Cougar Star May/June Issue 2016 Website: www.issuu.com/thecougarstar ☆ Instagram: @the_cougar_star

Send us your stuff: thecougarstar@gmail.com

Got An Issue? Comic 3 Jasmine Xu & Kristine Zheng, Graphic Designers

Creative Cougars 4 Avani Guduri, Staff Writer

Snapshot Stories 5 Eleanor Lin, Editor

Life and Death of Muhammad Ali 6 Phoebe Yi, Editor

It’s All Write! Winning Short Stories

7 Chioma Ilozor & Deniz Kirca, Guest Writers

The Beauty of Creativity 15 Jasmine Xu, Graphic Designer

Our Last Word 16 Julie Heng, Editor-in-Chief

Editor-in-chief: Julie Heng Editors: Eleanor Lin, Tomas Stegemann, and Phoebe Yi Treasurer & Tech Coordinator: Rhea Cong Thanks to the Clague PTO for sponsoring this issue!

Cover Graphic by Jasmine Xu, Graphic Designer

As summer vacation begins, many of us anticipate sights to be seen, like the two subjects of this cover. Skyline images from: https://www.vectoropenstock.com/vectors/preview/73354/european-landmarks-skyline.

 Note: The opinions in this issue are solely of the writers. They do not fully express the ideas of the Cougar Star, Clague Middle School, or any body of individuals. Our news reporting is to the best of our ability and true to its word. Any questions, comments, responses, or submissions will be accepted at thecougarstar@gmail.com. 

2

 

4

Snapshot Stories

By Eleanor Lin, Editor

May Day When many hear the words “May Day,” they picture medieval peasants

dancing with streamers. Such scenes originated in England, where the wrapping of ribbons around a maypole was traditional. May Day and similar spring holidays elsewhere in the world descend from pagan spring festivals. The arrival of spring was crucial for ancient farmers.

What people may not know is that May 1 is also International Workers’ Day. This holiday has its roots in nationwide strikes for an eight-hour work day that took place in 1886. In particular, the holiday’s founders had in mind protests in Haymarket Square in Chicago, where police and workers clashed violently. International Workers’ Day was established three years later, in honor of the “Haymarket Affair.”

Protestors and picnickers alike continue to gather on May 1 to observe these holidays today.

To Read More:

★ http://www.britannica.com/topic/May-Day-international-observance ★ http://www.cnn.com/2013/09/03/world/may-day-fast-facts/

Picture: http://www.corvallisadvocate.com/tag/may-day/.

Leicester City On May 2nd, Leicester City Football Club won

the English Premier League Title. What’s so amazing about that? For those who don’t know much about soccer—this author included—the Premier League is the “richest and most-watched soccer league in the world.” (Note that soccer is known as football beyond the United States.) In contrast, the entire Leicester City team was paid what other teams would pay a single player. The odds of them winning were 5,000 to 1. One reporter compared Leicester City’s sudden rise to waking up one morning and finding out “Iceland is a superpower” (NPR, “Leicester City Soccer Club Ends Miracle Season With Premier League Title”).

Some fans of the team attributed their success to King Richard III, whose remains were discovered 2012 underneath a parking lot in the city and reburied. Whatever the reason for their success, the team has attracted enough attention that rumors of a movie to be made may soon become reality. To Read More:

★ http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2016/05/01/476391023/leicester-city-from-last-place-to-now-poised-to-win-english-soccer-crown ★ http://www.npr.org/sections/thetwo-way/2016/05/02/476498542/longshot-leicester-city-win-english-premiere-league-title

Picture: http://www.slate.com/articles/sports/sports_nut/2016/05/leicester_city_was_a_5_000_to_1_underdog_how_big_of_an_underdog_is_that.html.

5

A Legend That Will Never Die By Phoebe Yi, Editor

 Muhammad Ali was born Cassius Marcellus Clay Jr., on January 17, 1942 in Louisville, Kentucky.

His father was a sign painter and his mother was a part-time cook and cleaner for wealthier families in the neighborhood.

When he was twelve, his parents bought him a new bike for his birthday. It was stolen at a local fair. Furious, Ali reported the theft to the police department, even threatening to beat whoever stole his bike. The man he reported this incident to was Joe Martin; he was not only an officer, but also a boxing instructor.

