

food and staying away from my Captain Hook. I could play the same game for hours and

not lose patience. I could take naps on a daily basis. I could run, and scream, and that was

typical for my age, and nobody cared. I could cry in public, I could stain my shirt. I could

even ...

But now, now things are different. I can't forget to brush my teeth. I can't be late

to class, or get a failing grade. I can't run in the halls. I can't laugh out loud. I can't blow

my nose without being conscience of what people think of me. I can't even sleep at night.

Because as I grow older, as I get bigger, there is more I'm "supposed" to do. The

lost boy is buried deep and deeper in my heart. I try to let him out. But I'm not supposed

to. So, I find different ways to let him out. I play video games, and live through the

action. I read books, and live through the plot. I watch movies, and live through the story.

I watch kids play, and live through the antics. Because I can't live through myself, no,

that wouldn't be proper. The lost boy becomes a lost man. And the lost man cries for the

lost boy.

(Much ado and thanks to my creative writing class. And an especially big thanks

to Mrs. Stanton, who taught me that it's okay to wear glasses even though I don't need

to.)

~1

The guys were huddled next to the swing behind the slide.

;;Hey guys, what's up?;; I inquired

"Go away Tad, you don't want to hear this."

I was in a sudden state of decision. Being just in the second grade

candy. It was near irresistible to say "hey I want to know what you're talkin'

about." But then again there is that little man inside that squeaks "Hey! Hey

you big guy up top! Yeah you: I think you should take his advice." To inquire

or not to inquire that was the question at hand.

....... • ""'I""" • ""'I""" •• i i. . • ii' i • 'i vvn ... yean .L ... 00 . .L want TO Know wnOT you guys are TalKing OOOUT.

"Go way Tad, you're not in the third grade."

True enough I was not apart of the third grade class. I myself can't

"I'll tell my older brother than he'll make you tell me." My brother was

in the fifth grade. That's two more grades than the third grade. Besides

that he has two numbers in his age that makes him twice as stronger. He

could beat the snot outta all those kids and than some .

.. _. . .. - . . ..

"rine you Oig ... dummy. tsut we wGined YOU,"

Yes! I was in! I felt like the man who gets to drive the ice cream

truck- pretty darn iucky. Obviousiy I had missed the beginning; what's more

I was smaller than the rest and had some trouble squeezing in to hear what

was being said.

,,_..... _ I I r _ _. ..... J...... _.. .. .. I ... ·1 T" S True. 1. necrra from r"e~1! J Oi1ns rnaT BTTie f;{iTTe.r, you Knv~\i Tne Kid

that always eats the wood chips during recess, got the "snub" from those

things."

Things? What was he talkin about? And I don't know how he knew that

little Ritter "got the snub" because nobody's seen him since last month.

Besides Pew is a iiar. One time he toid me that the teacher;s iounge waS fu~i

of overflowing candy bowls and a swimming pool. I believed him and got three

days of recess revoked because of it.

I got glared at by everyone but Gur. Gur never looks at anyone. He's

always looking to the left of you when he talks.

"Oh yeah, you didn't hear about the things"

He emphasized things like it was especially important, and it was

because I wanted to know exactiy what it V·JaS he waS taiking about.

Now it might be important to tell the reader who is doing the telling

of the story. Ip was one of the greatest story teiiers ever. He wouid unravei

stories that could melt your heart as well as chill your bones. He told some

pretty neat stories about his dad. Most of the time, he'd only tell stories

would just say "If I told you I'd have to kill you. " But Ip and Pew were good

friends for good reasons. They traded secrets and swapped whoppers like

the kindergarteners trade lint and shiny buttons.

Okay back to my "What things?" question.

"We're taikin' 'bout those things under your bed, you know those

Monsters, the ones that bite you if you try to get a glass of water after bed

time. Pew tells me that his parents hired his Monster to keep him from

"Yeah that's right, you better be scared." This was a comment thrown

in by Gur. He yelled in to make it more intimidating but again he was staring

of to the left which made it kind of awkward ... for everyone.

nUhh ... anyways," said Ip trying to pick up the pace and ferocity of the

. : ~ ~ • : ..!! : !!.- . !'"!'"! ! ! ! . • !: ~..! - ~ - • ! STOl'7 aiTer IT was snaTTerea oy t:7urs Oii nana numOi ana signT. AS.i. SOia

- --- - --_._-- -

:tl. 1

earlier Pew told me that little Ritter got his leg snatched at the other day

and now heis in the hospitai with a torn up ieg.ii

Gasps like little kids usually make were made at this dreadful

comment. Truth is that little Ritter actually was in a tree eating leaves and

nobody knows that except me and you.

nThat's a bunch of bologna. My mom is friends with Ritter's cousin and

she said he fell outta an apple tree." Well I guess that makes three of us

that know it, or rather four no five wait ... never mind. What really matters

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salted slug - less appealing.

"Believe what you may," Ip argued nbut when you step out of bed

Besides what do you think happens to all that stuff that disappears when it

goes under the bed? I've got two theories. Either the monsters enjoy a

snack, or they all get sent to Santa Claus so he can recycle them."

"I heard Santa Claus isn't real." Pip stated.

,,_. _. • - - .101. _ _ • _ .._ "un Jiip you GiWQ}lS gotta spon tilings. :;;anTa ;s too rea; and 1 can prove

it" said Ip

"And how can you prove it?"

"If I toid you I'd have to kiii you. Anyways I think that Mrs. Lune is a

Quagmire."

"A Quagmire?" said everyone, who suddenly were all complete slaves

"Yeah" continued Ip "She turns kids into jelly and then sends them to

their parents as a gift. She also sends bread so the parents can make toast

with the jelly."

"I've never heard of a Quagmire. And besides how does she turn kids

into jeiiy? I've never seen her do it." r protested

"If I told you I'd have to kill you."

I'd had enough. I've gotten outta bed plenty of times and never lost so

candy when you sat good. But I do remember one time she got mad at a kid

and sent him down the hall and he was never seen again. Maybe he just

moved away.

Or maybe there is such thing as a Quagmire.

The Shadow

Yesterday they took Stey away. She woke up one morning and was

reminiscing about how she had a wonderful dream of plants and how she

could grow them at will. It was a dream, but during that time she was

At least that's what the rumors say.

I saw her struggle, arms flailing like a two-year-old-tantrum, as the

Y.eoshaw took. her away. H er hair looked more brown than usual .. and her feet

looked a little gnarled. She turned the lawn into a patch of clovers before

they got her into the van. I got nothing from the Yepshaw. What are the

Yepshaw? They're a cleansing agency, or so they call themselves. People fear

what they don't' understand. People also fear what they don't know how to

freak out because they don't know how to use it, so they go back to where

it's safe. The government doesn't know what these people are or what to do

with them. They can't do not do something, because therein lies a choice, one

that most people wouldn't agree with, but I am not one of those people.

Who am I to rebel? You might look at me and See a small insignificant

boy, one that is speckled and skinny. Well, that is what I am and I am

perfectly content. At least I was until I experienced such a scenario that

rivals Stey's mishap. My name is Whik and this is my story.

Sleep is a tricky fellow, full of ambiguity. And on the occasion of my

sleep I stumbled upon something that was both fearful to my self and

I

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the dream world. I suddenly found myself in a dreamlike state where I was

sinking into the darkness of the night. Fearful I jumped out of bed. But I

felt flat. I did not feel too different so I went back to bed and thouaht oJ

nothing of it.

I woke, smacked my aiarm and went for the shower. After a hearty

breakfast of oatmeal and toast, I went to the bathroom and then took a trip

to the bus stop. On most occasions Stey is at the bus stop, but last Saturday

I saw the Yepshaw. I stood alone at the bus stop; usually the bus comes ten

minutes after my presence at the stop. Today was no exception. I watched

my shadow stand next to me and became fasinated by it. I saw the stop sign

shadow and made my shadow stand on the tippy top, just out of boredom. I

made a pose like a fountain spouting water. Then I found myself on top of

the stop sign. Startled I lost my balance and fell to the grass behind me,

except I didn't fall from the height of the stop sign I fell from my stance,

like I had stumbled. A little annoyed at my scraped elbow I rubbed it and

thought how pecuiiar such an instance was. My usuai enthusiasm surfaced

and I forgot about my pain. My enthusiasm, as well as my curiosity, always

gets the better of me. Last summer I decided to shake up a bottle of soda,

smack on my rear, which brings me to my other trait that just makes my catlike

curiosity worse. I am forgetful. I don't' learn my lessons. I don't

remember to take out the trash, or brush my teeth. Heck! I don't even

remember my homework. My homework? Crap! I forgot. I jumped off the

sidewaik and onto the road (because it's easier to run where maiibox and

lawn ornaments don't impede my speed). At that moment a car passed and so

did its shadow. I landed on the road, but more importantly the shadow. I

in less than a second. The best way to explain this pnenomenon is to compare

the shadow to a magic carpet. I initially lost my balance when I landed, but

there I was sitting on the shadow like I was right next to Aladdin him self.

"There goes my house." I said to myself. At the stop sign three houses

I .. • _ I . . ~ : ' !' • _ . .. down trom mine l. roiled ot ine Snodan and Sat in a daze.

F'

"Hmm." I hummed to myself as I stewed over the past ten minutes. I

got right back up and was about to do a iittie more experimenting but the

chug of the bus engine caught my attention so I ran back to the bus stop. I

got on the usual bus, sat in my usual seat and sat by my usual self. I was

pessimistic, but I think it's necessary. I realized the danger of ... whatever

this was. Whatever this was, it's what made 5tey a delinquent of sorts. My

worry wart was about to explode. Questions waited inline upstairs in my head

waiting for answers I could not answer. But my thoughts were interrupted as

. -- - ~ . - . -

my noSe began to run. Spring aiiergies are the pits. J. wonder what's tor

lunch.

Segullah was a place that only I could go to. Not by train, car, or

flight but by night and sleep. Not a nap in the afternoon, but true sleep

during the night. You could say it was my dreams. But I know that it is so

much more than that. It is tangible and more refreshing, at times, than sleep

itself.

The first time I arrived in Segullah I had next to no Idea what was

happening. I woke up with a stiff back, and dirty eyes, in the middle of a

field. I noticed this only after I stood up and walked for a while. There was

nothing but field for miles around, and then some. I decided that the best

thing to do was to choose a course and stick with it. I waiked to ward the

sun. Then I started to feel this weight it was funny because it was

distributed at random intervals around my back side. I turned my neck

around, and the weight on the back Df my head switched to my face. How

peculiar. I had turned in the intention to see if anything was there and in

fact there was, but not in the way I thought. I saw a few creatures sitting in

my shadow. I was scared and started running. Whatever these things were

there were too small to run as fast as me. Now I would describe these

animals as dark, round, the size and shape of your fist, with arms and legs

similar to play-dough. But then I was in a frenzied fever to get away from

their childish smiles. The weight was still there and so were the creatures,

still sitting behind me. I ran out of breath, patience, and fear.

I decided to test the shadots (I decided to call them that because

they live in your shadows and are dot-like. Shadow + Dot = Shadot.) . I

,

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after me they just sat there. But they were moving, like they were riding my

shadow. So, I turned and picked the one off of my shadows left shoulder,

the weight that was on my left shoulder was gone. Hmmm ... with the animal in

hand I just stood there and made a face like a person who was trying to

understand a poorly made joke. With nothing else to do I threw the little

guy. He whooped like a theme park maniac. Then I turned my gaze toward

the others. They stood there in complete ignorant bliss. So, I picked up

onother and did !ike wise to it os I hod the first. They 011 seemed to enjoy it

and so did I. What's funny is that they kept on coming back for more. So I

consented and played catch with an invisible dog, or so it seemed.

With a sigh I grew bored and decide to sit to appease my exhausted

body. The shadots squealed like a tickled child and I noticed that they

huddle cioser together to avoid contact with the Sun. Ohhh ... they don't like

the sun. I made my shadow smaller, and I saw a few shadots run a few feet

then burrow in the ground. Three ran away and one became a tree. The tree

grew at an alarming rate, until it reached a mature size. The other one

formed a spring that likewise grew to a reasonable size and formed a brook.

