SPRING 2013 IssueJAMS Literary Magazine

Cover By: Victoria Tan

What is The Knight’s Notebook?

The Knight's Notebook is a multimedia literature and arts magazine catering to the diverse creative pursuits at John Adams Middle School. Published a few times a year in a printed magazine and online, The Knight's Notebook showcases the best of student fiction and poetry, as well as music, film, art, and photography.

For more info visit our club website:https://sites.google.com/site/theknightsnotebook/

Check out our online version of our magazine at:

http://issuu.com/knightsnotebook/docs/spring2013

Club Advisor:Ms. Doherty

Co-Editors-in-Chief:Kavya Saravanan

Rohan Shah

Board Members

Secretary: Shivam Yadav (head secretary)

Srija Roy (alternate) Poetry Committee: Avi Sura (co-editor)

Anjana Manikandan (alternate co-editor)Anshuman Garga

Anika ShahAkshata Shukla

Prose Committee:Mehal Kashyap (co-editor)

Dhvani Kakabalia (alternate co-editor)Shivank Agrawal

Anjali AroraNitya Nadgir

Surabhi PandaSuraj Rathi

Kamani SathishkumarTej Sista

Shivam Yadav

Art Committee:Unnathy Nellutla (co-editor)

Meenu Pillai (alternate co-editor)Srija Roy (alternate co-editor)

Anshuman GargaRiya Gogri

Yashwi KumarAnjana Manikandan

Somnam RupaniKamani Sathishkumar

Photography Committee:Vibha Jadhav (co-editor)

Karthik Maniwakkam (alternate co-editor)Aarya Nehe (alternate co-editor)

Yashwi KumarSwathi Parthibha

Sonam RupaniShaili Vyas

Shivam Yadav

Hemani Patel

Film & Music Committee:Surabhi Panda (co-editor)

Kanmani Sathishkumar (alternate co-editor)Aarya NeheReeya Shah

Layout & Publications Committee:Vedika Dayal (co-editor)

Shivank Agrawal (alternate co-editor)Suraj Rathi

Web Committee:Shravani Pamireddy (co-editor)Shiv Patel (alternate co-editor)

Dhvani KakabaliaSwathi Parthibha

Table of ContentsArtwork

“Flowers” by Kennice Pan (1st PLACE).……………………………………………………………..…..p. 6

“Shoe” by Kennice Pan (2nd PLACE)………………………………………………………………….…..p. 6

“Bird” by Meenu Pillai (3rd PLACE)…………………….…………………………………………..…….p. 7

“Flowers” by Meenu Pillai.………..……………………………………………………………………….…p. 7

“Penguin” by Meenu Pillai……..…………………………………………………………………….………p. 8

“Dragon” by Avi Sura..……………………………………………………………..………..………………..p. 8

Photography“Fountain” by Riya Varshney (1st PLACE)………………………………….

………………………..…p. 9“Jefferson Memorial” by Riya Varshney (2nd PLACE)

……………………………………………..p. 9“Washington Memorial” by Riya Varshney (3rd PLACE)

………………………………….….…p. 10“Cherry Blossoms” by Riya

Varshney…………………………………………………………………..p. 10

Prose “A Happy Tune” by Unnathy Nellutla (1st PLACE)

……………………………………………p. 11-12“A Test of Loyalty” by Priyan Selvakumar (2nd PLACE)…………………..

…………..…….p. 13-14“I am Free” by Nitya Nadgir (3rd PLACE)……………………………………………..

………….p. 15-17“Roshi the Terrible” by Maya Merchant.……………………………..

…………………………..p. 18-20

Poetry“Go” by William Wu (1st PLACE)……………………………..…….

………………………..…..……..p. 21“My Beloved Tree” by Vidisha Jha 2nd PLACE)………………………………………..

…………...p. 21“Math” by Malhar Khandare (3rd PLACE)…………………….