Martin decided to take the young Ali under his wing. He debuted at eighteen in the 1960 Olympics in Rome. He was immediately very popular with the media for his charisma and good looks. Proving himself not only a charming person, but also a great athlete, he was the champion light-heavyweight in boxing. In February 1964, Ali took down Sonny Liston, who was at the time the world heavyweight champion. After the win, he was renamed the heavyweight champion of the world. But as soon as Ali appeared on the world stage, he soon disappeared. In 1964, he joined the Nation of Islam, and received the name

Muhammad Ali from his spiritual mentor, Elijah Muhammad. In 1967, Ali was drafted for the Vietnam War. He openly criticized the US for its involvement in the war, and refused to join the army as a Muslim and conscientious objector. He was then stripped of his boxing title, fined $10,000 dollars for draft evasion, sentenced to five years in prison (which he never served) and suspended from boxing for three years.

Muhammad Ali’s undefeated streak in the ring was broken John Frazier in 1971, in a fifteen round match. Ali reclaimed the world championship title in 1974 against George Foreman in Zaire.

Ali retired at the age of 40 with 56 wins and only 5 defeats, changing heavyweight boxing forever. In 1984, he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease; and on June 4 , 2016, Ali died at the age of 74.

 

To Read More:

★ http://www.bbc.co.uk/timelines/zy3hycw ★ http://www.cnn.com/2016/06/03/us/muhammad-ali/

6

 

It’s All Write!

Every spring, the Ann Arbor District Library holds the “It’s All Write!” Teen Short Story Contest. Middle and high school students can enter their stories in the 6-8, 9-10, and 11-12 grade categories. First place in each category wins $250, and there are cash prizes for second and third places as well. This year, Clague eighth grader Chioma Ilozor won first place for her story Where We Belong, and eighth grader Deniz Kirca won second for his story My Father’s Memories. We’ve printed excerpts from both stories here. Congratulations to Chioma and Deniz for their outstanding achievements!

—Eleanor Lin, Editor For more updates and info on the contest: http://www.aadl.org/events/itsallwrite

Picture: http://serc.carleton.edu/sp/library/writing_assignments/index.html; https://thetomatos.com/free-clipart-8779/.

My Father’s Memories By Deniz Kirca 2030, Dearborn, Michigan

I open the garage door, and enter my house, glad to beb home after a long, stressful day of work at my insurance firm near Dearborn, Michigan. I breeze through the house, and pour myself a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade to cool me off in the hot, muggy Michigan summer. My father and I are alone in the house, my wife gone to Zumba class at the nearby Y.M.C.A and my mother at her daily physical therapy appointments for her arthritis. I walk through the kitchen and open the sliding door leading to the large, airy patio. There, I spot my father sitting in a lawnchair, staring off at the tall pine trees that rim our spacious backyard.

“How ya doin’ pops?” I say in the old American way that always makes him smile. No response from him; that is how I know that my father is in deep contemplation again. It appears that his memories of Syria and the conflict are clouding his mind. This is very common for my father. At least once every two weeks I come home from work to find my old, weary dad completely isolating himself from my mother and my wife, who both stay with him most of the day.

I soften my tone. “Dad? Is everything alright?” My father’s large bushy eyebrows scrunch together like a pair of hairy brown caterpillars, as they always do when he is concentrating. He blinks fast and wipes his eyes with the back of one of his huge, calloused hands.

“Yes son … I’m fine, really,” he says in his slight Arabic accent. “Okay Dad … if you say so.” I give him one last concerned look as I shrug my shoulders and take a seat next to him,

reading a newspaper. Halfway through the front-page article, I sigh. My father wasn’t always like this; when I was younger, in my teenage

years and early 20s, his job as a manager at a local supermarket served as a much needed distraction from his past. But when he retired a few years ago, his memories began to come back to trouble him more and more. My father needs an outlet, someone to talk to. I know it is my responsibility to be that someone; after all, I am his son.

I sigh again and ask tentatively, “Dad … it seems like you’re thinking a lot about Syria and the war. Do you want to talk about it? It might help… ”

My father looks up, surprised that I read him so well and that I am so willing to discuss Syria, something that he knows that I prefer not to do. My father had sent me, my sister, and my mother to America in mid-2014, when he astutely observed signs of increasing violence in Syria. He was supposed to follow us to the United States in four months, but there was a delay and he was instead separated from us for eight months. I have never known why this was, or even what happened in those months.