The third made something but I had no idea what it was, and I wasn't

way to get rid of all of them was to lie flat on your back. I kept one because

I kind of liked the guy. The rest ran off and buried themselves, and all

became trees. Each tree contained a smaller shadot in a birds nest. I

realized what I had done. I had created a shadot community. The shadots

couid iive under the shade of the trees, and iucky me I had kept one to take

care of the younger shadots. But the younger ones didn't seem to need the

taking care off. Still the originals are always the best. I named the oldest,

tim with a lower case't' because it fits him better than an uppercase one.

Tired from such a scenario I laid down myself by a tree with tim on

my lap. I pet him and hummed my favorite tune. Just as I was nodding off I

heard tim say "Goodnoight sey you toe-morrow"

Not Enough Said

Here is the story of how I met a lovely person.

Said and I met at a "Build-Your-Own-Friend" activity at the local art store. She

came into the store when I finished my project. Eye contact has more involved than four

eyeballs, just like a rose has more than petals. No, it has so much more meaning to it. It

has fragrance and pollen. The eye contact we had was like a rose. I turned around to hide

my rose, red face. She was the brave one when it came to taking the eye contact to the

next level. She let a plain phrase slide out of her mouth, which tapped me on the

shoulder.

"Hi I'm Said".

What was she trying to say? I don't get it. Did she want to talk to me? Was this,

what the computer buffs call a, "JK"? I felt the bum of the anxious eyes, her anxious

eyes, staring at the back of my red head. Desperate to let this awkward silence cease, I

quickly twirled around, maybe a little too quick. I had miscalculated how close she was

to me. Her voice, so soft, had made me think she was still at the door. My elbow went

with the rest of my body just like it should. The only problem was it went where it wasn't

meant to, right into her nose. My face was still as red, but it didn't compare to the blood

dripping down her chin. Except, it wasn't dripping it was flowing. My mind was in the

Ctrl-Alt-Delete mode. I stood there. That was a big mistake, and the cherry of this

explosive sundae, that topped off the whole thing, was a big "Uhhh ... " that slipped

carelessly, but not without reason, out of my mouth.

This was a disaster. I ran. Not without purpose. I ran for the door. She would only

think I was rude until I got back with the box of Kleenex behind the clerks desk that was

No+-

placed next to the safe exit. I approached her like a three year old petting a goat for the

first time- hesitant. I handed her the box, and then I did what any normal person would

do.

"Are you Okay? Gee! I'm so sorry. Really I'm sorry. Sorry." This continued until

she had used almost all of the tissues. Then she grabbed the past few moments like

scattered papers fluttering around the room.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. It slipped out like my uhhh had a in the last scene. "No! Oh!

I mean yes! Yes, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I could run to the gas station and grab some ice. It's just around

the comer. Really, it's no trouble at all." I said this as I motioned toward the door. I talk

with my hands, a lot.

She shook her head pensively, and I continued to say I was sorry about thirty

more times. She replied to my mumbling with an assurance that her nose would only be

dreadful for a week then it would be back to normal. She made the comment that she had

to start toward home. I offered to walk her home.

"It's the least I could do, really."

"Fine, if you must, but I ride my bike and it is always long and boring anyway."

"Oh! Here let me take that for you" I offered, as I took her bike. I walked the bike

for her because her hands were occupied elsewhere, babysitting her nose.

"Thanks" she said with a smirk. The 'thank you' she gave me was very genuine.

Like hair that's never been dyed. It was true and nothing about it was shady or deceiving.

Ever since that walk and talk we had together, we've been the best of friends.

tJ ot- -------------------------

During my high school days I went on dates with Said. Said called me on the

phone the other day and we talked about Nothing (he's my neighbor). I made plans to

marry Said some day. In fact, after my high school days Said and I got hitched in the city

park. I lived happily with Said ever since. Life is like a stage and the play "The Life of

Said and her Husband" went pretty well. Well, except when my clumsy self stumbles on

the stage of our daily -lives.

The End?

I forgot to mention that I had both a middle school and an elementary sweetheart.

The Middle school experience was quite dull. It was like a two day infomercial. And

that's exactly how long the whole I'm-your-boyfriend-you're-my-girlfriend thing lasted.

Two days. So, there's not much of a story there, but the elementary scenario was quite

the trip.

It was in the first grade. The grade of all grades, the first one of all. Kindergarten

doesn't count. Besides, at that point in my life, I had only dipped my toe in the vast lake

of my educational experience. Mrs. Fluttery was the teacher. She was short which made it

easier for her to come down to her students level (no pun intended). She had white teeth

and lips that resembled elongated raisins, because she doesn't believe in chap-stick. Her

hair was gray which made her more homely and she looked every bit like a teacher. Even

if you saw her at the supermarket you'd probably raise your hand just to talk to her.

It was the day of Valentines and I was in my classroom thinking about the video

game I had to beat when I got home. Then, the door opened. The door never opens during

class, so everybody turned to look. In walked an adult. Of course adults ruled the world

so they can do anything they want. We kids just tend to follow the adults, who feed and

take care of tiS. Well, right behind the adult walked in a giil. I stared at her because my

manners weren't fully developed. I just gawked at her. Everyone else went back to work

because they weren't ex.actly impressed. The adults did sO.me whispe:ring and I did some

blushing.

The gid looked around the unfamiliar room, but was disrupted by Ivirs. FluUery

who was scooting her to the front of the room. She hushed the class that began to become

interested again. "C1ass this is Wish. Wish this is the class. Wish you can take a seat in

front of Can".

Can? That's me! Wait. She can't sit in front of me. Then I can't see Mrs. Fluttery.

And besides, her pretty hair will get in the way. And she's taller than me. And she will

distract me. And ... and ... and ... I had a crush on her. I'm sure everybody found this out

as she walked toward my seat. Then when she sat down it was like her chair was the

make-Can-blush button. I was in for quite a day, and recess hadn't even started.

I contemplated the whole rest of the class period whether or not I should tease her.

The tact on that would be that she would know who I was. But then again she wouldn't

like being teased. I never even moved. Mrs. Fluttery almost asked me a question, but

Gaff the class know-it-all raised his hand and answered for me. Phew.

Then recess came. Now was my chance. I thought it best to go in the back Kickball

field and pick some dandelions as a peace treaty. You see, the girls during recess

time ruled the dome and no one approached them without getting reproached. You know

those big metal cages that look like a half buried soccer ball. They played "dorm". "Dorm

in the dome of doom" is what it was called among the riff-raff of us boys. I guess one of

the girls had an older sister that talked about the whole college life, besides house was a

kindergarten game. Pffft.

I knew Wish would be in The Dome. The only girl that didn't play there was Fry.

:t-.Jobody knows why Fry won't play with the other gi.rls she just liked to sit iii "the Jig"

and read books, but that's a whole different story.

I walked slowly toward The Dome with my hands stuck out like some force was

trying to suck the flowers away and I was grasping them with all my might knowing that

it was the only thing that kept me from death. The closer I got the less I could breathe. I

got right next to the dome and stopped breathing altogether.

"Wbat do you want?" demanded the voice ofthe obvious ieader. I didn't know

which one it was and I had nothing to say so I just thrust the flowers further in the air.

"Well?" they all said.

"i .. . i ... I. .. I come in peace. Uhhhhh. I just wanted to give flowers to somebody."

"Well, it is Valentines Day and those are pretty flowers ... Who are they forT

"Wish. They're for Wish."

Giggles followed my feeble request. They laughed until one girl fell off of the

dome and hit her head. A few girls took her to the teacher that was on watch, and then the

seriousness of the situation returned. "You're kinda ... " the girl talking almost slipped out

a compliment but realizing she was surround by other girls she continued" ... kinda dumb.

Wish isn't here. But, hey, can I have those flowers?"

I dropped the flowers and ran off crying. I had embarrassed myself for nothing.

No, for worse than nothing I had gotten laughed at.

-------------------- - -------- - _. --- ----------

------.--------------------------------

Now all the girls chase me around and ask me to pick flowers for them. I got

prett}! good at pic},:ing flO\'!.lers, but I lie'ver got to meet \~lish, because I came to find out

that she was placed in the wrong school and had to transfer. But it's okay because I still

have .tny IVlorn and Mrs. Fluttery and they are good enough to be iny Valentines. At least

I thought so.

....

Disgusted I got off of the swings. The swings always reminded me of

how I never got the chance to fly. The swings belonged to West Dergrim

Elementary, and I was there to expose myoid P.E. monster. I call it a

monster because no one would ever call It an educator or anything

,

associated with that term. I can't describe the demon, I think I would start

to gag and convulse if I did.

I did not come unprepared, no; I had brought with me three weapons

to use against the creature.

Good. I caught the beast unaware. He was in the process of calling the

poor ki ndergarteners names, names that were taboo to them and to society

in general. It had treated every kid that ever passed through its class like ...

like he should be treated - like filth. Why did the children not protest? The

vermin had its ways; let's just say it had each kid sign a paper with their

address and name. Each day the corpse would rasp to them "I know where

you live you piles of ... " fear gripped the children's hearts as It said this and

heat filled my head.

I was grow now, but not healed, I had to do something first. I walked

over to the dirt of a thing and tapped it on the shoulder. It turned and I

swung. I must have broken Its jaw because I heard a crack and blood

surfaced on the Things face. "Children," I exclaimed "this thing is no more

than the dust you step on." With my fist as my first weapon and humiliation

as my second I fingered the third one in my pocket. "I will free you of this

disease if you will only cooperate. I need each and every one of you to leave

the gymnasium and have recess until I come get you. Understood?" the

children nodded. They may have feared me more than It. It. I looked at It

and It looked at me. At this moment he started to growl a few words. I

ignored them. I looked around and found the children gone, I did not want

them to have to witness the end of It. A string of curses from It was

followed by silence as I pulled out my third weapon and pointed the barrel at

his sinister forehead ...

Inspiration

This song is a tribute to the Argus and its staff. It also is just what

the piece calls itseif "A Simple Song".

It's about the central park in New York, as you Mrs. Stanton are

fascinated with Time Square I am also intrigued by Central Park. The song

talks about getting away from the noise of city life and enjoying nature, as

weii as being yourseif and not hiding behind the ··giass mask". It's a giass

mask because it doesn't provide much protection, ?-nd people can still see

through it. Vile all wear them on a daily basis ''I'm fine" is the biggest one.

D~~ ... I~ ___ ~ I-.,.;~,._I" _~~ ... 1..._+ .,_,. _L1~ _~ ... ",;_~ 1-. ..... +I...~ _1 ______ L _~~_ ..... __

I c,.V .... It::.- .... UII UL.J ·" I UU~lr :j;jC:--=- II I UI ruu UI ~ nUl IIIIIC-: UUI Inc,. ~I\J.;:;'~ IIIU~f'\ ~V~;J; utJ;:.u

people will leave you alone. There are other hidden messages but that is the

most useful and noteworthy.

A Simple Song by zach power'

Vilalking on the park thinking I won't be home til' dark

Sitting on the bench and I won't worry and inch

I don't care about my hair or my shoes

Cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

Blues shoes in the city,

Blue shoes oint they orettv , I ,

Blue shoes, cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

VlIheelin' on the grass like a clown out of class

Cause I took off the mask made of glass a little too fast

Now watch it fall from my hands and come un-glued

r' ___ __ T' _ __ __ ..1-....L.L _ ___ :...l. . L .. L :..L_L .. " _ ___ I. _:...L _ L L __ ..

l,... uu::;t::; J. vt::; ~u 1 ; ri t:>HI 1 I-iy U I I I-y pun<, GI I Y U I-Ut::;::;

Blues shoes in the city

Blue shoes oint they pretty

Blue shoes, cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

I turn from the park as the dark turns out of me

I look at the city gleam and gleam and gleam

But all it makes me want to do is scream and scream

About this itty bitty park city dream

The Hardest Decision I Ever Made (I think)

"What would you like to drink?"

The waiter stood next to the booth that held a tiny man in the cushion of its hands.

He looked at his menu as if it were a computer screen, transfixed.

"I can come back in a bit, do you need mo ... "

"No! No, I got it, just give me a second" the man said.