……………………………………...p. 22“Simple Beginnings” by Priyan

Selvakumar……………………………………………….………...p. 22

Music & Film“Pi World” by Shiv Patel (1ST PLACE Music)

……………………………………………………….p. 23

“Flowers”

By: Kennice Pan

“Shoe”By: Kennice Pan

“Bird”

By: Meenu Pillai

“Flowers”By: Meenu Pillai

“Penguin” By: Meenu Pillai

“Dragon”By: Avi Sura

“Washington Memorial” By: Riya Varshney

“Jefferson Memorial”By: Riya Varshney

“Fountain” By: Riya Varshney

A Happy TuneBy: Unnathy Nellutla

Hello, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Henry S. Stradivarius, and I happen to be one of the oldest, most valuable violins ever made. I was born in northern Italy and have played wonderful Italian pieces in my prime, but now I am content to enjoy my retirement in this peaceful museum. I am very old now, almost 300. I have been sold and resold to many humans, some rich and showy, some musically gifted. But now only one stands out in my mind, and his name is Wolfgang Amadues Mozart. I only played for him for a short time, until he died,

“Cherry Blossoms”By: Riya Varshney

but once his fingers touched my strings, I knew there was something special about him—something different, something masterful! On the day we first met, I resolved to be his. It was a day I will never forget.

At the time, I was owned by the de Sablonis, a rich couple from Florence. Alissa de Sabloni was a large, flamboyant woman who always reminded me of a very rich, cream-filled pasty. Her husband George was a very dull sort of human. He was rather pasty with a yellowish tint to his skin. He could always be found searching in the cupboard above where I resided at the time. Plagued with colds, he was forever in search of tea bags. It seemed that the only thing that could stop his big, red nose from running was a special type of rosewater tea that he could never find. I felt more than a bit sorry for the poor man who was constantly being bullied by his wife, that is when he wasn’t looking for tea.

Now, Mrs. de Sabloni and I weren’t the best of friends. In fact, we hated each other. We came to this conclusion after a long and bitter battle which involved me disappearing at a party intended to show me off. After a long bout of boasting about her prowess on the violin, she tried to play me and asserting my dominance, I refused to play a single note, finally yielding only a loud screeching sound. At the time I was only about 100. My hatred of Mrs. de Sabloni combined with my youth made me desperate to find a way out of my servitude. At the time I met Mozart, I had already compiled a list in my mind of the qualities I would look for in my new master. Not coincidentally, I had also made plans of how I would escape from Mrs. de Sabloni.

I had very little time, for Mozart was leaving that night and I was determined to follow him. At the party where I was being displayed, I sneaked out of my glass case as soon as Mrs. de Sabloni took off the ornate, finely polished, mahogany cover. I made my way up to the stage where Mozart was playing and persuaded Martin, his violin and a good friend of mine, to take my place in the case. Then I waited, silently rejoicing that I had almost succeeded in making my dear Mozart my master but telling myself not to get too excited that it wasn’t over yet. After settling down, I had the most glorious time at the party. I have always been one of the best violins in the world, but for Mozart I played as I had never played before. Then, when it was all over, he took me home, and I watched Mrs. De Sabloni waddle away.

After that day it as all plain sailing for me. I toured the world with Mozart, having the time of my life. I played for kings and queens, rich lords and barons, and wealthy heiresses and dowagers. The world thought I was Joey, and that Joey was me, and this suited us quite well, for I would hate for Mozart to be accused of stealing me, and goodness knows what would have happened to Joey. Besides, he actually managed to get along with Mrs. de Sabloni and was quite happy living there. As for Mozart, I think he did know my true identity, but if so, he never said a word.

After awhile, my happiness ended when Mozart died, and I was thrown out of his window and into the streets, delivering a great crack in my side. I fell into a deep sleep – a sort of coma. Years and years went by, and all the while music danced in my mind. The notes which I could not play but could still see brought me comfort. Then miraculously in the year 2012, I was found in the attic of a Miss Smith. Experts, recognizing my Stradivarius label, took me to be repaired and then placed me in this wonderful museum. Now, though I can no longer play, I have turned to composing. All of the wonderful notes that had emerged in my mind overflowed. I scribbled them down as quickly as I could and crafted them into symphonies. They

were all quite beautiful. And as I listened to them over the years, I realized that they all contain the familiar strain of a melody that I had shared with my dear friend Mozart.

A Test of LoyaltyBy: Priyan Selvakumar

Pompeii was a city in ancient Rome that was subject to volcanic activity and was buried under ash for thousands of years; a single unexpected eruption wiped out a powerful city. When the citizens of Pompeii went to sleep the night before they expected the coming day to be just like the last, they had not the slightest idea of the fate they had been condemned to. I learned the hard way that life is like Pompeii's fate, a single unexpected event can happen in minutes and erase years of work. What happened changed me forever. The terror and anger will always be fresh in my mind and the wounds are too deep for time to heal. The sunshine spread its rays upon the beautiful lawns of the rich houses on the road. Among these rich houses was my family's majestic white mansion. My friend John and I began to walk up my lawn which was adorned with flowers and fruit trees. As we stepped onto my door step my eyes wavered to the sidewalk, then my heart skipped a beat. It was a gang of kids from a poorer part of town, they loved money and hated people who had it.

