One night, Mr. Perry was fast asleep and deeply dreaming of wild cats. He couldn’t see them in his dream but he could hear them. “Roar!...Roar!...Roar!” Mr. Perry was startled awake by the roars he heard in his dream and he realized he was not hearing them in his dream at all, the were really something roaring approaching his street. The next thing he knew he heard a loud crash outside his window. After further investigation, he discovered a large semi-truck full of pumas had crashed into a tree down the street. Mr. Perry immediately rushed out to the scene. The driver had miraculously survived the impact and was now trying to free the large felines from the tipped over vehicle. Mr. Perry and the driver moved dusty debris from the fallen branches and were able to reach the door of the semi-truck. The driver was then able to unlock it and set free his twenty puma passengers. Mr. Perry noticed that one of the passengers couldn’t walk because it had both its two front paws injured from the impact. The ambulance had not yet arrived, so Mr. Perry volunteered to drive this crippled puma to the hospital. Once there, the doctor informed Mr. Perry and the semi-truck driver that this puma could never use its paws again. Week after week doctors could not think of a solution. But one day a crazed doctor decided to send the puma to surgery. After many hours, the puma emerged from the surgery room with a huge surprise for Mr. Perry and the truck driver. The puma came back with human hands. Although this was not what people could see as normal, the puma could now walk again, a complete miracle! After weeks of recovery, Mr. Perry came to visit the puma frequently. They became close friends while the puma had to stay in the hospital, and as soon as the puma was allowed to be released from the hospital, Mr. Perry treated the puma to a trip to the movies. All was great again in the life of the previously crippled puma.

Angelica C. Barrera

My Good Friend My sweet sugary fluffy friend it is not often that I see you but when I do, oh the good times we have You never stay for more than meager minutes every second you melt away I remember our last encounter I was ten and happily running around the fair me and you side by side as friends hoping our next meeting will be as good I won a bet to see you simply to run fast get under a 52 I didn’t want to work to fight for the given mark it was hard and my legs felt like jell-o I only did it because I had the desire to win but more importantly I dread losing but I like your sweetness this time you were not a pillow you were in the form of freezing chunks of shaved ice since I won you I got you for free this was our best meeting yet I felt fiery like a match and you chilled me out because you are as cold as ice my good friend cotton candy

Khari Kinerman

I remember the times on a hot, sticky summer afternoon and not even water was able to quench my thirst. My mom had handed me an orange and I began peeling the rough textured skin. Once I peeled it off I opened up the orange and a spray of juice burst out of the citrus fruit. I took out a wedge with care, afraid I might lose its juice. When I was finally able to eat the wedge a burst of juice exploded in my mouth. The tasteful citrus fruit was filled with juice I could have sworn it was able to get me quenched. Juice dripped down to my chin and I was constantly wiping my mouth with a napkin. The juice reminded me of orange soda, without the strange tangy sensation and left a sweet after taste. Let’s just say my taste buds were having a party. Finally when I finished the wedge I ate another and another until I had no more to eat. I walked up to the counter in my kitchen and could smell the fruit. I grabbed a fruit, not caring about what it looked like, but I should have took a second look when my face twisted by a sour taste. When I looked down at what was supposed to be eating (an orange) and took notice it was a yellow lemon, never again will I eat that sour tasting yellow fruit.

Collette Feola

The hiss, like a cat, As steam flows, and, Engulfs the dust powder. Like a flood in the desert. Instant coffee. Warm, soothing The smell of cocoa Rising, rising up Like fog it fills Fresh coffee. Bitter tongue bites And the heat ignites The tongue, as it flows A warming of the soul. Black coffee. The man and his cane. And a cheap, blue mug. Outside the café, and Inside the rain. Tasting and unseeing The Spanish elixir. A cold, bright light Dawn, birth of day, Mist in the hills. The smell of roasted coffee Like a Friday morning.

Enoch Huang

“I’m leaving” are the words I hear from her every day. I have already expressed to her how I felt about her going and leaving every morning and night but she continues to ignore me as if I’m a stranger. The lady I speak of is my mother Ms. Splashberry. I refer to her as “Ms.” because the days past she becomes less and less of a mother and more of a worker. It has been a long and painful four years since the whole family went out together and I have noticed that my father is getting fed up with it, but every time they argue she leaves in a rage and doesn’t return until the next day. I am sixteen years old now and my whole family has separated mentally. It’s as if there is no mother in what we call a “family”. As the days progress I grow weary of having a family that is an argument away from separation. Well needless to say my mother and the rest of my family split their separate ways and my mother acted as if she felt no type of emotion. Two years later, my mother Kerrylyn Splashberry committed suicide. She was found dead with a bullet hole through her head.