What am I talking about? I have no idea what I want. The soda? No it's

unhealthy, oh but it's so good, I like the fizzle . And the milk? Well, that 'd coat my throat,

hey that rhymes. But, no, it will coat my throat and make my cold worse. Gosh how 'd I

get a cold in the summer? Oh, how 'bout them slushies? Oh, the mango coconut is divine,

but ... oh, no the brain freezes, nope that 's definitely not a good thing to get, could

damage my brain cells, besides it hurts.

"Sir? Would you like me to come back?"

"No, I got it... I got it .. . I ... "

Gosh this waiter's pushy I better make a decision quick. Soda, no. Milk, unh uh.

Uhh .. . slushies? No go. Oh, the hot chocolate has free refills, but it so hot outside I

couldn't do that, that wouldjust be weird. Milkshakes? Shoot, 'sgot milk. I could ask her

to take the milk out of the shake .. . never mind. Juice! Why didn 't I think of it before? No,

not orange I 'm allergic. Ah, the apple I love apple juice, I wonder if they have it organic,

that would be sweet, oh, no pun intended.

"1' 11 take the apple juice, organic if you have it."

"Okay, anything else . .. oh wait, yep, we're out of apple juice"

"Then .. . uhh, then . .. "

Out of apple juice!? I can't believe it. I hate grape, I 'm allergic to orange.

They 're out of apple, and soda's unhealthy, and everything else has milk in it. Maybe I

just should forget the drink, gosh, why do they make this so hard. And the waiter keeps

staring at me, and her toe tapping is annoying. Gosh, I can 't concentrate, maybe I should

tell her to come back. But, what if she doesn 't come back, besides I 'm dying of thirst. I

need a drink now, but what, but what, but .. . uhh ... the pressure ... I don 't know ... can't

decide ... uhh ... uhh ...

"I'll just have water."

Balletic Beauty

I am an individual fellow, a lad. She is graceful, a modest, pure maiden whose features

beam with laughter and delightful contentment. I awe, I respond with an unvarying

double-take, and sail, take wing, and soar. She flows and ensues, but time befalls our

stretch of fancy, our flight and our lastingness.

Nigh there is yet a coming aurora, a clear, vivid, unclouded unison.

Nicknameableness

Nicknames. What are they? Where so they come from?

My name is Zeus and that's a nickname, not a fact. I got the nickname from a

very reliable source. I was new and nameless when I first moved here, then I gained a

name, I gained some confidence, and with that confidence a few friends.

Zeus is not the first nickname I've had. Before I came here to Utah I was known

by most as Skippy. The other ones (not part of the most category) knew me as Mo. Then

there was Butch, Ken, Kickapoo, Za-eek, and a few arrangements of others that people

used to get my attention. I was curious as to why I have attained so many nicknames.

Was it my face, personality, or was it just that the name Zach didn't fit? What is a word

that describes this, nicknameble? As I type this word the computer gets out its red pen

and says "Un-uh, that's not a word don't even type it", but what other way am I to say

that I gain a lot of nicknames. We may never know what it is called this

"nicknameableness" but that doesn't mean we should stop giving out nicknames any

more. Right?

The fingerprint

A dog without a tail is half as canine. A story without detail is much the same.

And a person deserves more description than the both. Pass a person on the street and

they seem boring. Boring that is, unless you start to give them notice, until you start to

describe the person, to yourself. People that I tend to describe to myself either have

something in common with my self, or nothing in common with the common.

The eyes are the window to the soul, a phrase created from the soul itself, has

depth and meaning, just as eyes do. A person can swallow you whole with there eyes, or

stop you dead in your tracks. It's happened to me before. My eyes are like a leaf turning

to fall as you fall towards the center, spring green transitioning into a crisp brown. Ocean

blue, timber brown, lively yellow, these eyes amaze me, they amaze me to the point that I

become bold, and walk to the amazing eyes and tell their keeper that ... that .. . wow.

Then there are those people (though they deserve a better title than 'people' ), those

people that have eyes that are so glorious that if they had any smell at all, you would

follow them around for days just to breathe in the purity. I have a cousin whose eyes are

so open, so wide you can see how active her mind is. She seems to be everywhere but

behind me, and yet wholeheartedly centered before me. They seem to ask you something,

and what they ask I don't know, but that's the beauty and the magic of the hypnotism.

The eyes are the window to the soul.

What else makes a person distantly familiar, and unordinary? It 's the introduction

paragraph, the book cover, the exterior. The dress, the posture, and the character pretty

much cover that area. I myself have found that my insides determine my outsides. In

middle school my mind and heart where at the peak of contradiction. Thus I did not know

who I was or wanted to be. First it was a skateboarder. Hey skateboarding is cool... nope

try again. Then the guitar, then the nerd, then the jock, the teachers pet, the class clown. I

found my exterior always shifting. The haircuts were the worst, everyone knew when I

got a haircut and it always looked terrible. I wore baggy jeans (which I despise now) I

tried to walk cooler, talk cooler, feel cooler, but I never was cooler. And consequently my

posture lagged. I dragged my feet, I slouched, I muted. My character well, that was in

shambles. I was crazy-off-the-wall one day and completely depressed the next. My soul

was off-beat, my exterior on the run, my eyes barren. Those that do not learn from the

past are bound to repeat it. I have learned that a beautiful soul makes a beautiful frame,

but a beautiful frame gives the soul confidence. Each person has the right to their own

opinion, so I need not try and expound on what the best book cover looks like.

- - - - - - - ---

The Shadots

Segullah was a place that only I could go to. Not by train, car, or flight but by

night and sleep. Not a nap in the afternoon, but true sleep during the night. You could say

it was my dreams. But I know that it is so much more than that. It is tangible and more

refreshing, at times, than sleep itself.

The first time I arrived in Segullah I had next to no Idea what was happening. I

woke up with a stiff back, and dirty eyes, in the middle of a field. I noticed this only after

I stood up and walked for a while. There was nothing but field for miles around, and then

some. I decided that the best thing to do was to choose a course and stick with it. I

walked toward the sun. Then I started to feel this weight, it was funny because it was

distributed at random intervals around my back side. I turned my head around, and the

weight on the back of my neck switched to my face. How peculiar. I had turned in the

intention to see if anything was there and in fact there was, but not in the way I thought. I

saw a few creatures sitting in my shadow. I was scared and started running. Whatever

these things were there were too small to run as fast as me. Now, I would describe these

animals as dark, round, the size and shape of your fist, with arms and legs similar to playdough.

But then I was in a frenzied fever to get away from their childish smiles. The

weight was still there and so were the creatures, still sitting behind me. I ran out of

breath, patience, and fear.

I decided to test the shadots (I decided to call them that because they live in your

shadows and are dot-like. Shadow + Dot = Shadot.) . I walked with my head turned

toward them and noticed that they didn't walk after me they just sat there. But they were

moving, like they were riding my shadow. So, I turned and picked the one off of my

shadows left shoulder, the weight that was on my left shoulder was gone. Hmmm .. . with

the animal in hand I just stood there and made a face like a person who was trying to

understand a poorly made joke. With nothing else to do I threw the little guy. He

whooped like a theme park maniac. Then I turned my gaze toward the others. They stood

there in complete ignorant bliss. So, I picked up another and did like wise to it as I had

the first. They all seemed to enjoy it and so did 1. What's funny is that they kept on

coming back for more. So I consented and played catch with an invisible dog, or so it

seemed.

With a sigh I grew bored and decide to sit to appease my exhausted body. The

shadots squealed like a tickled child and I noticed that they huddle closer together to

avoid contact with the sun. Ohhh ... they don't like the sun. I made my shadow smaller,

and I saw a few shadots run a few feet then burrow in the ground. Three ran away and

one became a tree. The tree grew at an alarming rate, until it reached a mature size. The

other one formed a spring that likewise grew to a reasonable size and formed a brook.

The third made something but I had no idea what it was, and I wasn't intrigued by it

enough to abandon the other shadots. I discovered the only way to get rid of all of them

was to lie flat on your back. I kept one because I kind of liked the guy. The rest ran off

and buried themselves, and all became trees. Each tree contained a smaller shadot in a

birds nest. I realized what I had done. I had created a shadot community. The shadots

could live under the shade of the trees, and lucky me I had kept one to take care of the

younger shadots. But the younger ones didn't seem to need the taking care off. Still the

originals are always the best. I named the oldest, tim with a lower case '1' because it fits

him better than an uppercase one.

"Luck Like Lint on Linen"

Once there was a man who had trouble with life. He wasn't dumb or incapable of

doing his daily tasks it's just that he had terribly bad luck. This seemed to be terribly

funny to others, but for him it was next to being shoved off a cliff and still live to tell the

tale. He got pushed off of this particular cliff every day, or at least once a week

depending on what kind of month he was having.

It was March the 4th when he ran into his well known friend - bad luck. He, as his

daily Saturday tasks require, had to take his dog for a walk. As he began searching for his

dogs leash he realized he had lost the leash when he used it to chain up his bike before

work. This was a start to the tally of un-lucky events that were about to unfold. So, he

had to buy a new one, and buy a new one he did (with money that he mistakenly left at

home). After the round trip he found his dog wading in the toilet water. Covered in

things-that-go-in-the-toilet-stay-in-the-toilet, he picked up the dog and strategically

placed him in a strategic spot, the bath tub. After a bath, for the dog, he almost gave up

on the whole "walking the dog" process. He decided that some fresh air might do him

some favor. Some favor, decided the fresh air would give him a dry mouth, runny nose,

and intolerance to pollen. He was already outside, and outside he would stay until he had

accomplished what he had set out to do. He was not a quitter. Thank goodness. Allergy

stricken, and frustrated, his dog went "number two" and he realized that he forgot to

bring a bag. What's more the dog had to relieve itself in front of Officer Williams. We all

know the crime of trying to escape the mushy mess, but in front of an officer this was

next to being in the Guinness book ifMr. Un-lucky could pull it off. Well, with no bag

and no talent in sneaky-ness our man picked the poo and discarded it as casually as a

Untitled

I was in middle school. Middle school is like a dishwasher, your cleansed of your

childhood by scalding water that burns your skin and the soap of teenage-hood gets in

your eyes. I'm not going to lie, I hated middle school, I began to experience what is

referred to as the real world that included; punishment, spite, hard work and

consequences. It was all too fast, and I was all too slow. In choir I would whisper rather

than sing to cover up my squeaky vocal chords. At lunch I would sit alone. I ate alone

because I was afraid of everything.

I was sitting alone eating lunch, a PB and J and a few other vittles. I was sad. I

was thinking. I was asking myself "Why, are you, Zachery Power, so sad all the time?

How come you aren't like the others? Why are you alone?" I didn't answer any of those

questions in specific, but I did decide on one thing, and I did do something about the

problem at hand. I figured that the difference was inside me, it wasn't their fault I was

like this. I figure that I wasn't who I was meant to be. I realized that I was trying to be

someone else and not my self. I said to myself "Zach who really cares if you have

freckles, who really cares that you have too much energy for your own good, who really

cares that you eat lunch alone?" So, I decided that the best thing to do was to hone the

traits I hated about my self, and instead of trying to get rid of them use them to my

advantage. That was in the middle of my eighth grade year. As the year went along, I

grew more confident. I began my quest to find my true self. I am still in the process of

finding me true self, but I am a much happier person now. Still in the process, but much

happier. Not yet, but better. Almost there. Good.

I've always wondered what kind of chain reactions I cause. This is a story of that

thought.

I was in my choir class. Basic day wasn't going good or bad it was just a simple

easy day. I was talking to my friend Jesse.

"Hey wouldn't it be funny if people had two noses?"

He just stared at me like I had said something stupid, and in fact I had but I didn't

think it was that dumb. He kept staring and with each second he stared at me I replied

with a tap. I stared at my knee cap. Then after his jaw got tired, or something, he shoved

me. I was a solid push. I fell onto the person next to me who was trying to sing as loud as

he could. His voice jerked with the rest of his body as I fell off of him and slid to the

floor. The girl in front of me giggle because of the ridiculous sound that my companion

had made. I had not only hurt the guy next to me physically but emotionally as well. He

was hurt by the giggling girl. The chain that I had started had shifted to the boy next to

me. He stood up and got the pass to the bathroom and decided to sulk in the bathroom.

In the bathroom he went the bathroom and took a particular long time washing his

hands. Then he stood staring at the mirror and contemplated what had made him such a

reactive person. Not alone in the bathroom, the boy in the second stall from the entrance

sat and asked himself the same question. Both thought they were alone in the bathroom.