They were one of the most popular kids in Edison High School. Many rich kids in school looked down on the poor and ostracized them, but I was not one of them. In fact, even my best friend John was not born clutching cash. However that didn't matter to the gang, they hated the rich and that hatred dictated them. Their eyes, which possessed a cruel glint, locked with mine. John and I stared at them, our legs were glued in terror. They saw us and with a smirk on their faces they made their way up the sloped lawn. There were three of them, Joe, Bob, and their leader Manny. Joe grabbed me by the shirt collar, “Don’t want my poor hands on your shirt which is hand sown with Persian silk?” he sneered. I clenched my teeth and inside I seethed with rage, the shirt was really from Walmart. “Let go of him!” John yelled and Joe gave me a violent shove and I tumbled into the grass. As I rose to my feet Manny glanced at me and stroked his muddy hair while laughing. He turned to John, “You know that he has been using you, right?” John did not respond his eyes drifted from Manny to me and then his timid eyes fell back on Manny. Manny was a foot taller than John and looked down as he spoke, “You are too cool for this rich snob.”

John’s face became distorted and I knew that Manny would lose this. I had met John when learning my ABC’s and now we are in the same calculus class. He would not abandon me now and I would have never abandoned him. The chance that he would leave me was equivalent to the chance of pigs flying. When I looked back in to his eyes though, I could see a cloud of greed and the wish for popularity beginning to form. This was an offer that every high school student dreamed of. I could see desire consume him, his eyes darkened with both confidence and conceit, his hands closed into fists and an evil smile broke out on his face. My memories of our times together flooded back and I think the same happened to him. For a few seconds his eyebrows quivered and a shadow of doubt lingered on his face but they disappeared. Yet even on this verge a flicker of hope lived inside me that he would fight his will but he did not. What happened next still haunts my nightmares and I will remember it like yesterday until my days are over. John, who was with me during every step, the friend to whom I had entrusted my closest secrets, a friend who supported me through joy and sorrow, the only

friend to whom I had told the name of my first crush in 5th grade and my first failing grade in 8th

grade, he turned to me and his face was filled with disgust. He sneered, “Every time I came to your house all you did was show off the things your money could buy, get out of my life you loser.” My heart stopped. This was John. We had sweated over exams together and camped together. I probably had spent the same time with him as I had spent with my parents. Three of them had come yet four of them had left.

As they walked I looked out to the horizon toward the setting sun. I will swear for many years to come I saw a pig in the sky, it was flying and then disappeared behind a cloud. That night I could not sleep, and the next day at school John was being manipulated by the ‘cool’ kids. He had more power when we were friends, yet he had refused me for popularity, for friends who utilized him like a tool. The times were horrible for John yet he never learnt his lesson.

It is weird however that even though Pompeii was buried under ashes its legacy survives. Our friendship is the same. John may have betrayed me yet before that he had changed me. He had truly become a part of me that would never leave. I have found new friends but I will never find another John.

I am FreeBy Nitya Nadgir

My eyes were pools of murky water as I clutched my sister’s hand tighter. She looked down at me with a loving sparkle in her eyes.

“I know it’s hard,” she told me, swallowing her outbursts of tears,” You have to overcome the hardships in life. Everyone has them.” I mutely nodded, remembering the six most preeminent summers with my father… before the war.

Four years later, I am a grown up 10 year old girl and my sister came back from “college”. Ever since then, I was solitary, longing for company.

It was a bewitching morning in 2040 when the cheery trees displayed their shadows and the lush grass swayed in the breeze. My father unwillingly trudged out the front door waving back to my sister and me and telling my sister to take care of me well. That was when he was going to war. I was only six back then and my father leaving meant a life to me because I never had a mother. I didn’t know the cause of my father departing, but I was smart enough to note the deep burden forming in my sister’s eyes. That morning I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know it would impact my life as much as it really did. After the morning of 2040, I never saw my father again.

