Hi! My name is Goldilocks Blue, and I am 2 years old. I am a golden retriever and was separated from my actual mother when I was 6 weeks old and was adopted by a human when I was 10 months. My owner’s name is Mary, and she is a news reporter. Even though she is not my biological mother, I act like she is. One thing you’d want to know about me is that I HATE getting dirty with things like mud but LOVE getting covered in water when it’s bath time, pool party time, or when me and Mary play fetch on the beach. I don’t even mind the sand because I often get wet in the sea. 

    One sunday afternoon, I was playing in the backyard of my house when Niko the pug peeked through the fence between our houses yelling, “ Hey Goldi! Goldi, Goldi, Goldi!” Niko had been my best friend ever since Mary and I moved to a house. 

I whipped my head in his direction, startled and alarmed. “ Niko! What’s going on!?”

“ Look!” Niko said, dropping a flyer on the grass and pinned it to the fence with his paw. I squinted and focused my eyes on the holes in the fences. 

“Oh my god!” I gasped. In front of my eyes was a flyer that had a picture of a big, spotless bone. I love to chew on bones! I thought.  “What do I have to do to get the bone?” I ask.

Nicko pointed above the picture of the bone. I read the words on the flyer, Digging competition. I read in my mind. “OH NO! NO NO NO. I am NOT getting my paws dirty for a bone that I will find in DIRT.” I took a step back.

“WHAT!? Oh come on Goldi, why don’t you like to dig!? It’s fun! Plus isn’t it worth this shiny new bone? I heard it will be freshly dug in the morning of the competition.”

“But Niko, what's the point if it’ll be in the dirt until some dog in the competition finds it?” Goldi asked

“In the dirt!? Oh no, no, no Goldi. This bone will be encased in a ziplock bag the WHOLE, ENTIRE, TIME.”

“Oh.” I thought for a minute. “ Well I suppose that’s ok, but who else is entering the competition?”

Niko put the flyer on the grass. “Oh you know, just old Mr. Maxwell.” Niko started to scratch his neck.

Goldilocks got suspicious. “ That’s it?”

“Well maybe pinky the poodle might have put her name there too?” Niko chuckled nervously. Pinky the poodle was my worst enemy. We hated each other's guts. And it wasn't even for a very good reason. We just didn't like each other!

“So?” I  asked. “It’s not like she’s going to win anything.” I said confidently. But inside I was very nervous.

The next morning I woke up and started to train for the competition. Everyday I dug more and more dirt. Except, I used gloves for Monday and Tuesday. I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to actually dig without gloves in the competition but I decided to go slow and steady with the digging. 

Wednesday came and I was ready to go all in with my paws. You can do it! I said in my mind. Niko believes in you! I closed my eyes, extended my left paw, and put it in a patch of mud I found next to a school. I could feel the squishiness under my paw and I could feel it as my paw slowly started to sink into the mud. I resisted the urge to lift up my paw and run back home but… Blurgh . I opened my eyes and lifted my paw from the gooey mud. DISGUSTING! I walked back home disappointed in myself and layed down on my comfortable bed. I washed my paw with the hose outside and ate dinner head down. When it was bedtime, Mary gave me a big kiss on my head and we said goodnight. I started to chew on my bone toy and somehow I worried myself to sleep.

It was Thursday morning, and I was determined to put my paws in that mud. I went over to the school and found the same patch of mud from the day before. Once again I extended my paw and slowly put it down in the mud feeling much braver than before. My goal was to put it in the mud for 20 seconds and then randomly feel the mud so that I will be prepared to put in dry dirt that will be far better than the mud. I counted the seconds in my head 1..2..3..4..5.. All the way to 20 seconds. I held my breath and opened my eyes. I started to play with the mud, pushing one way and then back to the other. Then, I started to search around the mud imagining that there was a big, clean, bone in it. 

After 2 minutes of playing around in the mud I stopped and picked up my paw. Then, I walked home leaving messy prints on the ground. 

“Goldi?” Called Mary

“Bark!” I barked to let Mary know I was in the house.