Then the one in the stall decided to take his anger out on a white-paper wrapped

substance. He lights it up and relieved himself with a breath of un-fresh air. Not only had

the boy at the mirror heard the lighter but he saw and smelt the pollution in the air. The

boy at the mirror shifted. With the shift came knowledge to the both of them that they

weren't as alone as they thought.

Okay. Pan back to me in the choir room for a quick second. I got called to the

office.

"Mr. Hesston, oh don't worry you're not in trouble, we just wanted to know if you

have taken your graduation-required tests. "

"Uhh, yeah I took those before I moved here."

"Okay that's all we wanted to know. You can go back to class."

Hmm that was easy. I walked past the principal's office and peeked a look. I haven't yet

met the principal, fact was, I didn't even know what she, or he looked like. It was a man.

He wore glasses and he seemed to be disturbed by my inquisitive looking.

"Can I help you?"

"No, I was ... I mean sorry wrong room." I took off trying to avoid an already awkward

situation.

Darn kids thought the principal, always interrupting my concentration. Well might

as well take a break now that it's broken. The principal got up to go to the bathroom.

Now we pan back to the kids in the bathroom. Both were in a checkmated

situation. Neither ofthem wanted to move. Maybe if 1 hold still then he'll go away. This

was the thought of the one in the stall. It 's only my imagination, thought the one at the

mirror. No, stupid there's smoke at the ceiling. Either way they both had the if-I-stayunder-

my-blankets-the-monster-will-go-away theory going through their heads.

Unfortunately the Principal didn't have the same feelings .

What a stressful day. Two kids bustedfor drugs and one denying the whole thing

throughout. The principal was on his way home from a long day at school. What 's worse

I have to present the school board with our school 's DRSL 's tomorrow. The principal had

a noggin full of nog - nothing good. In his fury of thought the principal wasn't paying

attention to his driving while making a left turn.

This is the best day of my life. I've finally got my license and a car and a job and

its spring and ... this said by a lucky happy individual on his way to work. Needless to

say many loud words went through his head as an old man in glasses was pulling out into

the intersection. They collided and both took in breath, the boy a breath of unbelief, the

kind that feels like no breath at all. The principal took a breath like steam with new

freedom, it was a frustrated intake of breath also similar to the noise you make when you

scab a knee on the side walk - quick and brisk.

"You what?" squealed the mother of the boy that undeservingly was getting

yelled at. The mother was at work working on a governmental computer program. The

mother got up and walked out the room so she could shame her son without the shame of

yelling in an office. The mother had made a big mistake. Ghet a foreigner was also

working. Except Ghet had the motive to steal the project that was under construction, and

he was in luck. Basically he'd been under cover and out of patience for the last three

months. Now was his chance. He took out his thumb drive and inserted it into the

computer port.

"That child of mine ... I swear he leaves me with more frustration than a ... Hey

what are you doing?"

"Oh. Me? I was, uhh, looking for my pen. It flew in here when I was uhh ... sword

fi ghting with Joe. Ah, here it is."

"You know you're not supposed to be in here right?"

"Sorry I'll be more careful next time." He slipped out just as smooth as his last

remark had. The joy for Ghet was beyond himself. Now he could return to his country,

receive his reward and live life to the fullest.

... And all thanks to my stupid joke.

There is an underlying, indwelling creative force infusing all of life - including

ourselves.

The spout of a bathroom sink is much smaller than the bathtub faucet. In an

analogical sense water is the creative force and we, or rather our minds, are the faucets. A

big faucet means lots of water. A small faucet means less water. The amount of water, or

creativity, that can be extracted form various minds come at various rates. But not all the

water is the same. Some water is, for example, dirty water, in my opinion people like

Hitler, as a political leader, or Stephen King, as a writer, have dirty water. Other people

have dry or hard tap water. Some people's water is musical, funny, random, or downright

plain. Water is necessary for life and so is creativity. Without water we would die in a

matter of days, same with our creative senses.

I once had a friend who said to me as I was painting a cup "Gee ... I wish I was as

creative as you".

My first thought and word was "Thanks." But, come to think of it, my friend is

just as creative as I am, just in a different way. With some study I formed the opinion that

my friend was quick on his feet when talking with people. He could turn anything into a

joke and was a very kind person. He was kindly creative - he takes creativity to a level

most wouldn't think about. Words are creative. They are created in our minds and formed

with our mouths. You can't talk to a person, who eats lunch alone, without forming

words, and therefore using your creative senses, it won't work, unless you are an actor

reading a script, but who likes the media anyway? Everyone is creative in a different

way; it's what makes us unique.

Without this creativity how would life be lived? I guess people would have the

same cold cereal every day of your life, and never move to a foreign state, but live in a

cubicle seven hours and fifty-four minutes a day with the missing six minutes in the

bathroom. No fun at all. Those that embrace their creative selves are the ones that we

look up to, the heroes, the stars, the athletes. What's more, we love ourselves more and

feel happy and content with our lives. That is what infuses us with power and emotion.

Without this creativity how would life be lived? I guess people would have the

same cold cereal every day of your life, and never move to a foreign state, but live in a

cubicle seven hours and fifty-four minutes a day with the missing six minutes in the

bathroom. No fun at all. Those that embrace their creative selves are the ones that we

look up to, the heroes, the stars, the athletes. What's more, we love ourselves more and

feel happy and content with our lives. That is what infuses us with power and emotion.

Disgusted 1 got off of the swings. The swings always reminded me of how 1 never

got the chance to fly. The swings belonged to West Dergrim Elementary, and 1 was there

to expose myoId P .E. monster. 1 call it a monster because no one would ever call It an

educator or anything associated with that term. 1 can't describe the demon, 1 think 1

would start to gag and convulse if 1 did.

1 did not come unprepared, no; 1 had brought with me three weapons to use

against the creature.

Good. 1 caught the beast unaware. He was in the process of calling the poor

kindergarteners names, names that were taboo to them and to society in general. It had

treated every kid that ever passed through its class like ... like he should be treated -like

filth. Why did the children not protest? The vermin had its ways; let's just say it had each

kid sign a paper with their address and name. Each day the corpse would rasp to them "I

know where you live you piles of. .. " fear gripped the children's hearts as It said this and

heat filled my head.

1 was grow now, but not healed, 1 had to do something first. 1 walked over to the

dirt of a thing and tapped it on the shoulder. It turned and 1 swung. 1 must have broken Its

jaw because 1 heard a crack and blood surfaced on the Things face. "Children," 1

exclaimed "this thing is no more than the dust you step on." With my fist as my first

weapon and humiliation as my second 1 fingered the third one in my pocket. "I will free

you of this disease if you will only cooperate. 1 need each and everyone of you to leave

the gymnasium and have recess until I come get you. Understood?" the children nodded.

They may have feared me more than It. It. I looked at It and It looked at me. At this

moment he started to growl a few words. 1 ignored them. I looked around and found the

children gone, I did not want them to have to witness the end of It. A string of curses

from It was followed by silence as I pulled out my third weapon and pointed the barrel at

his sinister forehead ...

Five years of recovery

Before any writing is done I would like to clarify the fact that I have no validity in

what I write. I have not felt the pain I will talk about. I have not fully understood the

implications of such an event, though none of us fully understand, I am of the least

understanding. I have no validity but that does not discredit my opinion. I have a strong

opinion and a voice that has much to say.

Things happen. Tragic things, events that change and shift our paradigm of life,

happen. Then the tears come. The tears always come after the tragedy. Nobody goes

around telling people not to cry, because that is exactly what needs to happen. The tears

shed layers of pain, but the fresh skin left behind stings in the dull air. But tears after a

time lose their flow, they cannot always be shed. With a loss from the tragedy and a loss

of tears we gain experience in its place. And experience brings a wisdom that can be

gained no other way. Without the wind the tree would surely fail. Without trials man

would truly suffer more than the combination of all their own and shared troubles. But

what do we do with this wisdom? Do we sell it, no, it came at too great of a price. Do we

file it away and hope that we forget it? No with this specially gained wisdom we realize

that there is a word called prevention. We realize that the pain was too much, and if there

is any possible way to prevent it from happening again, that measure would be taken, if it

is of any less degree than the pain received from that tragedy being repeated. No one

likes pain, no one enjoys pain and the only way to get rid of it is to prevent it. So we

think of ways to prevent pain, but what was it that caused the pain? So we find a source

and pull up the problem by its ugly nasty roots. The problem is usually never

immediately taken care of, it slowly dies.

The tragedy was a terrorist attack on the World Trade Centers of America. The

pain was that of those we loved and deeply cared for. The tears were our mourning and

sorrows, as well as the commemorations and service we did in behalf of our loved ones

that were so brutally treated. The wisdom is that we as America have hatred aimed at us,

our eyes are opened wider and our hearts are thrust into patriotism. The prevention is the

measure of which we take to prevent terrorism. I believe we are pursuing this prevention

to the right measure and degree. Though I do not agree with some things that seem

inappropriate to mention, for the most part I believe that we can do no more, and we

should do no less.

French Fry Party

I danced in place because the anxiety was more than my six year old body could

handle. The "Welcome Home" poster in my hands wiggled with an equal amount of

excitement.

"Is she here yet?" I asked in my innocent Mickey Mouse voice.

"No, I don't see her, she' ll be here in a while, stop moving." My mother said

gently.

Oh she must be close. Our family is going to have so much fun together. Dad's

French fry parties are the best.

I saw the huge vehicle approach with its large wings and noisy engines. The

boring people started to move and pretend to be as anxious as I was. But their sisters had

nothing on mine, my sister was awesome.

The loudness shifted from outside next to the plane to the inside excitement. It got

a little crowded, and then . ..

Nope, mustache, no too old, uhh ... nope still not her. Where is she, she must be

close. Oh it's .. . shoot not her, I hope she didn't get stuck in the bathroom, or, oh no,

what if she opened the window, and got sucked out the window. I'm kinda hungry I do

hope she would hurry up ... there she is!

"Ashley ... Ashley, over here!" I yelled. Dad was tallest so he waved her over to

where my other sister and I were holding the poster. Mom tried to hug her, but was

unsuccessful because Elliot in her arms.

"How was the flight?" Dad asked.

Oh, come on Dad, ask her if lightning struck the plane while she was riding it.

"It was good, but the peanuts were dry." Ashley said. She's always funny,

whenever she visits our stomachs are filled with laughs and fries.

"Are you excited for The French Fry Party?" I asked. That's what I was looking

forward to."

"Yeah, but let's get the bags in the car first, remember I'm here for two weeks."

* * *

"Yes, I'll take seven super size fries please."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"That will be twenty-one fifty-seven at the next window."

"Thanks" Dad said

* * *

"Flinstones, Meet The Flinstones, Have a Yabba Dabba Doo Time .. . " I've never

heard Dad sing so loud. We got the fries, we got the ketchup, and we were on our way

home for our family French Fry Party. Dad was driving of course, but I've never seen

him yell a cartoon song outside the window.

* * *

Mom got the big mixing bowls, and Dad got the plates for ketchup. We kids were

sneaking a few fries while my little brother bounced in his jumper. The Fries were

dumped and the ketchup squirted, and it began.

Joe got home from work with nothing better to do he took a well deserved nap on

his living room couch.

Joe flutters his eyelids as he awakes in a field of grass. He is wet shivering and

has a headache that seems less likely to go away than the pain in his back. Confused and

dazed Joe stands and .. . well, just stands. He has no idea what just happened to him. Then

a maid about the same age as Joe comes striding out onto the field jammering a hundred

words a minute. "Harold this is the last straw! I don't know what the heck is goin' on

with you always wanderin' off in the middle of the night, but it's gonna' end now. Fer

gosh derns sake." Joe did not know who the heck this person was and he had about less

of an idea what she was talking about as she knew about his midnight walks.

"uhhh ... my name's Joe .. . and uhhh ... where am I?"

"Now you done gone crazy. You need a good whippin' but I aint in the fix to do it

since you' re my husband and all. Now come on home and git some breakest."