The day my father left was the day my bad luck started. My life changed when Arianna and my father left me companionless. I was stuck at grandmother’s house working as a slave all day and I came back with fifty cents once a month which we spent on paying our monthly pay to soldiers. After I got back from hours of labor and agonizing limbs, it was my job to go over to the community garbage can and fetch leftovers for my grandmother and my supper. Most families weren’t as beggared as us because they had saved some of the money that was supposed to be given to soldiers at war but grandmother foolishly donated every penny of hers and we were left with nothing to spare. This is why I suffered through the second six years of my life from loneliness, hunger, and a lack of education.

One day, I was trying to find something in the trash to keep us warm in the ugliness of the penetrating cold until my grandmother yelled to me, “A letter! A letter from father!” She was waving a piece of paper ferociously in her hands screaming out to me. I dropped my hours of hard work on the ground in shock and joy and raced to the door. The memories of father came pouring in as I stared at the paper with both hands, unable to recognize the disorderly symbols on the page. At the time, I was eight and still didn’t know English so I asked my grandmother if she can help me.

“Dear Janice,” she read,” I understand. You are in harsh conditions in your grandmother’s area and it is difficult for you to survive. But you must stay strong always. Only two more years and we’ll be back, I promise. Never forget to stand tall. No matter what life brings you, be prepared. Be smart.”Okay. So my father is the kind of person who gives advice. He is caring and kind. That’s what I learned about my father that day.

Reading and recalling those words brought droplets in my eyes. All I thought about for the rest of my horrid childhood was that. I would try to imagine how father looks and how my mother used to cook. I thought about how my sister felt when my mother died when I was one month old. I also thought about how it would feel like if we were one of those rich families with unlimited luxury in life. I wondered what it looked like beyond my town because I was only allowed ten feet away from home. The world was so dangerous at the time that if a girl wanders only a little bit away from home, for sure she will not come back because she will be taken to work for the intruder’s military so everyone hid their children. My hiding spot was a hole I dug underground through the wood of my house. I stayed there all the time besides when I had to get food or clothing because I had heard stories of children being captured on the news.

A year later, at the age of nine, the soldiers came to inspect our hose. I crept deeper into my hole because my grandmother had gone to collect more food further away at a bigger garbage can. I heard loud bangs on the door, then a couple of gun shots. The curiosity clawed at me like a shark so I ignored the rule to stay in the hole and crept over to the door to see what happened .I peered through my door wanting to know the upcoming drama, but instead, I got a hole poked In my heart when I saw what happened. Soldiers were taking away our neighbor’s children to work: two ten year old girls and a four year old boy. My golden heart full of sympathy, I stepped outside to comfort them. Suddenly, my heart skipped a beat when I saw my grandmother lying on the floor. I started running towards her until a hefty, strong hand gripped my arm. Tight. A soldier.

“She will make a great worker.” he said to another man.“Take her.” The other man said, gesturing toward a newly painted red and black truck. I

predicted my future and struggled to free myself from the tight grasp of the men, but that only made them hold me tighter as they dragged me to the truck.

In the truck, the four year old boy was tied to bars and the two girls and I were handcuffed to the floor, unable to move as the truck spewed out gas from the back end and started to speed away. We all fell asleep through the agonizing event that just occurred until we reached the workhouse.

The boy was pushed into a line filled with young captured boys while I was put into the line of girls. Each girl was handed a piece of paper stating their job and their cabin number. My grandmother had taught me a little of English so I knew my paper said, “Cooking and cleaning. Cabin 4459.” How hard was cooking and cleaning? I cooked and cleaned all my life.

We were escorted to our green cabins where we cooked. The walls were cracked and the roof was worn out- just like my house at home. It was not very wide, and the stench told us this place hasn’t been swept in years. Many of the girls there were around my age, and all of them were weak and thin like me. We assembled in lines as soldiers told us that we have three hours to cook for 200 people each for breakfast. The next two hours were cleaning all their barracks. At 11:00 we had to cook lunch, then clean the 200 barracks until 6:00, then start to prepare dinner for the 200 people. At 9:30PM we were given one meal. This may seem simple, but it was the most abusive thing I ever did.

Over time, I got used to the packed schedule. I worked my hardest to not do anything wrong because when I came back, my father wouldn’t like to see me broken. Many girls became handicapped, but I only got hurt once my whole year there. In fact, one of my

neighbors died in her first few months, but the other neighbor and I became close friends. We shared personal secrets and wished each other luck everyday for each day was an obstacle by itself.