“Have you been out of the house?” Mary said, eyeing the messy paw prints leading up to me. She looked at me with her pointer finger waving side to side.

“Bad dog!” She said disappointed and angrily. “ You have to promise me you won’t go out of the house without my permission again!”

I whined and put my head down on the floor.

“Good. And I’m taking your bone away.” She said taking away the stuffed bone next to my bed.

Mary didn’t play fetch with me that afternoon, or give me a kiss before bed. I knew I shouldn't have gone out of the house when Mary was gone, but I needed to get that bone! With that bone I would be the happiest dog in the WORLD! I shook the thought away and went right to sleep.

It was early Saturday morning and the day of the competition. All the dogs in the neighborhood woke up early so that we wouldn't wake up our owners. I felt bad going back on my promise, but I worked too hard to not go to the competition. We all went to the dog park for the competition. Once everyone got there, the contestants stood in the middle of a circle with dogs of all kinds. I could hear the chitter chatter in the crowd as the judges stepped forward. The head judge in the middle of the three was whispering to the other judges. This made me very nervous, but then I remembered the reason I was here was TO GET THAT BONE. I shook off the bad feelings and put my game face on. 

The head judge stepped ahead of the other judges and in a booming voice said,

“1...2...3..GO

And just like that, the 3 of us contestants found a circle to dig in and we dug down, down, down. I shuddered when I found ants and when flies buzzed over my head. I started digging slowly and was soon in the lead in terms of who dug the farthest down. I dug, dug, dug, and soon realized that Pinky the poodle was catching up and Mr. Maxwell was talking to himself about how he accidentally swallowed a butterfly when he was a little pup. There were 10 more seconds left on the clock and Pinky was picking up her pace. She dug so deep that it looked as though the hole was an endless void. She had this confident smile on her face and the pink streak in her hair was getting covered in dirt but she didn’t seem to mind! I kept working when suddenly, the crowd started chanting, “5..4..3..2..1..!”

“TIME IS UP!” Screamed the judges. I had not found the bone, Mr. Maxwell obviously did not find the bone, but that must mean..! I looked up at Pinky the poodle and she had it! She had the bone! Pinky held it in her teeth and sood proudly so that the whole audience could see her.

“PINKY THE POODLE IS THE WINNER!” Said the main judge. The audience stomped their hind leg in applause and headed out to the food bowls to celebrate Pinky’s victory. Tears started to sting the back of my eyes and I felt like throwing up because of all the dirt I touched, but I didn’t let my emotions get the best of me. I felt proud that I was able to come that far and was so grateful that Niko had shown me that flyer that I did something I never thought I'd do.

“Hey, um congrats on winning the competition!” I said with a little smile. 

“Oh, thanks.” We stood there in silence for a minute when finally, Pinky said, “So, I’m sorry that you didn’t win the competition, but do you want to have alternate days where I go first and take the bone home and then you take it the next day?”

“REALLY!?” I asked in disbelief.

“I mean, sure. I don’t even like bones as much as you do so it seems like you deserve it more than me.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! I said. 

“No problemo.” said Pinky 

At around 7:00 a.m everyone went back to their houses and I walked to mine. Mary was still sleeping because she likes to sleep a little more every weekend. My mind was racing with questions but who was I to complain?

Tsunami

The tsunami roars 

Crashing down

On the beaches 

Its massive claws crash on the beaches

Making the people run

Swiping at the buildings

Making them crash down effortlessly

It fluffs out its fur

Making the sand tremble

And then the tiger backs down 

Tired from the battle

Into the peaceful waves again.

Dear Max, 

We have recently heard about you almost drowning on your vacation to Hawaii at a pool, and we regret (or are relieved, in your case) to tell you that the GDA, also known as the Global Death Association, does not grant you entry to the afterlife. Here are the reasons:

1. We can tell that your death was not intentional, and that you probably wish to savor a few decades more of life. Furthermore, this close call was not entirely your fault, as it was your parent’s who thought that you were fit enough to stay afloat.