“If you want to know … by all means … I would be happy to tell you” my father stammers. “But … are you sure you can handle it? I know that the move was rough for you, and …”

“I’ll be OK Dad, don’t worry.” My father shrugs his shoulders, leans back in his chair, and begins his story.

Duma, Syria, 2014 I was sitting at the kitchen table in our small Duma apartment at the fringe of the city, my head in my hands. I had bid

farewell to you, your sister, and your mother the previous night, and was all alone in our small, old, two-bedroom apartment.

7

The city was completely quiet around me, no cars honking, people yelling, or young hooligans making noise. It seemed like the city was being quiet especially for me, so I could go about my thoughts without being disturbed.

I got up from my creaky wooden kitchen chair and walked across the scratchy rug on our living room floor to the two bedrooms of our apartment. I noticed that your mother had cleaned the entire apartment before she left and had made me a tray of baklava. This made me long even harder for her presence.

I stopped and stared at the family photo on the wall next to your mother’s bedroom. The photograph was taken at the beach, in the summer before everything began to go bad in Syria. We were all seemingly locked in time, in a place where loss and atrocities did not yet exist. It was as if we were in another world. I stared at that photo for a while in deep thought, and then walked around the bedrooms, which were mostly empty. I sighed; I had not gone to America with you since I simply could not afford it at the time. We were supposed to wait until we had enough money to go all together, but things began to get so bad in Syria that I was forced to send you first, and come myself later on.

I sat down and sadly counted what little money I had. I found that I had 75,525 Syrian Pounds, or about 400 US dollars. That meant that I needed another 224,475 Syrian Pounds, which was roughly $1,190 dollars, to buy a connection flight from Damascus, Syria, to Detroit, Michigan. I did some calculations and found that, minus all of my expenses, it would take me only four months to earn that money. This made me a little happier. I had always thought that I would be away from you, your sister, and your mother for much longer. With this in mind, I prepared for bed, ready for the long days of work ahead of me.

I worked in the bakery until I had about half of what I needed to get to America. I began to become very hopeful and excited about returning to you, your sister, and your mother. Sadly, I was only able to speak to your mother once—phones were expensive and were becoming harder and harder to find in the city. The Free Syrian Army, which was like the “rebel force” of the time, had just taken it over. Your mother told me that you were having a rough time transitioning to America, and that you didn’t like your new middle school. This upset me very much. But I was delighted to know that your sister loved her new elementary school.

Late one night, long after our workers Hamdi and Khaled had left the bakery, Farid and I were sitting there, our heads poking out of a window. I told him about my feelings of hope and success. Farid was one of my best friends since high school. So, naturally he already knew about everything that had been going on, with my leaving Syria. When he heard that I was happy and hopeful, he grinned, took a long drag on his cigarette, and blew smoke into the cool night air.

“‘Well, Karam, I certainly am glad that you feel that way!” he said. “Yes, me too!” I laugh, “But after my family left, I was not feeling like that at all! I was sadder than a cow that hasn’t

been milked for ten days!” Farid went quiet for a while, dramatically mimicking a wise-man’s concentration. “My friend, borrowing the words of my blessed old father: ‘Hope … is like a fart, it will always come at either the

worst of times, or the most unexpected of times,” he finally said, slowly. “Mmm … powerful words, aren’t they,” I said, grinning.

And we both laughed the night away. The following day, I was sick with a cold, so I decided that it was best to stay home. I called Farid at the bakery in the

morning to tell him, but he wasn’t there. That struck me as rather odd, but I figured that Farid was with a customer and would call me back later.

But he didn’t. Our bakery was Farid’s second home; if he wasn’t in his apartment, sleeping at night, he was at the bakery. I was

becoming very concerned. I called him many more times from a nearby payphone, but there was no reply. I waited a little longer, but at about three in the afternoon, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rushed out of my

apartment, coughing and sneezing, and practically ran to the bakery. I frantically turned the corner across from it and stared. In the place that I would normally have seen our squat red-brick bakery, there was only a pile of rubble. It was gone. The bustling marketplace and city centre in which our bakery had stood was replaced by a pile of broken stones, lost lives, and sadness. I ran through the crowd of bystanders rushing to and fro, attempting to find loved ones amidst the wreckage, and knelt at the pile of destruction that used to be our lovely, beautiful bakery, and stared blankly. I had no tears.