Our whole cabin soon formed a big family. We made jokes to cheer ourselves up and sang songs while we cleaned. At midnight, all of us even woke up to write letters home together, illegally.

As months went on, there was less to cook and less barracks to clean so that was a good sign that they were losing the war and soldiers were decreasing. I had also heard that two whole countries had been destroyed only halfway through this WW3.

It was late October and we weren’t able to handle the abuse and hard work anymore. All children lost hope and had already planned their deaths until soldiers dragged us outside. Millions of scrawny children were assembled outside. The soldiers were pushing us into the trucks. A soldier grabbed my shoulder and shoved me in as I tripped on the stairs. A friend helped me up, as we used the last of our energy to tumble in. Within minutes, the truck was filled and so cramped that there was no room to breathe as the same truck we were brought here in started. Confused children questioned each other as the driver joyfully announced,” Your country is free. A few fathers are coming home; brothers and sisters will be united today. College girls that were captured may now return to university!” All the children in the truck started cheering and roaring with pride and enjoyment. The once scarred souls were starting to heal and the shouts and yells of the children stuck in my memory like gum. But most of all I heard was the driver saying ‘’college girls’’. Arianna! Ignoring my aching legs, I got up and searched every corner of the truck for Ari, and there she was. Her face had deep red cuts and her limbs were sticks. One of her eyes was black and her ankle was swollen and instead of screaming with joy like the other girls, a waterfall poured out of her eyes and she was breaking out into sweats. I ran towards her wondering what happened.

“Ari! This is the happiest moment! What’s wrong?” I askedShe hugged me tight and kissed me all over, without saying a word. “What’s wrong?” I asked again.“Father’s dead,” she told me.

Roshi the TerribleBy: Maya Merchant

Of all the people at my summer camp, one person was fiendish, cruel, and simply terrible enough to strike pure dread into my heart.

This person was ten years old, half my size, and looked like the most innocent girl on the planet.

If you ever meet her, do not let that deceive you. I may sound like I am exaggerating, paranoid, or even a lunatic. I promise you that I am not, though. I am the only person in the world who truly knows how terrible she is because I had to share a room with her for three interminable weeks.

Everywhere we went, she fooled everyone into thinking that she was a sweet, innocent girl. She never fooled me. Not when she looked at me with her round, endearing face. Not when she blinked her large, chocolate brown eyes at me and smiled. Not even when she wished me a good morning in her high, perky voice.

More than anything, I wish that I could have stayed in a room all by myself. Unfortunately for me, there was no such option available. So that is how I came to be acquainted with Roshi. Or as I call her, Roshi the Terrible.

When my car first drove into the sweltering heat of Chestertown, Maryland, I was bursting with apprehension about my roommate.

“Do you think I’ll like her?” I inquired anxiously. My mother rolled her eyes and sighed.“For the eleventh time, you’ll probably get along just fine,” she replied through gritted

teeth.I learned back uncertainly, doubting the credibility of her hasty answer. My parents

always thought that I should be able to get along with everyone. As we pulled into the campsite, I heard my mother mutter, “Finally.” I narrowed my eyes.

After a few hours, I was settled into my room. My parents and I had exchanged goodbyes, and they had driven back to New Jersey. I was not sitting on my bed, staring at my new roommate.

“Hi,” I greeted, sticking out my hand. “I’m Maya. I’ll be living with you for the next three weeks.”

“I’m Roshi,” she smiled, shaking my hand.“I don’t know how I’ll survive here,” I groaned. “I only brought two books to read.”

Please be a book lover, please be a book lover…I pleaded mentally.I had set my alarm for seven; however, at five in the morning, I was rapidly jerked from

my sleep by a thunderous thumping noise.“Wha-?” I moaned. When I opened my eyes, I saw Roshi walking, or rather, stomping

around and organizing all her supplies.“Roshi,” I whined. “It’s five in the morning. What ARE you doing?”“I wake up early sometimes,” she sniffed, crossing her arms.

“At five in the morning? Would you please try to make less noise?” I begged as politely as I could.

“Okay,” she agreed amiably. However, the noise persisted, and when my alarm finally rang at seven, I was tired and surly. I shuffled my feet to the cafeteria for breakfast, moving like a zombie.

“I’m soooo tired,” I complained to my dorm mates.“How early did you wake up?” Sarah chuckled.“I was supposed to wake up at seven,” I explained, lowering my voice clandestinely so

that Roshi would not hear my complained. “But Roshi woke me up at five.” My counselor, Rhea, heard me and looked at Roshi.