2. At the time of your accident, you were 9 years old. There is a very slim chance of somebody dying at only 9, so we decided to change your Fate (Which is decided randomly at birth, as well as your cause of death) to a lifespan of [REDACTED] years. 
3. You dying may cause our public opinion to lower, since there are already suggestions from the Deceased Residents to not arrange deaths under the ages of 10. Obviously we cannot accept their terms, but we can let this one incident slide.

It is very rare of an occasion that we excuse a death, for too much of this will result in unreasonable circumstances. We hope that you live the rest of your life in peace, and hope that you won’t join our Deceased Residents soon. 

Sincerely, the GDA, Department of Entry

Sarah, 6th grade, Poem

Dandelion

The season of flying

Is a dandelion's dream

Your little parachute

Is my gentle yearning

Always miss you

My little twirling fairy

Who drifts through the wildflower field

Like an adorable fluffy bubble

Don't blossom so quickly

Although you have dreams to catch

Enjoy this ride of freedom

With my admiration on the side

Don’t dance away so swiftly

Although you have reasons to leave

In the moment of reincarnation

Please hold on tightly

To the secret wish I made

My sweet memory of you

Carves a string of footprints

The places they lead to

Have your smile and mine

An Immune Response 

By Joshua  

Getting sick has to be one of the most hated things, especially during this pandemic. The immune system is what all humans rely on to prevent and control microorganisms that attack your body. 

Your immune system is one of the most complicated and hardworking organ systems in your entire body, and the biology behind it is commonly misunderstood. This speech will explain an immune response in a simple and easy manner, so even biology noobs like me (point at myself) would understand. 

In order to trigger your immune system, something must first bother it. For example, if bacteria enters your body through a small cut, your immune system will be notified and will start preparing and releasing different waves of different types of immune cells. 

By signaling attack, your immune system will release its first (1 finger) wave of fighters, the macrophage. These enormous fighter cells are always ready when signaled and will start devouring and digesting up to 100 bacteria using their enzymes. But, in many cases, the prepared macrophages are too exhausted and need extra help. 

These exhausted macrophages will call for help by ejecting messenger proteins into the blood, waiting to be picked up by the second (2 fingers) wave of defense—the neutrophils. With murderous intent, the neutrophils will vomit out chemicals destroying everything it touches, including your own healthy cells. The careless neutrophils will explode themselves after some time, to prevent too much collateral damage. As you can probably tell, these reckless warriors only live to kill. 

If the body is still overwhelmed, the dendritic cell—a portion of the third (3 fingers) wave—will be released. Instead of fighting, this cell wants to find the correct t-cell with the antibody for a strategy against this specific bacteria. Once the t-cell is found, a chain reaction is set off. 

The t-cell will travel itself along lymph nodes—the immune highway—to find a proper B-cell. The certain b-cell will give the immune system the ability to use and take advantage of the weapons stored in the t-cell. 

Once these pairs are found, your immune system can now take advantage of your interior t-cell weapons, and fighting is resumed. From now on, your body must wish itself good luck in the ongoing battle against bacteria. (Big pause) 

Misunderstanding your immune system may make you unaware of the ongoing battle inside your body. Because for you, a cut may just be a minor annoyance, but for your immune system, it was a raging battle of life or death. 

Thanks for listening!

Laundry

One by one, clothes are tossed,

Into the washing machine.

A rattle as the door closes.

A beep as it starts.

Tumbling, shaking,

Like a dog after a swim.

As the clothes are soaped,

Cleaned and wrung dry.

One by one, untangled,

Thrown into the dryer.

As it heats up like an oven.

To dry and soften the clothes.

A few long beeps,

Tells us the laundry is ready.

Little ones come together,

To help hang and fold.

The smell is fresh,

as fragrant as flowers.

Blankets, towels, shirts and pants.

We are ready for a fresh start.