"Sorry I've never met you in my life. I live in Redding Wisconsin and I have a cat

named Chet. And ... and I was born in 1974 "

"Wisconsin? 1974? Okay, now you're talkin' jibberish. Harold we's in Georgia,

and 1863's the year, now come on home. Don't make me git your son. "she threatened

1863? Georgia? That means that I'm in the Civil War era. Joe thought to himself.

"uhhh ... where's your bathroom? I've gotta' go really bad." Joe inquired

"Huh?"

I am darkness

I hate light

I am heartless

I can't fight

In a bottle

I won't go

In a bottle

I won't go

I am ...

I was imprisoned from day one. I was born when he was born. He was born when

I was born, yet he has complete control and I have none. We are always attached to each

other, except at night. At night I barely even exist, I may appear at times but other than

that I am nothing. All day he walks all over me like a rug. I've come to appreciate rugs

and their dull duty. We share sympathies. I tried to get away. I tried to say a word or two

but I am speechless, mute, and almost nonexistent. But each day I do what he does. I hate

him, yet I mime him like a teen idol. I wear what he wants to wear, I don't get a choice. I

do what he wants to do. When he reads a book I have to lie by him, and I find relief only

in sighing. I sigh because I wish to be free. I wish to run the fields and jump, but alas the

legs that I have are not my own ... they are his. His bloodshot eyes make me sick. He

stays up and reads at night keeping me tired and fatigued. Sometimes he treats others like

trash, and I have to painfully conform to his spiteful ways. I live a lie. A lie, that is so

heart-wrenching that it drives me to ... to .. . sin. To sin. I sin because I hate his ways he is

the sinner and I have to endure the same punishment. Each day grows worse and then you

reach the bottom. Where do you go now? You can't go down. So you go up. But the

upward motions only stay present until you get tired of climbing up. He and I are stuck in

this perpetual round of emotions. And in this pit of despair I am lower than he. He is low,

but I am lower. He loses respect for himself and thus treats others like crap. Crap that is

stuck on his shoe. What do we do with that crap? We try to scrape it off. After we treat

the people like crap we scrape them off, or brush them aside like we did nothing wrong.

Now he lives the same lie as me. We are both liars, sinners, and we are both unclean.

Lower than low and filthier than filth. Filth is such a filthy word it makes me unclean just

to say it, but I must because it is how I truly feel when he drives me to that horrid sin.

What is the sin? It would only make you squirm, just like he does and consequently my

self as well. Whatever he does I do. I mouth is dry, my tongue is sore from this awful yet

necessary narrative. Can you bottle up darkness? Can you bottle up sin and throw it out

the window? No.

I am darkness

I hate light

I am heartless

I can't fight

In a bottle

I won't go

In a bottle

I won't go

lam

your shadow

My eyes are blood shot and

I am frustrated beyond myself.

I find that yesterday was only a little

more than today.

A feeling lingers in between

my lips and my heart right

where the adams apple is.

It's a scream, a cry of fatality

that waits to happen. Not only

is my nose crusted on the inside,

but my body lacks

life and strength, it's devoid of its usualness.

Bleak is the next and dark is the in, but

change seems friendly, any kind of difference would be

happily greeted, as long as this

feeling leaves.

Pain.

It flows with my blood.

No amount of sustenance could ...

No

No, no, no, no, and ...

And wait.

I'm still breathing the

weight, it's not heavy enough

to completely deflate

me.

With each breath I find

that my shoulders, they can defy

gravity. I can beat that which gives me weight

Fate oh,

You will come won't you?

I can't wait for fate.

Squirt

It's naturally round. Its name is the same as its one of its brightest characteristics.

Yet it is slightly vexatious. If placed on the end of a hand it would make a perfect fist, as

well as a not-so-perfect mitten. It's healthy yet painful. If you inspected it closely one

might notice that it is made out of bags that are full of flavor. It has a brother and a sister

who are not as sweet, or enticing. The brother would rather bite your tongue in half, and

the sister can be enjoyable if sweetened up a bit. Its outer skin is tough, and when one

tries to penetrate such flesh he will always find a spray of stinging mist in the eyes.

Though the scent is rather refreshing, the sting proves a regular problem for some. The

problem is a temporary loss of sight. The object is an orange. The solution? Who knows?

(The above section was necessary but lacking in length. The next section will redeem the

above section for those of you that found it lacking in more than length)

"Sam, you wanna grab a bite to eat after 4th period?"

"I can't, I got ... "

"I'll buy. I just need to tell someone about the new book I'm writing. If I don't get

the ideas out of my head I might lose it."

"Well, why didn't you say so, I can go, Ijust have to run by my place and grab

my laundry. The Laundromat is right next to the food court right?"

"Yeah, I'll meet you at Merlin's Hut."

"Kay, see ya."

Sam and I are best friends, not the kind of best friend that includes five other best

friends, when I say best, he's the best. Me? I'm just a kid with an idea, who likes to write.

It all started when I was about thirteen. Middle school included and was not limited to:

eating lunch alone, staring at ones feet, and lots of thinking time. When I went through

those tender years I developed my mind. During class I would sometimes try to imagine

what the classroom would look like from the teacher's perspective. I would try and see

what the teacher is seeing; sometimes I would try and look at myself. Well, this

development of insight and my time alone made a funny combination. But I can't tell you

the story, no, that would put the end at the beginning. Let us begin at. .. the beginning.

"Yeah, uhh ... is the Fresca Pasta any good? Tell you what it's either that or the

Ravioli, you decide for me, and surprise me."

"And uh, would you like a drink with that?"

"Naw, water's just fine thanks."

"I'll be right back, if you need any help my name is Fiona"

Fiona? That's a pretty name. Wonder where Sam is? He's probably stopped by his

girl friend's house. Heck I would too, if! had one. Whoa, that's weird, I've never seen

such a long beard. I wonder how old that guy is anyway. Huh ... he' s a waiter here, hmm

seems appropriate, this is Merlin's Shack. I bet he got hired on the spot. Maybe he's the

manager and he started this ...

"Sorry I'm late. Karen was in need of some assistance if you know what I mean.

She's so nice, when I got there she . .. "

I listened to him talk as I pulled out the beginning of my story, from my bag. He

said something about a kiss and I blushed and quickly looked through my papers

pretending not to be jealous. I want to interrupt but he probably needs to talk more that I

do, or not. I've been waiting to share ...

"Here's your water, and what can I get for you?" the waiter asked Sam.

Sorry, as I was saying . .. I've been waiting to share this for the past week and a

half. I've put all my free time into it and it's one of those feats you want to share with

someone. It's kinda like your first piece of art that you bring home to your mother. You

hand it to your mother and wait for the compliments to come. And usually they do. But I

didn't have that much faith in Sam, I know he wouldn't drool of boredom, but neither

would he applaud in the restaurant. He would give me a thorough peer critique, and that's

exactly why I respect Sam.

" .. . so, what do ya think, should I get the periwinkle or the maroon? I like the

maroon myself but it has this funny texture to it, I . .. "

"Hey, the periwinkle sounds great, can I tell you about my story?"

"Sure, sure but do you really like the periwinkle?"

"Yes Sam. Now remember I'm buying you lunch."

"Oh, right, right, talk away I am your listener for the duration."

"Kay, the story is about this guy who discovers he has talents that are .. . "

"Here is your Ravioli, and for you the Round Table Pizza" the waiter interrupted.

The waiter always interrupts, but I don't blame them their job is to deliver the food. Wait!

It's that guy with the beard. What happened to Fiona?

"What happened to Fiona?" Sam asked

"She went home, as normal people regularly do, can I be of any more assistance

to you?"

"No we're fine thank you." I responded. I wanted to get back to the story.

" ... . ... " The man did not respond. Instead he just stood there. Maybe he didn't

hear, sometimes people just don't hear.

"Urn, no we're good." I tried again.

" .... " Nothing. What did he want? Well, my eagerness got the best of me, so I

started again to tell Sam about the story.

I began slowly because the awkward situation "so ... urn where was I?"

"You we're telling me about a boy that was uhh ... "

"Oh yeah, this boy discovers that he has talents that are unheard of. Remember

this is a basic plot outline, so it's not too in depth or anything but ... "

At this point the waiter has a quick intake of breath, squints at me, and then

slowly lets out the air. He turns his head and looks at the floor behind me and walks

away. The intake of breath startled me so I stopped. Still stunned as I watched him walk

away, Sam had to snap to bring me back.

"Sorry, as I was saying ... uh oh yeah, the story is ... uh, did you find that guy

awkward in any way?"

"Yeah, he was ... yeah he was."

"Hmm ... well, the story starts off with a huge flash or something. The kid realizes

he has powers of light. I don't know how I'll introduce the shadow character, but it's a

basic, no, exciting story about good versus evil, light versus darkness. Remember how I

said that you can't put darkness in a bottle and throw it out the window? Well, this story

has the same principle, the only way to get rid of the dark is to replace it with light. But

the climax is the best what happens is the shadow-man, I guess you could ... "

"Here is your Fresca Pasta, and for you the Round Table Pizza." Fiona was back.

"But we .. . " I protested. We had already received out food.

"But we were wondering if you could bring us some more water." Sam said as he

shook the ice in his empty glass. "That'd be great, thanks."

"And for you sir, would you like more water?"

"No I'll be fine." I glared at Sam, I didn't like his dishonesty, but his bravery was

admirable. I decided to give up on trying telling my story, so Sam took to talking again.

"Gosh, two free meals, and that weird bearded guy, I'm glad I came. You should

take me out to lunch more often. So, what about your story?"

"Oh, I was done a while ago, are you going to eat that?"

"No, I've gotta drop off my laundry though, and head to the library before it

closes, wanna come?"

"No I've got to, uh clean my room. I'll see you later."

"Kay, thanks for lunch, see ya."

I put a tip on the table and went to the front to pay. The cashier charged me for all

four meals, I shouldn't have compromised my standards.

Fear

Many of us have fears. No, all of us have fears. Mankind has been known, or

stereotyped, to fear the unknown. We fear the unknown; the future, change, other people,

other cultures, etc.

Change is the only constant. Kind of funny that the only thing that never stays the

same is the one thing that you can depend on happening all the time. Change is an

unknown. Unknown is fear. Life is change. Life is fear. Those of us that live life are

brave. Everyday is an unavoidable risk waiting to happen. Fail a class. Break an arm.

Say angry and regretful words. These are just a few examples. The best part of it is that

we have a choice. Choices are chosen. Even not making a choice is a choice in its self.

No matter what you do, a choice, and then later a consequence, is inevitable. Right now

you are choosing to read and I'm choosing to stay up late and write this. Your

consequence - maybe you' ll learn something. My consequence - well, we'll see.

With great power comes great responsibility. Choice is a great power. How do

you use that power? It all depends on your creativity. You are basic and with choices you

become more complex. What kind of complexity do you want to be? You can be a

humorously complex or mysteriously complex. Each person has their own type, style, of

creativity. As we open ourselves to our creative channel many gentle yet powerful

changes are to be expected.

Be your true self and not the copy of the nerd in front of you. It 's better to be

hated for who you are, than be loved for who you' re not. You can't open a channel of

creativity that isn't there. You might as well raise a Unicorn because it's not going to

happen. We each have hidden talents and abilities that ...

Zachery Power

Bulging Pockets

He's interesting, so un-photogenic that all pictures of him are pieces of art.

His shoes are always of the tennis sort, for his active ways and constant

movement, except when he consumes his whole afternoon trying to defeat a universe of

hostile robots, like most children his age. You can't see his socks but they matter dearly

to him, he must have them up to his toe 's standards, of course.

He seems to prefer shorts. But any pair of trousers that have more than the usual

amount of pockets appease the pack rat inside him. His mother once received a call from

his kindergarten teacher, who kindly asked if she could empty her sons pockets before

coming to school, things were getting out of hand. Needless to say his legs look awkward

from his bulging pockets. An inch above the pockets is a belt, never forget the belt, it

holds the pants up, and more importantly the pockets.

What' s a collared shirt? Never does he want to wear a collared shirt, T-shirts feel

better anyway. His hands are young and always doing something with his watch clinging

to his wrist.

His teeth, well, let's just say there about as straight as a line of kindergarteners on

their way recess, his teeth don't really stand in line in his mouth. But he loves to smile,

happy is he when the occasion comes to be free of chores and other child suppressing

things.