“Roshi, honey?” she called, while I mentally gagged at her endearment.“Yes?” she responded in a voice like poisoned honey. I felt like I would throw up.“What time did you wake up this morning?” Rhea asked cajolingly, as if Roshi was a

toddler who needed constant mollycoddling.“Five.”“Did you make any noise?”“A little, I guess.” Lies!!! I wanted to scream.

Red “Well, if you wake up early, try not to make that much noise.”“Sure!” she replied perkily.“And, be really quiet, ‘cause sometimes in the morning people sleep kinda lighter, and

you don’t want to wake up your roommate.”At this, Roshi’s eyes quickly flickered towards me. “Of course,” she agreed.I was faintly uncomfortable by now. Still, I felt was if I had won a personal victory. Rhea

is on MY side!!!! Roshi would not cause any trouble now. She had agree to be quiet! In front of the counselor!! I smiled to myself in anticipation of undisturbed sleep. It is too bad that I never got it.

I was awakened by my dear roommate’s deafening stomping at six the next day. I did not bother to protest. I simply covered my head with my pillow and groaned like a wounded bull. Despite my obvious distress, Roshi resolutely plowed on, continuing to make as much noise as a clumsy elephant. She was a soldier that would not be hindered from her mission, and I was the enemy.

I felt immense rage and loathing bubble up in my throat. At this moment, I despised Roshi with every fiber of my body. A small voice in my head started screaming something that sounded like shrill, high vowels. I wanted to whip out my superglue and stick those feet that emitted so much noise to the ground.

Instead, I buried my head in my pillow and tried to suppress angry tears in my eyes.Roshi never changed her ways. And because hatred of a person endows us with a view

of every minute thing they do wrong, I began to abhor Roshi more and more as the days passed. I noticed how she was rude to everybody who criticized anything, claiming that they were “ungrateful.” I noticed how she cheated Duck, Duck, Goose and pretended that she did not know the rules. Most importantly, I noticed how she told on anybody who said something she did not like. She widened her spuriously mournful eyes, scrunched up her small mouth with

its corners carefully turned down, and soon nearly every adult was falling over themselves trying to be nice to her.

Evidence of her ability to charm whomever she wanted, or as everyone else said, to “suck up” was revealed when Rhea made us all sit down and say what we liked about each person in our dorm. When she went around the circle, she complimented us quite meagerly and actually spent at least ten minutes trying to think of something polite to say to one of my friends. For Roshi, however, she gushed about how sweet and nice she was.

When it was Roshi’s turn, she spouted haphazard fabrications about our apparently lovely dispositions. To Rhea, however, she exclaimed, “You’re the best counselor I’ve ever met!” When I promptly pointed out that Rhea was the only counselor she had ever met, they both ignored me. Despite their obvious annoyance, my friends sniggered before hastily assuming straight faces when Rhea looked their way.

I let my hatred of Roshi poison the happy memories of that camp. When I returned home, all I could talk about was my roommate. My parents were sympathetic at first but soon became angry.

“That’s all you talk about!” scolded my mom after I, once again, began to narrate the story of “How Roshi Ruined My Life.” “You never talk about your friends. You never talk about hw much you learned. You never talk about the opportunity of even being able to go to a camp like that! You just complain, complain, complain!” With that, she stormed up the stairs into her room.

I sat, seething with rage. I felt as if she had deserted me. She had joined Roshi’s army. I was alone, a solitary soldier with no allies, losing the war even though I was fighting for the right cause.

But after I let my anger dissipate, I began to see that my mother was right. I had had fun. It was not as if my camp was agony. But I could never see that. I let Roshi ruin everything. In a way, she had won the war.

Nowadays, I try to be positive about camp. So far, it is not working to great effect; whenever I tell me friends about it, my story starts with “I had this idiot roommate Roshi…” Maybe it is too late, and the small annoyance of my roommate has forever permeated my memories of camp. Perhaps I will never be able to see the silver lining in the raincloud.

But I still try to remember the fun times I had. If I catch myself whining about Roshi to my friends, I try to counterbalance my pessimism with an optimistic story about my friends or my classes. A story that shows that I did have fun because, after everything I whined and complained about, I really did.

Maybe someday, I will be able to tell everyone about my camp and what I say will be happy. Maybe I will have forgotten about Roshi.