Aaron Peck

A Black Jelly Bean A little bug lying calmly on my table Holding its arched back against the hard and lifeless surface, Pretending that it’s at a beach lying in the sand Basking under the golden sun. A train gliding on the railroad A black one printed with English letters Burdened with freight under an exploding sun With puffing steam as sweat coming out of the locomotive. A little chocolate ball Those ones that have stuff inside That surprises and makes me feel lucky Which usually is white cream like clouds. A little bullet speeding out of a gun Like the one on the physics worksheet That delivers its impulse to the pendulum To make it move to its maximum height. It tastes like a bitter medicine pill Like coffee mixed with milk and cream Which I need when I stay up cramming For tomorrow’s European History test. It’s a black jelly bean smiling like the new moon that brightens up my mind and makes me feel happy.

Tim Lin

The year is 1911. James Blanker is walking home in the cold winter air on a lonely sidewalk. He has just finished a treacherous but fulfilling day at his company. Blanker is now thirty-seven and has still never been married and has no children, but his career has soared through the roof because of this. Ten years ago he started out at a Wells Fargo in New York as a checker living from paycheck to paycheck. He came to work everyday giving 110% of his effort to the company. Blanker soon worked his way up to the manager of the branch and now he is business CEO of the company. Each night he comes home to his grand one floor apartment, alone and tired, feeling as if he could have done something better with his life if he did not focus so much on his career. He sits down in his lounge chair next to the grand fireplace and opens a bottle of wine trying to drown out his thoughts of another life.

Jonathan Jones

Pink and white, she was adorable, darling, (She’s so tall now, whatever happened?) Not Disney Princess, she is picturesque— It is festival Huddled my green bamboo, little shy one, it’s time to dance! Led out by the hand, shuffling slowly— Too many adoring eyes, there’s a catch inside her chest. Sweetie, will you, wont you step— Step the coal miner’s dance? Dig, dig—Look back, look back— Clap! It’s easy, Bon Odori, under paper lanterns and golden glare. It’s summertime at night. Don’t be afraid, dear, take your sea foam fan. Your family is here and you are beautiful. The tinny music plays, but it’s beautiful in a way. Feel the rhythm slow—the ghostly chime, Here are dragons made of cloth. Daughter, it’s the fisherman’s dance— Can’t you see them cast nets, Wrestle gods of the sea? Summer-thankful taiko drums (out of storage now): Waking mountains with their thunder, This is the eastern heart. You little cherry blossom (Don’t let your petals die with April)— This is the story of you. Your uncles and fathers who loved the sea, Who tasted the edge of industry And saw their new country from behind Barbed wire (in desert land) and died— Darling, this tastes of celebration, You are in silks, pure, unhurt by the history of it, Dark, dark hair pinned up, Oriental humility. Come and dance with quietness, Bon Odori of the summertime.

Alice Koga

If I could have any super power, it would be a dream come true. Ever since I was a little kid, I dreamt of being a super hero. My power would be that of flight. To feel the wind in my hair as I flew above the world. Seeing the world from a new perspective as all those around me would be like little miniatures from way above. Being able to fly could also be a way of helping people. I could be a modern day super hero. I am protecting the city from villains and crime everywhere. It’s time for me to start saving crime, so away I fly!

Zachary Ghamlouch

The very first time I got sick, I remember it fondly. Sick to my stomach and full of an unending, raging pain as my dad sat by my side thinking of what to do. I had already decided not to go to school, while at home I still laid in bed. My dad came in and brought me a soda. My eyes grew wide because never before had I been allowed to drink one. The label on the can said Squirt. I pulled back the metal tab and pop! it went. The gases and the bubbles, the sounds of the fizzing, the refreshing, sparkling cool taste of citrus cold, bubbling, clear, sparkling, lime-flavored juice flowing down my throat I was soon relieved of my painful stomach ache The feeling of the smooth, bubbling liquid, flowing through It hit the pit of my stomach and cools away the pain

Leanna Rucker

While heading for school I knew it was gonna be a good day. The poverty project will be over. No more wearing the same clothes, no more carrying a box everywhere. I’m back to my normal things that I do and I’m loving every minute of it. feeling so free and not binded to this box and these clothes. When I get home these clothes and this box are going up in flames. Imma watch this sucker burn to ashes! By the time I get home I see my little cousin Bobby, and his curious mind asking, “KK, where is your back pack?” and all I say is, “Be happy you’re not in high school.” Knowing as I walked away I knew that his mind wandered as far as he can about being in high school. Thinking we stay up late for fun when we actually are doing homework. Him only seeing one side of it; not being treated like a baby, yet I’m thinking what can I do to be a little kid a while with no worries and not even a care in the world.