Under his glasses is a speckled nose. The first thing his mother said at his birth

was "Naurice" which, I think, means nose in Spanish, but his mother doesn't know a lick

of Spanish, so his nose must have been BIG. But, he's grown into it, and his mother

forgot how to speak Spanish.

His eyes are interested in everything. He could stare at a person for some time and

not even think it was weird. He has no sense of space and constantly gets a little to close

for comfort. And to top off the whole person you have a thicket of sticky, spiky hair that

flares of red color.

Unique, the kind of person that one would watch out of interest, and then simply

find out that they are actually the one being watched, that's Calvin Power for yeh.

Dear Ryan Cope,

You are one of my greatest Creative champions. I came here to Orem and found you

slightly intriguing as you stood in the snow without shoes on. I found that you have

taught me to love, by showing me your love. Sorry I was such a difficult character, you

said "I Love you" to me, and I said "I'll think about it."

You once called me stupid because I said such an insightful comment, but you didn't

mean stupid you just said it because it's what slipped out, not what you meant. We once

invented a game together called ped, it was the most fun game I have ever played in my

life. It's just the right mix of danger, and dancing, and running, and rolling, and fighting,

and laughing that I needed. You pulled me out of holes of depression; you were someone

I could talk to when I needed an ear. You' re amazing, and lowe so much to you, lowe

you a friendship in return, but that is not why I love you, that's not why I am your friend,

I don't feel obligated to be your friend, I don't feel like I "owe" you something.

Basically, I love you and you're fun to be around, I want our friendship to last forever,

and maybe even longer than that. Much ado to you for letting me know the secret of

shoeless summers.

May the summer ever rest in your heart,

Zach Power.

Imagine a man with potential,

For when he dreams he builds mansions in the skies, because dreams have no limits, no

rules, or laws. When he dreams or imagines he does anything, everything, to bring to pass

what he longs for. Whether it is a great fortune, a true love, or even a favorite sandwich,

he will pursue it.

And the future is never dim because it is up to him.

For when he lives he toils in his chair, because reality has limits, rules, and laws. When

he lives in reality he does some things, a few things, to bring to pass what he longs for.

Whether it is a great fortune, a true love, or even a favorite sandwich, he might pursue it.

And the future is sometimes dim because it is up to him.

For when he daydreams he toils in his chair in the evening, and builds mansions the next

morning, until his toiling evening comes to him again, because daydreams have limits,

rules, and laws that keep him safe, not small. When he daydreams he does things, lots of

things, to bring to pass what he longs for. Whether it is a great fortune, a true love, or

even a favorite sandwich, he can pursue it.

And the future is ever bright because it is all up to his might.

~---------------------------------------------------- --

(This is the pre-writing)

(It. .. well, I don't know how to put a feeling like this appropriately. You could say just

how it feels but then again it wouldn't feel the same to you as it did to me. You might be

able to taste it, just as a hint of lemon in a sip of restaurant water, but the true feeling the

taste of that lemon is quite more than that hint of lemon. You see, you wouldn't

understand, it's quite hopeless to explain, and it would be even more to the negative to

make you go through the same feeling.

The best thing about a dream is that you can build the castle before the foundation, but in

reality, when it comes to pass, not building a foundation is also the worst part of dreams.

(The two fragmented ideas above combine and create what I experienced over

thanksgi ving)

Procrastination stinks.)

Family Conversations

I've probably been sitting in the same place for hours, with an occasional shift, a

scratch here and a yawning stretch there. The whole family was there, mom, dad, my

wife, as well as all the brothers and sisters. Of course the kids were in the family

room playing monopoly, while the adults talked in the kitchen. By the sounds of the

next room it seemed as if they had started to watch a movie and settle in a mesh of

blankets and pillows.

I sighed with content at the innocence in the next room, and the livelihood of

those around me. All the wonderful people that I love most around me, and all I had

to do was sit and smile as I listened. I'd throw in my two cents on occasion to donate

to the conversation, but for the most part I kept my ears bigger than my mouth,

besides I liked it better that way.

I had just finished a book about a boy that grew gardens and flowers, even though

his mother was the White Winter Witch. It was a good book and had potential. I was

here to celebrate the release of it. The party was nice, quite after Thanksgiving but not

yet Christmas. The winter season was delightful as I sat and looked out the window at

the falling snow. It was definitely cold outside, but inside it was as cozy as a blanket

just out of the dryer. As I turned from the window I looked at my family around me. I

looked at my wife and we exchanged smiles, and I saw my mother laugh and "hit"

my dad as he made one of his usual remarks. I couldn't help but smile at that as well.

"So what's next on the line?" my father asked in reference to my next book idea.

"I could compile a book of your sarcastic remarks, but then again I might loose

my credibility as a writer." I retorted, my father was never really interested, but I

knew he was proud of my work. He was my worst critic, even worse than myself, but

I needed it so I wasn't complaining.

"No, he's got a great idea, go ahead and tell them the one you were explaining to

me yesterday." I could always count on my wife.

"Well, okay, it takes a while, and I haven't quite figures it out just yet, but it's

about. .. "

The night eventually faded and I lifted my kids into the car for our forty minute

drive home. One of them snuffled as I picked them up and I couldn't help but grin

and sigh from happiness. After I had gotten all of the critters in the car I waved a final

so long to my wonderful parents. I drove with a smile, going the speed limit, and I

hummed as I listened to my wife fill me in on the conversation I had missed, because

I had been wrestling with the kids earlier. Life was great.

Zachery Power

Grit Your Teeth and Breath In, That's What Pain Sounds Like

Imagine, please, for a second an average boy, and an unusual bystander. The boy

moves his body, and the bystander follows the boy with his eyes. Danger in the offing

heightens the bystander's attention. Pause, take the bystanders position, and fill in a

situation bursting with pain of the boy being watched. One might imagine a misplaced

foot followed by a sickening crack, a fist on the mouth, a gunshot in the air, or nothing,

because one may always choose to closes his eyes when danger is near. It all depends on

the past. Paradigms change with experience. Experiences are made of feelings, thoughts

and actions. What a person sees and feels has a lasting impact on his motives and his

creative imagination.

Now, create a friendly dog. I only gave two descriptive words,friendly and dog.

For each person the size, type, and color of the dog is different. My imagination dog

looks very familiar to me. The dog is copper in color and name. Never was his size

commented on, because it was average, just like his owner, who was me, the boy that was

in a dangerous situation.

"What?"

"Come here I need to talk to you."

"Hold on."

"Zach!"

"Coming ... What!"

"I need you to take the dog on a walk, he keeps knocking stuff down with his tail.

He needs to get out of the house" my mother said.

"But .. . " I didn't dare go past but when she looked at me like an employer. "I

mean ... where's the leash?"

"Inside the pantry, now get going."

I got going. Reluctantly though, I was missing out on some serious seven-year-old

stuff for this. I grabbed the dog that was like me in so many ways. His hair color and size

were similar to mine, but his strength was compact like an ants, one could never by just

glancing know how strong he was. I caught him like a fish with the leash, and we were

out the door.

The weather was unnoticeably fresh, and I had no idea where to go, so I started

walking left. Yeah, left seemed like the right way to go. I was wrong. I had no sooner

walked past my lawn when I heard a dog barking. It was not my dog, but then it was my

dog, then it was both not-my-dog and my dog. Then it was not-my-dog, my dog, and

some-other-dog all barking in chaos with still-another-dog. I was really confused, and not

prepared when ajerk had me sliding across the grass. My dog was running toward stillanother-

dog, who was barking along with not-my-dog and some-other-dog in my

neighbor's backyard. I was on the leash accumulating grass stains that no bleach could

ever handle. I made that silly "uhg yug gug guh" sound as I bumped away on my

stomach. I was having fun getting dirty and going faster than a dodge ball, until my dog

had run out of fence to run along. He came to the end of the fence and decided to keep

going, around the corner and still keep going.

This is the part where the bystander leans back and grits his teeth, because he can

see a painful moment approaching. My dog rounded the corner but I didn' t. I ran into the

corner fence. If I would have had an audience bigger than a few distracted dogs and

walnut tree, I would have heard one of those big audience "OOOOWwww ... " sounds.

But I didn't. I didn't hear anything. Who cares about what you hear when your forehead

makes solid contact with a fence post? The thud shook my insides, and then the pain rose

like steam, building up almost to burst. Then the steam came out, except it had

condensated in my eyes, in the form of tears. It was easy to release the dog when the

fence came, but when the pain came I couldn't let it go, it wouldn't go away. I sobbed.

Then I ran. I let my words dribble down my chin along with my tears as I tried to

explain.

My dear mother consoled me, and the pain subsided then left. The spill of pain on

my fabricated mind had been washed by my dear mother's kindness, but I'm still stained

from the permanent experience.

Pain had a new meaning, and a new face. He used to be full of kiss-it-betters and

band-aids, but now he was mean, now he was malicious, now he was real.

Homemade Haircuts Incorporated

Zachery Power

Shivers down the spine, someone is literally pulling my hair and I grit my teeth

hoping the pain will last no longer than a sneeze. They take their sleek metal knives and

cut parts off my body, and I feel it fall slowly to the floor and cringe. All the while my

eyes are closed tightly and I can just imagine what waits outside the safety and comfort of

my eyelids. "Okay, all done ... " a voice says, and I open my eyes to see myself staring at

me. The horror magnifies as I see half my hair missing littering the floor.

And thus it is for all of us.

If getting rid of haircuts altogether was practical it would be suggested but sadly

the truth still lies. So, haircuts of the commercial sort should be done away with.

Homemade haircuts are the way to go, and should be made socially acceptable. People

don't have to make any appointments or spend money, all that is needed is a pair of

scissors and a mirror.

It is highly unfortunate to find a busy hair salon, and it is highly unlikely to find

one that is not. .. busy. On occasion I have to procrastinate getting a haircut, which I

enjoy, but my mother's persistence grows. Finally it comes. I usually look at old

magazines before I sit in a swivel chair, right after I tell the attendant that I'd rather be at

home and I'm here against my will. It starts with my name, just like the first day of

school except I have to get out of my seat and move to the front.

"So what are we going to do today?"

I swear I had thought about this for the last forty minutes or so, but I don't know

what I should say. I know what I want to say "Hey let's say we did and don't", but didthen-

don't equals go-back-and-do when it comes to my mother.

"Can I just get a trim?" I say this every time. Never say this anytime, the hair

person gains apathy and cuts your hair like I cut the lawn, it just needs its weekly trim.

She starts the razor, I start the mower. She adjusts the size, I adjust the height of the

mower. Then we cut, usually in lines, we start on the outside and move inward, line by

line. The she gets the razor, as I prime the weed-whacker for use. And we trim the edges.

After a little sweeping up with a blower, my mother inspects the trim. She puts her

magazine down and walks over to where I am.

And it's over.

After my mom pays the painful price, I have to tip the unlikely hair stylist. In the

car I scratch my neck that supports my head leaning out the window. The wind does a

thorough job grabbing all the wounded hairs and taking them to their graves somewhere

besides my raw hair-pulled scalp. At home I look in the mirror at my nose that looks like

it smelt onions, because my hair is unproportioned and slightly askew. Thank goodness

for cycles, but gosh I hate the bottom part of them.

Pain would be at a loss of how to hurt people if we just cut our own hair, what I

like to call homemade haircuts. You don't have to drive to the hair salon, make an

appointment, read old magazines, pay for a haircut, give the stylist a tip, wait for bad

haircuts to grow out, or itch all the way home. Homemade haircuts are cheap, quick, and,

with a little practice very personally stylish, besides that's what style is, personal. So,

next time you decide to get a haircut think about the prices you can cut rather than your

hair.

I Hurt the Hunter That Shot Me

"Give me a pencil and some paper, quick," I said, and wrote it down.

It happens to me a lot, I can't help it. Imagine a cookie set before you with a timer

of invisibility attached, grab the cookie or lose it. Ideas like these are treats to me, they

expand and I can temporarily enjoy the sugars melting on my intellectual taste buds.

They' re random too. I could be drawing a tree and suddenly the story about a boy

with a phobia of leaves is standing underneath the becoming tree. I quit drawing the tree

and work on the boy instead, his stance, his face, his emotions.