2030, Dearborn, Michigan

My father stops talking and stares into the trees again. I did not know that my dad had to endure so much pain in his life. It is so unfair that my mind almost refuses to believe it. I reach my hand out to touch his shoulder.

“Dad ...“ I begin, but he wipes his eyes and speaks again. “There’s more I must tell you” “If you aren’t up to it right now, please don’t tell me, honestly ...” I plead. “No, each story has two sides,” my father says with a shaky voice, “I have only told you the sadness of the story. If I

do not tell you the hope, half of the story will be lost.” And before I can say anything he continues.

8

 

Duma, Syria, 2014 The next week is a blur in my mind. I can only remember sitting in my apartment, sometimes crying, sometimes just

blankly staring at the apartment’s crusty white plaster walls.The only thing that got me up was thinking of Farid and his silly quote. Imagine what Farid would do to you if he saw you like this, he would blow his top! I thought to myself. For some reason, instead of causing me to feel even more sad, this sparked something inside me. It was nothing big, just a tiny laugh, probably left over from when Farid was still there. But after that the sadness was not so bad; I finally had the energy to get up and think about what to do next. I had heard that there were still a few farmers near Duma that needed help harvesting their olives. It was mid-August, prime-time for the olive harvest.

So I packed a small duffel bag with the few possessions I had left, and was about to leave the apartment to hitchhike to the farms outside Duma when my eyes fell on the family photo next to your mother’s room. I quickly threw that in my duffel bag as well; the photograph would remind me of the life that I was trying to win back.

After a few days of walking under the hot sun, riding in the backs of vegetable truck, and knocking on farmhouse doors looking for food and, whenever possible, work, I finally came to a large wooden farmhouse overlooking a massive estate of olive trees. I knocked on their oak door, weary and exhausted. The door was opened by a burly-looking man, with beady eyes and a thick mustache.

“What do you want?” he demanded. “I am looking for work, sir,” I said meekly. The man laughed, shook his head, and exclaimed “You could not possibly be of any use to us! You are so scrawny!

You would only waste my time and money.” and with that he almost closed his door on me, but I held the door with my foot. “Wait, sir! I may not look like much, but I am in fact very strong! I owned a bakery in Duma where I had to lift heavy

sacks of flour every morning! I have done this work for ten years.” The man fingered his mustache. “Well… fine. But if you’re lazy and slack off even once around here … you get one chance, and then you’re out! I

promise you that. You can sleep in the barn with the other workers. Work starts at six in the morning and ends at nine at night. Ask Hassan, the overseer; he’ll tell you what to do. I don’t want to deal with you now …”

And with that, the man slammed the door in my face. I turned around and walked towards the barn, shaking my head in disgust at the man’s greedy and piggish manner.

I worked on that farm for three months, until the olive harvest was over. The work was very hard and extremely exhausting. But, true to my word, I stayed strong and never slacked off. At the end of the three months, I anxiously took out my money from it’s hiding spot in the barn’s roof. I counted it, as I had done almost every night, and I was relieved and very happy to find that I had exactly 330,500 Syrian Pounds, or about $1,750 in American money— enough to buy a ticket from Damascus to Detroit. The sheer thought of being with my family again sent butterflies flying around my stomach! I repacked my duffel bag, and left for Damascus without a second thought about leaving the olive farm.

I again hitch-hiked for another week or so to get to Damascus, where the nearest international airport was. Luckily, I didn’t have to worry about going through any of the U.S. Customs’ background checks because I had already gotten myself cleared for entry into the United States, along with all of you, back in 2011, when I saw that things were heating up in Syria. All I had to do was show that all my papers were in order, buy my ticket to Istanbul, Turkey, and catch a plane there for the final leg of my journey to Detroit, in America. The end of my fight to see you, your sister, and your mother again was a mere plane ride away.