Until that day, all I can do is try to stop complaining about Roshi, remember the happy times I had, and hope.

GoBy: William Wu

One goalthrough faith,feetslapping against turf.Breath weakand faint,strugglingfor air.Sun againstour backs,feet flattening grass.Sneakers breakingThrough underbrush.The impacton our heels.Soaringover turf.FlyingPast opponents.Sprintingthe last meters.Pushing beyondboundaries.Breath runningout, legs feelingsore, brain hurting,arms aching, chest pumping,lungs gasping,DONE!Hands touchingRibbon, tired armsripping it down.Inspiration bornthrough sore legs.Won through hopeand determination.FlounderingBut warm inside.

My Beloved TreeBy: Vidisha Jha

Kept me shaded in the summer.Lost your leaves in the fall.

Covered with snow in the winter.Cherry blossoms in the spring.

My beloved tree.

Furious winds with angry howls.Pelted with a downpour from the sky.

Down you fell, to the Earth.And your comfort was no more.

My beloved tree.

MathBy: Malhar Khandare

The best subject is mathIt leads you to a good path

You can go to YaleBut you cannot fail

There are many operationsThe hardest is triple integration

There are 20 steps in allIt’s so complicated you might fall

Addition is when you add,It’s so easy you’ll be glad

Subtraction is taking awayI learnt it yesterday

Multiplication is adding more than onceIn the long run it’ll help you a bunchDivision is many processes combined

The quotient is the answer that you’re trying to find

There’s advanced honors, honors,level one, and level two.

The teacher’s recommendationFinds the right level for you!

Simple BeginningsBy: Priyan Selvakumar

We have forgotten even the mightiest oak starts as a seedShakespeare once had an English teacherAnd there was an Albert Einstein who could not understand particle physics

Even Da VinciWho possessed every talent And created machines before their time He was a man without equalNone can match his intriguing skills None doubt his immense genius

None can even dream of exceeding him in artistic skillYet he was once nothing more than baby and knew no other art but the art of crying

Michael Phelps was once scared of waterAmelia Earhart was afraid of heightsJustin Bieber was once a nobody Thomas Edison was once a kid who was failing school Yet without him the world would lie in darknessFor the rest of eternity

We name men and women who accomplished great thingsPeople who complete unimaginable, incredible, and even incomprehensible feats Yet they were once like you and meLights did not shine from heaven as they were bornThey could not talk nor walk at birth None could do calculus in preschoolNone of them could catch ball before they talkThey were once normal people Not very different from us

So maybe you or pI could become the geniuses of tomorrow

Pi World (Rhythm of Thrift Shop)By: Shiv Patel

Hey classmates, want to discuss pi?Pi, pi, pi, pi(x3)3.-14-15-9!26-53-58-9!79-32-38-4!62-64-33-8!37-95-02-8!84-19-71-6!93-99-37-5!10-58-20-9!74-94-45-9!I gonna’ tell ya’ bout’ pi,I got circumference and area of circles,I, I, I’m huntin’, lookin’ for the finders,They are the Indians.I walk into the room, seein’ those digits and I’m like, “Oh my god, that’s a lot a’ numbers!”So I’m pumped up about pi day, today-ay!I look on the board and see the symbol π.And my classmates are like, ”Man, today’s Einstein’s b-day!”Sittin’ in my chair, starin’ at the board,Thinkin’ how these guys are sayin’ a hundred digits of pi.Feelin’ like a lonely guy, not knowin’ the facts of pi, 3.141592.Shoulda’ studied, I only know 7 digits.But lord, it took me an hour to figure that out!Rollin’, jumpin’, but hey, I learned 7 digits!Classmates are sayin’ it like its as easy as uno, dos, tres!But for me, its as hard as 954322 times 32535!I’m apposin’ ancient Indians,‘Cause it’s irrational, hard to know, hard to study.Man, this is crazy!Not for real-I’ll just ask my teacher-I’ll just use her intelligence!Then my mouth will be like,”3.141592653589793238462643383”I gonna’ tell ya’ bout’ pi,I got circumference and area of circles,I, I, I’m huntin’, lookin’ for the finders,They are the Indians.I’m in that pi mode.I sound incredible.I’m in this awesome pi mess.From room 314.I’m in that pi mode (that’s right).I sound incredible (yeah).I’m in this awesome pi mess (pi mess).From room 314 (314)PI!

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