Some are small, comparable to finding a needed piece of gum at the bottom of my

bag, thank goodness. Others are like seeing a person that I've never met before, I look at

them and say to myself "something more meaningful in that person than most". That

person discovers to be the best friend I've had in my life time.

But then I forget, I get distracted, and people shoot at me flying in the sky,

chasing my dreams. It hurts, not the fall, or busting my head on the concrete, no, the

frustration of not being able to fly. Each strain makes me bleed soaking my wings and

making my wound more apparent. Then the hunter looks at me and asks "Well what's the

matter, can I help?" He doesn't ask in sarcasm but in actual sincerity, he wants to help.

But I shudder, because the hunter was the one who gave me the courage to fly. He was

the one who said "look you have beautiful wings, you'd make a great flyer" and he meant

it, and I believed it. We were both right, but then emotions change. I flew in the sky and I

enjoyed every bit of it. The hunter stomped his foot, demanded me to walk with him. But

how could I walk, why would I walk, I didn't.

I am a terrible person, flying and not taking the hunter without wings.

q;'{eogan Jloctumnus

}I Passive Postman

Imagine if you wife a postman) a passive postman. J{e sits in his post

office and {ets fife pass him 6y without a second thought) were may6e more

than one thought 6ut definite[y not more than three in a row) 6esides three

ma~s him fee{ cramped and 6othered. In fact) when more than a coup{e come

in his office he e~cuses himself to the 6athroom to read his 6ig 6athroom

nove{ untie things are more comforta6{e) he has it down to a science.

CR...,ather, the pro6{em with this man is his passiveness. The very thing

that seems to ma~ him happy is liis liindrance. }I postman means a post

office) and a post office means (etters) constant {etters. CBut tlie postman

feeCs and finds p{easure in takjng fife sCow. J{e fi~s to {oo/tat eacli fetter

tliat comes tlirougli. CBut not read tliem) lieavens no tliat wou{d 6e

inappropriate) 6ut ratlier lie {ook§ at tliem and liow distinct tliey are.

Sometimes lie pu{cs out a s~tcli6oo/tand draws liimself into a different scene

tliat {ets liim five among tlie trees and wind.

(]Jut fie a{ways fias tfiis itcfi, tfiis constant itcfi tfiat resides inside fiim

and on fiim, and near fiim. It's tfie growing piCe of {etters. '['fiey constantfy

grow and fie just passivefy does fiis own activities. J{e is not irresponsi6{e, if

tfiat was tfie case fie wou{d 6e out on tfie street, not as a postman 6ut ratfier

a man witfiout a j06. '['fie citizens don't fikg irresponsi6ifity. J{e sorts a fetter

fiere and tfiere and in tfie morning wfien fie feers most fikg doing actua{ wor~

JInd tfie peop{e of fiis region don 't e~ect a fast mai~ no one fias urgent mai~

and if tfiey did tfiey wou{d just defiver tfie {etters tfiemse{ves. '['fie town is

sma{[ '['fie man is oft£, so tfie peop{e fiave never /tnown, or ever tfiougfit tfiat

a post office sfiou{d or cou{d 6e fast. :No tfie passiveness seemed to fiave

spread fikg rove on va {en tines witfi tfie maiL

'['fie postman is fikgd. J{e fias visitors on a regu{ar 6asis. '['fie {ocars

/tnow tfiat fie doesn't fikg more tfian tfiree at a time so tfiey try to avoid it,

6ut avoida6{e tfiings a{ways seem fiarder to avoid wfien tfiey are trying to 6e

avoided. One time Jvirs. Smatfi was ta{kjng to tfie postman witfi fier son at

fier fiip wfien Jertis came in. J{e came in to as/ttfie postman a few questions

a60ut fiis new fiance and drop off a fetter. (]Jut as tfie 6e{{ rang wfien tfie

wind 6{ew tfirougfi tfie open door tfie postman kjndfy eJ(cused fiimself and

- - ---------------

witfidrew to a fess crowded pface. Jertis decided now was not convenient

and dropped tfie fetter off as fie wafl?.§d on fiis way out. ::Mrs. Smatfi was not

pfeased, in fact sfie was fiigfify offended, and feft it fier 06figation to return

tfie favor. ero mal?.§ tfie story sfiort tfie engagement feff sfiort, some say it was

tfie fauft oj::Mrs. Smatfi, 6ut otfiers tfiinf(it was 6ecause Jertis faifed to

receive tfie necessary information from tfie postman. erfiat's wfiy fie was so

fil?.§d, fiis was wise, nice, and fiad an air of easiness around fiim.

Moderation in All Things

Zachery Power

I used to be small in size as well as mental capacity. It's true. I lived like a child

because, frankly, I was a child, what can you expect. I sat as a child, ate as a child,

basically I behaved as a child. And I'm fine with that, all except for one thing, and that is

what I did as a child. I'm not disappointed with my actions as a whole, no, it's just one

thing that hits me in the gut when I think about my past, and that is the effects of my

wasted hours playing video games.

I saw a shirt once that read "If video games really affected us, then you'd see

people running around in the dark eating glowing white pills and avoiding ghosts that

pursue you." I disagree. One, it doesn't effect you directly, just because you shoot-ern-up

on shoot-ern-up games doesn't mean the next child to have a rifle in their hands will

shoot whoever looks bad, no, it's the morals taught. It's the implied messages that affect

the minds of the young. As a child I was what you might say addicted to video games.

Before I discovered such a retreat, I would spend my time running barefoot on the lawn,

fighting my "Captain Hook", I would imagine battles between my ninja turtles and power

rangers, but then I got distracted. I would shirk my responsibilities to play the next level.

I would stuff my homework under my lazy behind and forget to do it after hours of wideeyed

game playing. It made my mother mad, which made my father mad, and me mad,

eventual the dog started to bark and the whole house was bothering the neighbors.

Basically it did not teach me proper lessons in life.

The role of a parent is difficult yet rewarding, if you do it right. But of course

children make that determination unobtainable at times. As mentioned above I made it

quite difficult for my parental advisors. I missed out on some opportune lessons of life as

I stared at a box oflights with a pad of buttons in my hands. My parents didn't get to read

to me. I didn't even get to read myself. Now that I'm a senior in high school I have just

recently discovered the magic of books, it's sad but true. Parents miss out on teaching

their children life skills such as sewing on a button, ironing their trousers, and making

paper snowflakes. The cycle is on a slope, because current children miss out on a few

values and so they can't teach their parents, and what the future children don't learn

won't be taught to the next generation who will miss a few things including the already

missing information.

Wholly, video games are not healthy. Most games are grossly violent, and few

games are moralistically stable. The video game industry when first introduced

encouraged gamers to play together, they hoped like the television that they could bring

people together. Video games were originally meant to encourage interaction and

association. Ironically, though, it has done just the opposite.

Not to downplay all games, in fact gaming is healthy when controlled and in

small doses. Moderation in all things is a motto by which my mother has taught me to

live by. Don't eat cake everyday and you won't get fat, is another way to say it. Basically

limit your game intake, as well as your children's, and the world will come closer to

becoming a better place, by a daily dose of healthy family interaction.

pfeogan Woctumnus

{((j)efine II

Passive

(j)efine? J{ow am I supposea to aefine tliis proG[em if I aon't even, ana can't

even figure out wliat it is? I aon't /tnow wliy I fee[ fik.§ tliis, fik.§ a passive

o Gject. I fee[ fik.§ tlie canaCe on tlie mantee or tlie rug on tlie porcli. I fee[ fik.§

no amount of Guming, or Geing steppea on can cliange tlie way I feeL rYet tlie

constant ffick.§r aGove me, tlie constant grit tlirougliout me lias seemea to

wor/tup a [atlier of frustration insiae. I'm not maa at tlie person wlio figlits

me for use, or uses me to wipe tlie gun/toff tliemse[ves. Wo, Gut tliose tliat

liave no respect, tliose wlio aefiGeratefy aouse ana refiglit me, tliose wlio jump

in a puaa[e ana wipe tlieir rotten feet on my cliest, grinding ana crusliing my

lieart, my fragi[e lieart, tliose are tlie ones tliat mak.§ me fee[ more passive. I

aon't immediatefy fee[ passive. I fee[ tlie rage, tlie anger rising insiae me, Gut

tlie cap of my reaction is fear, fear tliat arives me to lio[a my insiaes in,

aeeper ana aeeper, aeep as aeptli. rrlien . .. tlien tlie passiveness increases, so

mucli tliat it ffips around. suaaenfy I fee[ aifferent, I fee[ opposite, ana it

scares me, gives me more fear, ancf more fear 6rings more anger ancf more

anger just maRgS me more passive.

I feer fiRg I neecf sometliing to cfistract me, sometliing tliat cfoesn't matter at

ar~ yet lias so mucli cfeptli it uncferstancfs liow cfeep I am. I neecf sometliing

on my reveL

Zachery Power

Shattered Confidence

The room was right across the hall from the nurse and around the comer from the

office, a convenient spot for both teacher and student. When going to class I dodged the

eighth graders and walked down a ramp and to my left. Safe inside the room were tables,

not desks, and the feeling of expression. Yet there was one thing, one person that put a

thick fog over these feelings. She was like the bitter snow that covers the beauty of

autumn. She was the teacher, and this was her art room.

She was short, stout and old, nothing wrong with any three of these, but she made

them seem disgusting. She was always right in her world; she had created her own haven

of I'm-the-ruler-and-you-are-wrong, a place that I slowly moved toward disliking. She

had peculiar things about her that made her, or rather the students confused, basically

everyone gets lost. I didn't like it. She would say she was "flustrated" when she got

angry. Both the students in my class and I said that it wasn' t a word, and as I spell it on

the computer one of those little red lines appear which means Not-a-Word. But she was

always right, no "buts" about it.

A day of my past contains a conflict with authority, which dealt me a blow that

blew my confidence for years. It began in the art room. I had her for the last period of the

day, every other day, thank goodness. It was right after lunch and the social animal inside

me never fades in time for class. I thought being crazy and outgoing was the best way to

make friends, besides this is middle school what do you expect? Maturity? What's that? I

thought art was used to express ones self. And that's exactly what I did. I talked to

everyone because I was so loud, and no one because none were listening. But she

listened. And she got "flustrated". As I chattered and did my assignment a chubby hand

slapped into the middle of my progress, and my movements stuttered. Eyes under a

furrowed brow looked into my weak frame.

"Do you take medication?"

"Uhh ... " I stammered. I had no idea where she was going, yet another confusing

situation. "No" I said, what else could I say besides the blatant truth?

"Well, you should!" said the teacher, and then she went on with her business like

nothing happened.

I opened my mouth and stared at the paper. I'm a freak, I can't control myself.

Maybe I should take medication. Then I look at the students across the table from me, I

don't know why, maybe I wanted someone to say "I like you just the way you are." But it

never came. The situation was too awkward to address, the students just pretended to be

completely transfixed with their art project. I was silent. I didn't say a word the rest of

class. My artwork in progress then took on a more sorrowful texture that matched my

feelings, my expression, myself. Then I heard a noise, and everyone started to move. I got

up and left the room when I was done putting everything away. Now apathetic I could

have dropped my carcass on the way to the bus, but instead I just dragged my feet down

the hall. I felt like crying, but I didn't have the confidence. Middle school now seemed

different. I looked up and saw many students going about their ways, and I began to fear.

I was scared. What if everyone does think I should take medication? What if everyone

hates me as much as my teacher? What if! say something stupid, or . .. or. .. oh man, I'm

such a loser.

I eat lunch alone.

Blue Shoes

By Zach Power

Walking on the park thinking I won't be home til' dark

Sitting on the bench and I won't worry and inch

I don't care about my hair or my shoes

Cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

Wheelin' on the grass like a clown out of class

Cause I took off the mask made of glass a little too fast

Now watch it fall from my hands and come un-glued

Cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

Blues shoes in the city

Blue shoes aint they pretty

Blue shoes, cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

I tum from the park as the dark turns out of me

I look at the city gleam and gleam and gleam

But all it makes me want to do is scream and scream

About this itty bitty park city dream

Blues shoes in the city

Blue shoes aint they pretty

Blue shoes, cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

(Scat Bridge)

Blues shoes in the city

Blue shoes aint they pretty

Blue shoes, cause I've got them itty bitty park city blues

The Power of Clothes: Fashion with Zachery

Guys fashion is more important for us than ever before. Girls won't date guys that have

zero fashion. Trust me. I'm almost a professional when it comes to this. Here' s a quick

overview of the key essentials to getting girls to notice you.