After showing my passport and visa to the airport officials, I boarded a small Turkish Airlines jetliner to get to Istanbul. I had never been on a plane before in my life, coming from one of the poorer families in Syria, but for some unknown reason I didn’t feel the excitement that I had always thought I would feel when on a plane. The idea of flying was just so insignificant compared to what was already going on in my life.

I sat in my seat for a little bit, just thinking about what I was doing. Soon I realized that I wasn’t quite happy. As I had envisioned leaving Syria in the past, I had always thought it would be a very exciting and happy time. While I was extremely excited to see you, your sister, and your mother again, I couldn’t quite place my finger on it, but there was something that was keeping me from enjoying that long-awaited occasion. As the plane pulled out onto the runway, I shrugged those thoughts away and closed my eyes for a well-deserved nap.

One hour later, as if by a miracle, I woke up for no particular reason. I was seated next to a window, so I had the luxury of being able to look from my seat at the ground below me. The view was simply astonishing- it was as if an artist had decided to draw a picture of all of Syria squished into a single small segment of land. Below the plane was a rolling expanse of farmland that appeared to be made up of soft green, orange, and yellow strips of fabric all sewn together into large rectangles, which were placed next to each other as if in a jigsaw puzzle. At the edge of the farmland were those low rugged mountains that are characteristic of Syria, connected to each other by a thin strip of earthy-brown land.

It was all simply so beautiful, I cannot even begin to describe what I was feeling as I saw it. Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the landscape just float away from my plane. It was my life’s background: the mountains, the farmland, the baby-blue cloudless sky. And I was leaving it all. I lightly touched my window and whispered a quiet goodbye to my Syria. I hoped to God that I could return someday, when everything cooled down, and when Syria was a better place for the common people like me. I truly wished for that day to come soon.

9 

Dearborn, Michigan, 2030

I sit silently as my father finishes his story. Hearing about his memories brings back storms of my own, and I am drowning in them now. My father and I both sit quietly as the bright sky of daylight is replaced by night. Both of us feel as if a weight has been lifted from our chests. We have opened the box containing all of our painful memories, and in doing so we have also released reminders that in the midst of pain there is still hope, that everything can turn out well in the end. Just as when Pandora opened Zeus’s box, containing all of the world’s evils, we released hope when we opened our own hearts. My father and I stare at each other without words; none could be adequate for this situation.

“Well … it’s getting cold. We should go inside,” my father says. “Yeah … let’s go, Dad.” And I help my father up from his lawnchair and together we go inside for the night.

Where We Belong By Chioma Ilozor

Everyone was gone. That’s the only way I can explain it. One day, I just woke up and no one was there. At first I thought mom and dad had gone to work early, but I noticed more peculiar things as the day went by. I

opened my car door, and for some reason it was filled with water. It startled me as all of it came rushing out at my feet. Along with that, no one was at the bus stop as they usually were, no one was at school like how they’re supposed to be, no one seemed to be anywhere.

I came home and dropped my bag on the floor, with absolutely nothing to do. I decided to eat some toast and Nutella. I sat down at the table and took smaller bites than I usually did. I looked outside the window. The view from the kitchen was to the road, and there were always cars driving on it. Now, there were none, not even a

car parked to the side. Except for mine. It’s like the whole city was pulling some sort of prank on me. If this was a prank, I surely didn’t like it. It’s been one and a half weeks now, so I’ve kind of gotten used to it, but it still hurts to be alone. I tried playing cards,

but what’s the use of that with no one to play with? I tried playing soccer, but what’s the use of soccer without a team? So I decided to take a walk. That’s one thing you can do without needing someone else, and it was rather peaceful

too. It was a bright day. As the hours went by the sun didn’t seem to get any more or less bright. I lay down on the grass for a while, looking up at the sun. And the clouds And damn, it was beautiful. The goldness of the sun outlined the clouds. It seemed so amazing to me how much I think I know, and yet, how little I’ve seen.

I noticed on someone’s lawn was a garden gnome, that was sort of odd, because everyone’s houses were

completely swept out. I picked up the garden gnome, it’s expression was rather friendly. I looked around me far and wide, then back at the gnome. There was no one as far as the eye can see, and that’s pretty far. I would need a friend, cause it looked like I would be seeing no friends, no anyone, for days to come. I smiled a quick and small smile, and walked back home to introduce the garden gnome to it’s new house.