Max, 6th grade, Story

Harry and Hagrid approached a dock. There was a small building next to the dock, and people were heading into the building. Next to the dock, the Atlantic Ocean, gleaming a beautiful blue, stretched into the distance. As far as he could remember, Harry had never seen the ocean. He has lived a sheltered life, and the Dursleys rarely took him anywhere. Hagrid then said: “Well, this is where you're on yer own. Here, yeh’ll need this if yeh want to get on the ship.” Hagrid passed Harry a very formal looking, black ticket. It said , 

Salem School Of Wizardry And Witchcraft

TICKET 493027: Harry James Potter

Trip 732, from Blackpool, England, to III, IOWA

Hagrid scrunched his face. “Oh, don’t worry about the exact location of the school bein’ hidden. That’s for their privacy. The ship’ll take yeh right to the place.” Questions swam in Harry’s head. “Wait, what ship?” Harry said. “How do I get into it? Where is it?” He looked back at Hagrid, who was supposed to be behind him. Hagrid was nowhere to be seen. 

Harry assessed his situation. Hagrid mentioned a boat, but the entire dock was empty of ships. Nonetheless, the dock was full of people. Some of them were carrying luggage that were similar to Harry’s, so he followed them into the building. The building was very small, about as big as a normal room. At the front desk there was a woman wearing black robes. “Hello?” Harry said. “Hello! Which ship will you be traveling on today?”, the woman said with a smile. “Err..” Hagrid hadn’t actually told Harry what ship he would be traveling on. The woman’s eyes wandered over to his ticket. “Oh, are you a special traveler? Well then, I will need your ticket, please.” Harry gave the woman his ticket, where she put it in a box. “Well, that's all you need to do. Good luck on your journey!” The woman suddenly pushed a golden button next to her. Instantly, the floor beneath Harry opened up, and he fell down into the ground. 

When Harry landed, he looked around him. He was deep underground, in a giant place the size of a warehouse. Next to him, there was a ship. Titled in big letters on the side said: The Chimaera. People were excitedly boarding the ship. At the entrance stood two wizards in long robes, greeting everybody as they went in. Harry went up to them. “Excuse me, are we underground?”, he asked. One wizard said: “Why yes, of course! We are very deep in the ocean, and that's where we will sail, as this ship travels 20 times the normal ship does, and we can’t risk being spotted by Muggles. Obviously, please do not try to access the upper deck of the ship, or you will be flattened instantly by the water pressure. Have a great trip!” The answers Harry got only lead to more questions, but at that time a voice echoed through the room. “Attention please! The Chimaera will be sailing and underway in 3 minutes! All passengers, please board the ship!” Harry decided not to waste any more time, and quickly went aboard. 

The inside of the ship had a lot of people. It looked very fancy, like a small luxurious cruise. After going up a flight of stairs, Harry found himself in a long hallway, with doors leading to large compartments. He walked down the hallway, until finding an empty compartment. After entering, Harry saw the compartment had two seats, with one side of the wall having windows. There was a table and a place to store luggage, with a carpeted floor.  Harry put down his luggage and sat down, putting hedwig in his lap. A few moments later, a person went into the compartment. He was a tall boy with yellow hair and freckles. The boy was carrying a large cat that looked like it was a struggling tiger. “Crookshanks- Ouch! Stay- still-” He wrestled with the cat for a moment (All while startling Hedwig), before shoving him in a suitcase and locking it. Finally noticing Harry, he said, “Hey! Sorry to disturb you and your owl. That was my cat, Crookshanks. He sometimes gets anxious in new places. Anyways, are you also a first-year?” “Yes.” Harry said. He was still surprised at the sudden events. “Me too! Nice to meet you. I’m Peter, Peter Smith. What’s your name?” The boy said, worriedly glancing at the suitcase, which just started moving. “Oh, I’m Harry. Harry Potter.” Harry answered. The boy’s blue eyes widened. “Harry Potter? The Boy who Lived? I knew you would be starting this year, but I never knew you were going here!”, Peter said excitedly. “Well yeah, I’m starting here.” Harry said. Harry was starting to get embarrassed by the reactions of people meeting him. “That’s awesome! I hope we get put in the same Team!” Peter said. Harry looked confused. “What do you mean by Team?” he said. “You don’t know? Well, supposedly at Salem, each year all students are randomly put in two teams, Ludor or Froctor. They compete for which team does better by the end of the year. I think this is supposed to honor the founders of the school.” Peter said. At this moment, another voice said: “Everybody, may I have your attention? Now that we are all seated, we would like to thank you for choosing the Chimaera. We know that there are many means of magical travel, and we feel honored that you choose our ship. Now, today’s trip will be sunny, with smooth waters, and strong winds, not that it really matters. The trip will take an estimated 5 hours. Due to the latest magical inventions, you can walk around anywhere, at any time. Once again, thank you for choosing the Chimaera, and we wish you a safe journey.” After this, the entire ship gave a strong jolt, and outside the windows there was nothing but dark, misty waters, as the ship started its voyage.