Kalesia Lee

Auden pushed open the door of the basement, the smell of stale beer washing over him. He stepped through the tiny door, ducking his head more out of habit than necessity. The room he stepped into was small and crowded; people and sound pushing against the walls. The people greeted him with a roar; he was well known and liked here. After numerous handshakes, high-fives, and a few head butts, he stepped into a tiny closet to hang up his coat, then slid behind the bar. He settled himself on the wobbly barstool, threw some coins in a moneybox, and grabbed something from the miniature fridge. Raising the bottle to his lips, someone caught his eye. She was a striking young, probably about twenty, who was relaxing in the hole in the wall with a full plastic cup in her hands; calmly surveying the chaos of the party. Auden slid back off the barstool and walked over to her, their eyes on each other.

Zoe Bazilchuk

There was a young teen hero named Tom Sonyua. He was just another average Joe. Barely six feet, medium build, black hair, brown eyes. Did well, but not spectacular. Just trying to get by kind of kid. One night, after watching a movie with his friends, he decided to walk home. As he walked down the dark sidewalk a cold, spine chilling wind brushed by him. The moon was full and was shining its bright, yellow aura down into the dark street ahead of him. A few cars passed by him, all eager to get home after a long day of work. He looked up into the star-filled sky, and wondered if there was anything out there. Then a dark figure hiding in the shadows of a tree made a strange, inhuman-like growl. He tried to walk away, but the curiosity within him urged him to walk toward it. As he cautiously walked closer, he could feel the hair on his skin stand. The air felt like it was filled with static. His heart started to pump harder and he was starting to think about running. As he started to turn around a voice spoke. “Wait,” it said, “can you help me?” “Depends on what kind of help, mister.” “Take my hand.” The dark mass extended what seemed like a hand. He took it and pulled the figure on to its feet. It stepped out into the moonlight, and turned out to be his friend, Jack. Tom gave out a sigh of relief, realizing that is was not a threat.

Saharat Nilaad

My nearly waist length, French-braided, and tied back blonde hair glints with strawberry tint in the hot June sunlight. My jet-black boot heels click lightly together, and I straighten out my white trousers covered in a thin layer of light brown dust, make sure my somewhat wrinkled white cardigan is stuck under my black belt bent with years of use. I pull tightly on the symbolic green scarf around my neck and the clover green hat, with no bronze, gold, or silver pins or white and yellow patches on it, on top of my head. I hold speckles the way my rabbit leader taught me, like a little football, and wait for the judge to call my name. I feel more nervous than excited, because it is I, not my rabbit, that the judge will look at now. What a fool I would feel like if he is the “Best of his Breed” and I cannot even win 5th place in Novice Showmanship—against nine year olds when I turned 14 not too long ago. It is only my first year of 4-H, my first show ever, but I have turned 14 and a miniscule little girl carrying a colossal twelve pound Flemish Grant, shedding gravel-gray hair everywhere, walks away proudly. I squeeze Speckles’ soft, black ears tighter, but he does not complain, he is a good rabbit. I almost jump out of my skin when the judge calls my name, but I take a long, deep breath and walk quickly to the judge’s table. I remember what I must do: four point turn, pose Speckles (although he tries to bite my hand instead and poses when I leave him alone. Mom says the judge likes that I know he should pose anyway) and introduce myself and him. “This is my Holland Lop, Speckles…” I show his ears, his eyes, flip him over, his stomach, his feet (all four), and his gender (“He is a buck…”). I flip him back over. His tail, his color, (“He is a broken seal…”) and his fur. I pose him three more times (he won’t) and step back and ask the judge if he has any questions. Of course he asks the most difficult ones, so I repeat what he said about Holland Lops earlier in the show. I shakily pick up my fuzzy little rabbit, shake the judge’s hand, four point turn and rush off to break down, smiling.