Eventually it turned dark. I was hungry, and there isn’t much a 17 year old guy can make, so I had to eat Nutella and toast again. The silence of loneliness seemed to be swallowing me whole.

10

 

At school, I was the most social person you’d know, there was always someone to talk to, but now, I was feeling so isolated, as if everyone on earth went away and left me behind.

Damn, what I would give to see someone.

I went to bed. I was alone. All alone, unless you count Gnomey, but I was lucky enough to have Silence. That’s what I liked to call him, Silence. Silence is always with me, through the good and through the bad. Silence listens when I talk to him, and, in a way,

talks back, in my head. I decided to think back to my life before everyone disappeared. “Silence, show it to me,” I said. And he did. Before me, in my head, appeared images of my best friends, and I dozed off into my dreams.

It was when I met my best friend Garrett. I was in the third grade. Believe it or not, Garrett used to bully me, and it seemed like I could never avoid him. We lived on the same street, we

rode the same bus and we were always in the same class. Whenever he felt like it, he did whatever it could to make my life torture (and yes, there are things that a third grader can do.) He would make farting sounds and blame it on me, cut in front of me in the lunch line and rip my homework to shreds. I didn’t like him at all.

But that all changed the day he saved my life. I, being a silly little third grader, was walking in the streets, licking an ice cream without a care in the world, and not a

sense to notice an oncoming car. At that moment, Garrett had come out to start bothering me, but seeing the car he quickly ran and pushed me out of the way just before the car could hit me.

I was startled by this. Garrett had a pretty nasty scar on his knee but seemed to have not noticed it the least. “Why’dyou do that for me?” I asked, shocked of what happened. He looked me, and a giant ball of light seemed to

enter his hazel eyes. A smirk crossed his face. “Who else am I gonna bug if you’re gone?” he said. But in the days after that, he didn’t bug me at all, in fact, we became friends. Which was good because we lived on

the same street, rode the same bus and were always in the same class. We were inseparable.

I could feel a warmth going over me as I dreamt, starting from the deepest part of my heart and ending at where my skin meets the world.

Next, Silence showed me the memory of my one and only crush for as long as I can remember. Her name was Ariadiena, but she asked people to call her Ari, regardless of the gender of the name. She was the

most beautiful girl I’d seen in my life. I remember growing up with her. We went to the same school since the first grade, she always seemed to be the

smartest, most talented, or most beautiful person I’d ever met. She had a personality like a lamb and a smile like sunshine, but she was always in the background; kind of like gold, you have to sift through a lot of sand to find one.

In the 7th grade, she gave me her number. We would text each other about the most random things, if we liked elephants or what life would be like a million years from now. When we were done texting, and it was one in the morning, I would read our conversations over and over again.

In the 8th grade, everyone seemed to start noticing me as attractive and cool, and it grew out of hand. At the same time that it annoyed me to death, to be honest, I kind of liked it.

But Ari didn’t. She despised it.

But then, 9th grade came. We had one class together and one class only, but I was lucky enough to sit next to her.

Once, she told me about how people in her other classes were so obsessive over me. I could see that she clearly wasn’t enjoying my presence at all.. “Popular people” had always annoyed her, especially when they were liked for no reason at all. I guess that was me. So I told her what she wanted to hear. I told her, ‘Damn, they annoy me so much. I wish it would stop.’ And with that, a light came back into her eyes, she looked at me and through the curly locks of her hair, and smiled. Just smiled. Just the way I liked it. My heart starting beating rapidly and loudly, it surprised me that the whole world couldn’t hear it.

11

It wasn’t until the 10th grade that I finally picked up the courage to tell her that I liked her. It was Valentine’s day, which wasn’t too far away from her birthday, the 18th. I had gotten her a bouquet of forget-me-nots which I knew was her favorite type of flower. I spent the whole night before practicing what I would say. I went up to her, took a deep breath, and said, ‘I know it’s kind of dumb for me to being saying this now when we’ve spent so many years together. But, everyday I think about you… And I just want to tell you that I like` you.’ I handed her the forget me nots and smiled.