Pants: Also known as trousers in England, pants should be worn high this season. The

higher your pants are, the higher your IQ is, and ladies will notice that. Keep the cuff

from reaching your shoes. Then you can show off your socks. Try to stick with slacks;

jeans only work when the weather is above 78 degrees, so make sure and check the

weather on an hourly basis. Keep a pair in your locker in case the day warms up a bit.

Socks: Socks are of dire importance, since this season high water trousers are in.

Colored socks with a variety of patterns show off your assets. The louder the socks the

less you have to speak, and for you shy guys this will lessen the chances of saying

something embarrassing.

Shirts: Shirts should be of the "T" sort, base colors, no design. Peroid!

Bags: Back-packs are for elementary children this season. Man-purses are the way to go.

If you can find a fanny pack to match your bag then you are pretty much assured a date to

every dance. But make sure that it's water proof and has seven or more pockets, to carry

food, drinks, pencils, and erasers. Velcro is always more efficient than zippers, and never

invest in a bag with buttons. I've seen men slapped for having bags with buttons.

Other tips:

o If you ever see clothing made out of wood, buy it. Remember fashion is more

important than comfort.

o Matching your underwear does matter.

o You don't always have to wear shoes.

Our main goal when it comes to guys' fashion is to look like everyone else. The best

thing to do is to go shopping with your guy friends and have everyone buy the same

thing. That way you can call all the guys before school and look fashionable together.

Remember "united we stand, and divided we fall, even when it comes to fashion."

Dear Undisclosed Pain-Causer,

You were like the rose that distracted me during the race, and I thought you were

wonderful, I loved your smells and beauty. And as I admired you, everyone ran past, and

I became a victim of the loser's bracket. I didn't want to leave your smell behind, so I

picked you and ran to catch up. Your thorns drew blood from my finger tips, and as I ran,

I became weak and weaker from the loss of fluids. I pounded my heart to keep up, but I

could not keep up without the blood I was losing, I fell further and further behind. I then

realized your schemes and became angry. I took you in my hand, tighter, squeezing out

the rage, and driving the thorns deeper in my skin. I bled more but at least I was hurting

you, at least we both felt pain. Searing pain flashed through my eyes, and it was then that

I discovered that I could not hurt you, because through those eyes I saw there in front of

me a whole valley of roses to smell. I left the race to kick and destroy every rose that

reflected through my tears. I screamed at the pain, and the worst part was that I was

alone. I was alone, and not one thing heard my cries, not even you. It was then that I sat

and wallowed amongst you, I lived years in your sick and fake beauty, smelling and

smashing you one at a time.

Then I looked above me and saw a solemn man. He stood with a welcoming spirit

around him. I looked at him and cried, I did not want to be seen in such sin and sorrow. I

sobbed as he lifted me off the ground and took me out of the spiteful valley. When he

placed me on the racing trail he sat beside me and we began to cry. He hugged me as we

sobbed, and the healing began. We stood up and walked and it still hurt.

More than a few times I ran to smell you rose, I could not forget your smell, it

was sweet and powerfully seductive. And I pricked my scabbed fingers each time, and

my face contorted. I looked back at the man, and my tear stained face apologized. His

face looked sad with a hint of hope directed at me, almost fatherly. I ran to him, I hugged

him and he returned my embrace with pure love. Eventually I learned you roses can not

fool me. I walked down the path hand in hand with the man who subsided the pain with

his touch, and ignored your enticements. I healed, and my time with the man ended, not

that he wanted to leave me but he had done his part, this was my race. His last exchange

with me was a sight of his hands, which I had not noticed before. More crying and

hugging was the consequence, because his hands were scared like mine.

I'm still running the race, and you can't stop me, you roses of damnation. You

may have stopped my progress once but you won't do it again. I am strong, and my

friend believes in me, he understands.

Signed Triumphantly,

Zachery Power

...

The Seed, the Sting, the Redemption, and the End

Patience,

It hurts you, and all you can do is thank it.

It sits calmly while you pace.

It smiles, but you clench your heart.

It teaches, and you strain.

It knows, and you know it knows.

Oh, then the filth draws nigh

Fear,

He bites, and you scream inside.

He chews and your sanity lingers.

He sucks, and pale you become.

He jests, and you become pathetic.

He lives, and you die.

Oh, then comes an aurora

Hope,

She heals, and you breathe again.

She hums, and you open your eyes.

She whispers, and you move.

She speaks, and you stand.

She shouts, and you do too,

You do too, you shout for

Joy

This May Destroy the Game of Hide-and-Seek

Zachery Power

Staff Writer

The bell for the end of class has the urge to ring in five minutes, and your body has the

urge to get to your car before traffic piles high. The only option is to put on an invisibility

cloak and blitz out of class. The possibility of such an option is moving slowly along in

the labs of British and American scientists. "Well, OK, it's not perfect. Yet. But it's a

start, and it did a pretty good job of hiding a copper cylinder," says MSNBC.com.

The cloak passes microwaves around it "like water flowing passed a rock, the water

recombines after it passes the rock and people would never know it has passed a rock"

says David R. Smith of Duke University. The cloak devises a shield from radar by

redirecting microwaves. Scientists hope to do the same with light, electromagnetic, and

sound waves.

Light waves reflect off objects allowing organisms to see color and depth, if bent and

redirected the device could "cloak" objects. "One could imagine ' cloaking' acoustic

waves, so as to shield a region from vibration or seismic activity" said Smith.

Natalia M. Litchinitser, a researcher at the University of Michigan Department of

Electrical Engineering and Computer Science, said "These ideas represent a first step

toward the development of functional materials for a wide spectrum of civil and military

applications."

Time, The prob-Iem

Your time, my time

and time, or time

high time, low time

know time, no time

out time, in time

win time, lose time

up down, time, time

left time, right time

wrong time, night time

fight time, fought time

this time, thought time

what time, where time

no, no fair time

The time . .. time The Time.

Who needs the time,

to tell The Time

that we with time

can be with Time

and see with time.

We grow with Time,

and know in time

who show The Time

in time ... The Time

We've timed The Time,

and rhymed with time,

but bind The Time?

No ...

We've waste the time,

and haste the time,

but find the time?

No ...

Who needs the time,

To know the time?

On-ly The Time.

Who?

Who taught?

What was taught?

What have I learned?

Why did I listen?

Why did he help me learn?

How did I use that knowledge?

For the Good of all mankind

And because he loves me

It seemed good to me

Very grandeur

Great knowledge

My dad

Dad

Why?

Well, what do you mean by why?

Why, I mean why of course.

So ...

So, why?

Well because, that's why?

But why, tell me why.

How?

How what?

How why?

Yes.

What?

No, why?

Oh, just because.

But why, please.

No.

What?

Exactly.

Oh, I see.

What?

Why.

Fleogan Noctumnus

Keyword: Question

Why at all?

It rings, it rings every morning. It bothers me but I need it to ring other wise I

would never move. I slap the clock and sit up in bed. I rub my face and slouch and think.

Hmmm ... okay go. I stand up and look around the room, nope; nothing too interesting,

might as well get started. I turn the water on and jump right in, it doesn't matter to me

how cold it is I never stay in long. I get out just in the same manner that I got in except

backwards or forwards but not backwards ... oh never mind. I walk past the mirror.

Don't need to do my hair. Breakfast? I'll just get a Poptart at school, I like those besides

it's a quarter past seven if! don't quickly get my clothes on I'll be late, but that doesn't

matter I'm always late. I like being late.

Get in the car and turn my key, I'm the man deet deet de de, I hum to myself. I

turn the steering wheel towards school and press the gas pedal, and I go. Oh, a stop sign,

it's kind of getting stuffy I'll roll down a window. Park the car, yep, next to the tree, I

like the tree. Good I can make it to class if I go straight there, no; I've still got to get my

poptart. Mmrn the cinnamon ones are the best. "Heeey ... Mike". Shoot! I missed the first

part of the quiz. Don't have paper; don't have a pen, that's fine. I'm okay, life is good.

The Shadoe

Yesterday they took Stey away. She woke up one morning and was reminiscing

about how she had a wonderful dream of plants and how she was a wood nymph. It was a

dream, but during that time she was actually growing roots out of her toes. During the

night something changed. At least that's what the rumors say.

I saw her struggle, arms flailing like a two-year-old-tantrum, as the Yepshaw took

her away. Her hair looked more brown than usual, and her feet looked a little gnarled.

She turned the lawn into a patch of clovers before they got her into the van. I got nothing

from the Yep shaw, no info whatsoever. What are the Yep shaw? They're a cleansing

agency, or so they call themselves. People fear what they don' t' understand. People also

fear what they don't know how to use. For example, an upgraded computer is introduced

to society, and people freak out because they don't know how to use it, so they go back to

where it's safe. The government doesn't know what these people are or what to do with

them. They can't do not do something, because therein lies a choice, one that most people

wouldn't agree with, but I am not one of those people.

Who am I to rebel ? You might look at me and see a small insignificant boy, one

that is speckled and skinny. Well, that is what I am and I am perfectly content. At least I

was until I experienced such a scenario that rivals Stey's mishap. My name is Whik and

this is my story.

Sleep is a tricky fellow, full of ambiguity. And on the occasion of my sleep I

stumbled upon something that was both fearful to my self and others. I was in that point

of sleep that lingers between consciousness and the dream world. I suddenly found

myself in a dreamlike state where I was sinking into the darkness of the night. Fearful I

jumped out of bed. But I felt flat. I did not feel too different so I went back to bed and

thought nothing of it.

I woke, smacked my alarm and went for the shower. After a hearty breakfast of

oatmeal and toast, I went to the bathroom and then took a trip to the bus stop. On most

occasions Stey is at the bus stop, but last Saturday I saw the Yepshaw. I stood alone at the

bus stop; usually the bus comes ten minutes after my presence at the stop. Today was no

exception. I watched my shadow stand next to me and became fascinated by it. I saw the

stop sign shadow and made my shadow stand on the tippy top, just out of boredom. I

made a pose like a fountain spouting water. Then I found myself on top of the stop sign.

Startled I lost my balance and fell to the grass behind me, except I didn't fall from the

height of the stop sign I fell from my previous stance on the ground , like I had stumbled.

A little annoyed at my scraped elbow I rubbed it and thought how peculiar such an

instance was. My usual enthusiasm surfaced and I forgot about my pain. My enthusiasm,

as well as my curiosity, always gets the better of me. Last summer I decided to shake up a

bottle of soda, just to see if more bubbles would come. They came alright, right along

with a smack on my rear, because I had decided to do it in the living room. This brings

me to my other trait that just makes my cat-like curiosity worse, I am forgetful. I don't

learn my lessons. I don't remember to take out the trash, or brush my teeth. Heck! I don't

even remember my homework. My homework? Crap! I forgot. I jumped off the sidewalk

and onto the road, because it's easier to run where mailbox and lawn ornaments don't

impede my speed. At that moment a car passed and so did its shadow. I landed on the

road, but more importantly the shadow. I landed on the shadow and took off with it. I was

going thirty miles-per-hour in less than a second. The best way to explain this

phenomenon is to compare the shadow to a magic carpet. I initially lost my balance when

I landed, but there I was, sitting on the shadow like I was right next to Aladdin him self.

"There goes my house." I said to myself. At the stop sign three houses down from

mine I rolled of the shadow and sat in a daze.

"Hmm." I hummed to myself as I stewed over the past ten minutes. I got right

back up and was about to do a little more experimenting but the chug of the bus engine

caught my attention so I ran back to the bus stop. I got on the usual bus, sat in my usual

seat and sat by my unusual self. I was worried. Sometimes I think I worry too much. My

brother thinks it's pessimistic, but I think it's necessary. I realized the danger of ...

whatever this was. Whatever this was, it's what made Stey a delinquent of sorts. My

worry wart was about to explode. Questions waited inline upstairs in my head waiting for

answers I could not answer. But my thoughts were interrupted as my nose began to run.

Spring allergies are the pits. I wonder what's for lunch.