Josie Bradshaw

If I could have any super power it would be the power to fly. I always thought it would be super amazing cool to just fly in the sky with the birds that fly all the time and won’t leave the field at school. We could become friends and I could find them a new area to be. Up in the heavens everything down below would look so small. Plus, if I can fly than I can float in the air and I could imagine how it would be to live or just lay for a moment on air, and get lost in the shapes of the fluffy mysterious clouds in the baby blue sky. I have always dreamt of doing that. And if I’m walking somewhere and I feel like I can’t walk another mile to save my life or just don’t want to move a muscle I could fly there and avoid walking and traffic and the people who didn’t get the grade or missed an appointment, the people who look like they have a “I need a hug” sign on their head or people who know how to hurt you with their words, the people I’d rather not like to run into on the street.

Dominique Boyer

Staying up late at night cramming, trying to finish my homework on economics commentary on tariffs and trade my eyes shortly close. Stay awake, I tell myself. I continue writing frantically. One o’clock, two o’clock in the morning. Still up working diligently and non-stop, trying to get it all done, I need caffeine, I tell myself. I walk to the kitchen and make myself an iced coffee. I slowly drink the creamy coffee and it trickles down my throat. I sigh a moment of relief, knowing this is what I needed to keep me awake. The warm, bitter smell leaves a strong aroma filtering through the air in the room. I am satisfied and alert and continue writing…

Chelsey Bosic

Watermelon Watermelon Mouth watering green jelly bean A lollypop I received After a courageous trip to the doctors The flavor I always love In a candy or a drink Watermelon Sitting on the floor of the kitchen Waiting to be cut and eaten By the family In uneven cubes While we watch a movie Watermelon My favorite desert Juicy red Green complimentary peel Hard solid outside Soft juicy inside Thump, thump to tell If it’s ripe and ready to eat Watermelon Mostly water Partly melon Sweet and relaxing Smell of the mountains Clean and pure Picnic with my family And we ate watermelon

Julia Jenkins

Jack sat on a barrel, leaning against the wall. He drank his rum, as he watched drunk pirates fight and shout in the bar. He took a big drink of his own rum. He, himself, had a whole day’s worth of fighting. First, fighting with those blasted pirate captains. It wasn’t his fault that the cannons of his ship accidently went off and just happened to hit their ships. After all, he had wanted to bargain with them. Why destroy their ships when they were key to getting what he wanted. Then that blasted Will Turner wanted to borrow more doubloons. Jack rubbed his forehead, wanting to do nothing but drink rum until he collapsed drunk. He was going to drink more of his rum, but the bottle—that had been in his hand a moment ago—was now gone. “What the…” Jack stood up abruptly, looking around. The culprit was laying drunk on the floor with his rum. “Oh, that is it!” Jack shouted before punching the drunk man. Other pirate’s immediately seized the chance to join the fight. Jack exchanged between fighting with his sword and his fists. All the while, the bloody rum thief was staggering away. Jack groaned, as he tried to push his way through the crushing crowd. He finally managed to get through. Jack’s eyes darted between the fighting and drunk pirates running about, looking for the rum thief. But he couldn’t spot him anywhere. Jack’s eyes narrowed as he felt his aggravation swell. His fingers twitched on the sword hilt in his hand, like the tail of an irritated cat. Jack searched through the bar a bit more before he sighed and turned toward the exit. But just as he was about to leave his eyes caught the familiar flicker of the rum thief slumped, drunk in a corner. A sloppy smile was plastered on his face. The rum bottle was still in his hand. Jack grinned vengefully. He gripped tighter on the sword hilt as he approached the man. And without further hesitation, Jack kicked him in the groin and punched him in the face. He snatched the rum bottle away, as he fell. “My rum.” Jack said, smiling of satisfaction. He raised the bottle to his lips, only to taste a sliver of rum. Jack rolled his eyes in frustration. He threw the bottle down. It shattered next to where the thief was passed out. Then Jack noticed something still clutched in the man’s hand. Jack pulled out his sword and used the tip to pick it up. A tattered piece of cloth dangled at the sword’s end. He brought it closer and pulled it off. The cloth was imprinted with a map of some sort. Jack’s grin returned. He hurried outside where he found Mr. Gibbs, drinking rum from a mug. “Mr. Gibbs!” Jack barked. “Aye Cap’n!” Mr. Gibbs jumped, startled, causing some rum to splash on his face. “Prepare to head out,” Jack ordered. He held up the map. “Lady luck is on our side…for once.” “She is, Cap’n?” “Aye” Jack grinned. “She is.”

Hanna Layfield