And she smiled. ‘That’s exactly what I’ve wanted to hear for so long,’ she said. I could feel myself smile in my sleep recalling this memory. Isn’t it amazing how beautiful people look when they smile? After that, Silence showed me another memory, but this one was different, I never remember it happening. I took Ari to prom, but it started raining. It kept on raining and raining. It flooded the streets and buildings all the way up to the top. I started panicking. I saw Garrett get washed under by the rain. I could hear him scream, but I couldn’t save him. “Help!” I heard someone scream; I heard Ari scream. “Please--” I saw her hand reach for mine, but I couldn’t grab it, and she went under. “Ari!” I yelled. I swam down trying to save her, but it was too late. There was no light in her eyes, I could see small

bubbles coming from her mouth. Next to her I could see Garrett, floating motionless, the water undoing his tie. I could feel my tears even though I was underwater. I looked up at the sky through the water, through the rain. There

was no moon, no stars, no light of hope. I could feel myself losing air. I struggled and wriggled my body about. I tried to swim back to the surface, but something kept on pulling me farther under, not allowing me to get out. I pounded on the force field, but it wouldn’t budge.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!” I yelled. I sat up straight in my bed. My face covered in a cold sweat. It was morning once again, and a quite bright one too. Once again, I was alone, but more peculiar things had happened. There was a cup of vanilla ice cream on my bed stand, and clothes folded on my desk. I looked around the house to

see if someone had come, but it was just me, Gnomey and Silence. I put my head into the folded clothes, I sniffed them, they smelled like forget-me-nots. The ice cream, although it was still good, tasted like mud. I stepped in the shower, but quickly got out recalling the feeling of getting drowned by rain. I went to the park with Gnomey, I had nothing else to do, and it was a nice day as well. Then I saw it. Someone was there. He was wearing a white cloak. I could see his face, it was rather friendly, just like Gnomey. I quickly ran over to where

he was, but he hid himself behind a tree. A second later, I got to where he hid himself, but he vanished. I didn’t understand what had happened, I was almost afraid. I knew what I had seen, someone was here. Gnomey and I walked home, even at how bright it was I couldn’t help but feel worried as if there were shadows

following me. We arrived home. I placed Gnomey where he always stood waving friendly at any person that looked at him. A week passed with nothing to do at all. I bounced a tennis ball along the wall for entertainment. I was running out of

Nutella. My phone had run out of battery at what seemed to be decades ago. I’ve read all the books in the house twice. I’m running out of things to list…

Great. I recalled more memories at the nights went by. This one was about me hanging out with my friends in high school. We were 16 and crazy. We went out 7 11 to get some food, and we found a speed detector as we were walking by. It

showed us how fast we were going. We were walking at 4 mph. We had contest to see who could run 15 mph, not one of us could quite seem to do it. The next day at school, the

largest, brutest guy came up to us. His name was Grey.

12

 

Grey, technically, had no friends except the people who stood behind him looking as fierce as they could, but it was obvious that the only reason they stood behind him was in fear of getting bullied themselves. Grey took all of our lunches and flipped them over. Pasta sauce got all over my blonde hair which left a red taint for a week or so.

I stood up to him, but only for a split second. I slammed my fist on the table got up and yelled ‘You’re a piece of trash!’ Grey looked at me dead in the eye with a dark expression. He towered over me, with so many bulging muscles that it looked like if he made a wrong twist in his body they all

might come tumbling out. ‘You say something? I didn’t quite hear you. Why don’t you say it again?’ he asked in a threatening way. I kept my

mouth shut, but my expression was enough to show my hate. He smirked and walked away. Later that night, me and my friends walked over to Grey’s house with 5 cartons of eggs. We held three in each hand

and egged his house while cursing and screaming wildly. I couldn’t remember having more fun, but then, the door to Grey’s house opened, and there was his dad who was 10 times the brute that Grey was. Garrett, idiotically decided to throw one more egg which hit the man square in the forehead.

We all ran faster than 15 miles an hour that night. I got another memory of Ari. It was the first time I took her out somewhere, just the two of us. We were at the movies watching James Bond. I thought I had chosen the wrong movie, it seemed like something

you’re supposed to watch with you’re best friend, but she was so on edge, I had to stop myself from laughing. The good thing with Ari was that you could like her and still treat her like your friend. Before her mother came to pick her up, she pulled me to the side. She looked me in the eyes. Her eyes were so dark and yet so full of light.

And they were warm. And kind She smiled. ‘I had the best time,’ she said. She hugged me, I can still recall her smell. Strawberry jam.

Then, that dream came back again. I took Ari to prom. Her, Garrett and I drowned from the rain. I woke up the next morning again, with sweat all over my face. I don’t ever remember that night.

I took a hot shower, even though I couldn’t be warmer, and went downstairs. On the countertop was an opened jar of jam. I picked it up and looked at it.

I gave a small chuckle, recalling it from my dream. Then, I heard a thumping sound. I became a statue. I creeped down the hallway and turned my head towards the

direction where I heard the noise. I saw what it was. My blood ran cold. It was that guy I had seen before. This time, dressed in a cloak that seemed to be made out of sunlight. My knees shook. The man was young looking and rather handsome, but I still recognized who he was. “Pops?” I whispered. He nodded. “But you’re… you’re dead,” I mumbled still in shock. “Child,” he said. “You ought to turn on the TV.” Because no one was in the city, I didn’t think that the electricity would work, but I never tried either. I grabbed the remote and pressed ON. It was the news. There was an image of a car being lifted out of a lake. It

looked exactly like my car. “It was a rainy day on May 27th,” a woman said, “An accident took place on I 78, a car sped out of the road and crashed in a nearby pond. The car filled up with water drowning three teenagers coming back from prom night at Wilburg High school.” Then, on the screen appeared Garrett’s face, Ari’s...and mine.

We were both silent for a very long time.

Hours seemed to pass. “Don’t worry,” Pops said. He lifted his hand and smiled. “Take it,” he said. “What are you saying?” His eyes were warm. “Death is not what people think, it is a gateway to happiness, to a new life.. You’ve been stuck

in-between the worlds of life and death. And you’ve been in pain,” He gestured to his hand, “It’s now time to go to where we belong.”

13

“What if I don’t want to go?” I said, still shocked. Pops smiled. “Garrett, is there,” he said, “and he’s your best friend.” I could leave Garrett; at least I think. “And so is Ari.” I froze. I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t. “And I know,” Pops said, “that she loves you very much.” I looked at Pops. We both had the same eyes, a scary, yet truthful blue. “Let’s go,” he said. I took his hand.

My breath was taken away. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

All of you back on earth, you have so much waiting for you, don’t worry. We may have bid farewell, but I’ll see you again, we’re all just waiting, In a place where no sadness will find us again.

 

14

A Note on the Beauty of Creativity By Jasmine Xu, Graphic Designer

Graphic by Eleanor L., Editor. Pictures incorporated from following sites: http://forums.smitegame.com/showthread.php?94652-Is-Art-a-Waste-of-Time;; http://www.alhambrachamber.org/arti 

cles/A0000109_radioactive-charity-fashion--dance-show-to-be-presented-april-11/; http://www.clipartpanda.com/categories/music-note-transparent-background.

The fragments of color touch the brush, then move over to the white canvas and paint the arm of the dancer.

The dancer, moving to the melodies of violins, is then captured by photography. More instruments join the mix—flutes, clarinets, cellos, drums—and the music changes. The dancer begins to speak, performing a display of wild theatrics. This room of people, of artists, is different from most. This room is beautiful, and full of life. All because of one seed that blossoms, one seed that everyone has. Creativity.

We’re lucky to live in such an accepting world, full of art, and I don’t just mean visual art. We have theatre, music, dance, and many more forms of art. They are greatly supported in our community. During the school year we’ve got numerous electives for the arts, and once school’s out, we’ve got summer camps. You’ve probably heard of some of them, like Blue Lake, or Interlochen. Our community is amazing because it encourages creativity. Creativity is beautiful, and we give it space to thrive.

Some Unique Takes on Creativity

★ “Don’t think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity.” –Ray Bradbury ★ “I think that each one of us is born with creativity.” –Maya Angelou ★ “Passion is one great force that unleashes creativity, because if you’re passionate about something, then

you’re more willing to take risks.” –Yo-Yo Ma ★ “The arts and sciences are avatars of human creativity.” –Mae Jemison ★ “When you ask creative people how they did something, they feel a little guilty because they didn't really do

it, they just saw something. It seemed obvious to them after a while.” –Steve Jobs ★ “The chief enemy of creativity is ‘good’ sense.” –Pablo Picasso 

15

16