Albridge, 9321 Lowland Street

(199) 527 - 1316

uncreative.name@bor.ed

Applying for Secondary Project Manager

Skills

I don’t consider myself a person who is too complacent.  That was something I learned a long, long time ago, and a thing that I’ll never forget.  You’ll be sure that if you hire me, I will not go easy on the developers, and I will be sure to give them an ample amount of free time.  Most of their hours will be spent working, but I will not overwork them to the point of rebellion.  Whenever I’m working, I’ll only be working, you won’t have to be afraid that I am slacking off.

Experience

September 2024 - June 2027

Albridge Secondary School, Albridge- “That Guy”

• I never knew what they were talking about at the lunch tables, while I sat on the grass, watching them eat the pizzas and pastas and burgers and all kinds of food.  I was gluten-free.
• There was that time when that sporty kid put the lock of the girl he liked backwards.  I found the combination, fixed it, and nobody thanked me.
• One day I walked past the group of people who used to be my friends.  When I was away, I heard them speak of me, and I was sure that it wasn’t nice.

December 2027 - January 2028

Fisher Prep School Discord Server, The Internet- Moderator

• Those days when I first came to that place, all the burdens of secondary school freed from my back in an instant, that first day when I sat attentively in class and chatted with a nice guy that I’ve never known before.  Nobody knew my problems, my issues then.
• One day, in the server, somebody gave me the moderator role.  I’m not sure why, but I suppose at that time, there was a multitude of reasons.  Grades, likability, innocence (compared to some of the others at Fisher Prep)...  
• I don’t remember exactly what had happened, but there was a thing, I told my friend a thing and then it all came crashing down on my head, my web of influences of friendships that I had so painstakingly built over an entire month.  The next day when I went online, they had removed my moderator and muted me.  Forever.  

February 2028 - Present

Mental Function, The Recesses of my Mind- A Wanderer

• I don’t know when it started but it did.
• When the walls of my house and the noise of my pets were no longer comforting.
• When I felt detached, felt separated, felt like a wanderer.

Education

Somewhere over the entire course of my life

Everywhere, Everywhere- I don’t know… 

From when I was born to… now, I suppose, I don’t know what I learned.  I learned something, something that you could never understand, and I don’t think I can understand, either.  But my time wasn’t all wasted, at least.

Awards

• “The Victimized One” - Albridge Secondary School
• “The Quiet Moderator” - Fisher Prep School Discord Server
• “Shame” - Fisher Prep School Discord Server
• “The One who Learned” - Everywhere

Dear XYZ:

I am standing on the pale yellow shores of the very beach we used to swim in. I am staring at the cold turquoise water, white foam sizzling at the surface every time a wave lapped the shore. I stand there, envisioning us on our surfboards, mine a pink one with stripes in different hues, and yours with palm leaves customly painted on. I see us splashing water onto each other as we paddled out into deeper waters. Sometimes I wish you were here with me. It was too painful for me to stay at the beach any longer, as the memories were drowning  me into the past, the happy memories that turned longing when you moved away. I went to the train stop near the beach. I had hitched a ride on it to come here. As I sat down on my seat, I watched the train tracks sliding past the train. They reminded me of us. We were always close, always together. There were bridges between us to convey every detail of every minute we missed being together. But no matter how close we were, our destinies were never meant to be together. Even when we did cross paths, we met for such a short time, then continued our separate ways. I realized that as the train turned left at the cross. Now, the other track got further and further, until it was invisible. Like us. It was as if we never met. I got off at the next station and walked around the streets of the city. Every single detail reminded me of our time together. The woman selling beads and handmade pottery, the man calling out prices for corn at a stand, fluctuating the prices so people would buy them, even the people walking on the sidewalks together. I felt bad for the man selling corn (he looked poor), and bought two. One for me and the other for you. Of course, I ate yours for you since you weren’t here. We had always eaten corn together. I chuckled. We had made a pact to never eat corn alone. I had just broken that rule. I loped to the pottery store next to the corn stall. Did you know that the pottery was a mixture of mud and clay? We used to make cups and bowls out of mud and tried to round up squirrels for tea parties. I once even tried to dress one up in my old doll’s dress. I got a friendship bracelet for you from the store. You’ll probably receive it with this letter. But the memories were overpowering. I ran away from the streets into my motel room. At night I stared out the window, the cool ocean breeze caressing me. The moon was full today. The tides would be strong. Hopefully they would turn, and would hopefully bring us together again. I miss you.

 From ABC.

Dear Richard, it seems that you have come clean,

And so will I. 

I do not think that you should consider what you did a failure.

For I am alive and we have much to share with the world and the opportunity to do so. 

But if we had not, it had still shaped us as how the wind

Begins to carve our bodies little by little each time it passes.

As soft as clouds, pure white, and the wretched songs

Of crows through each path. 

It is funny how nowadays we have houses to protect us from hurricanes.

And it is funny how sometimes they fall on us, and we are not carved

But crushed, and like the house we have to be rebuilt. 

Perhaps your house was the innocence of it all.

Perhaps I was the final blow when I told you. 

But I do not put myself to blame.

As you created your own winds against you.

And maybe with the help of others, your house has fallen

But I see that you are slowly rebuilding it.

As we age, it is peculiar to count how many designs

We have for the walls that protect us.

Hide and seek

Oh, there you are! Come to me! Quick! Oh, thank goodness, you’re okay. Quick, we must hide. It’s for a game. Hurry, let’s hide in the janitor’s closet. It’s not too far. Yes, we are playing hide and seek. Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry. It’s just a game. Now hurry! We don’t want to get found. Hold on, there could be someone around the corner. Let’s first hide behind this trash can. Oh good, no one is there. Quick, let’s get to the closet. 

Shhhh, don’t make a sound. We must be quiet, or they will find us. What fun is a game of hide and seek if they find us? We must be still, or they might see us. We can’t let them see us. Who’s seeking, you ask? Well, that’s not important. What’s important is that we must be quiet and still. Don’t make a single sound, even if you hear doors banging loudly, people screaming, or gunshots being fired; it’s all part of the game. People enjoy playing this game, that’s why it’s loud outside. Yes, there are other people playing this game too, didn’t you know? Now hush, be quiet. We don’t want to lose the game. 

Oh no, I hear footsteps. Quickly, let’s hide behind this cart. Get behind me. Shh, be quiet. Oh, don’t be worried, it’s just a game. We want to win this game, so let’s try to not get found okay? Oh no, it’s getting closer. Little sis, whatever happens, I just want you to know I love you, and you mean the world to me. Just remember that we had such a fun time playing hide and seek today. Oh my God, the door is opening. Oh no, oh no. I love you, okay? I love you.

Oh, officer! Oh, thank God you’re here. Can we come out? Is everyone safe? Is the shooter gone?

So there I was. The warm sunlight wraps me in a warm blanket, just like the ones Gran used to knit for me. I sigh and stretch out in the soft grass. I reach out my right hand and rub the gnarled bark of Gran’s willow tree. I reach out my left hand and brush the soft, delicate petals of Mum’s purple water lily, resting with some water plants in a small pond. I stretch out my toes and brush my bare feet on the rough trunk of Grandpa’s palm tree. Trying not to remember all my losses, I think of Rymnie’s little hydrangea bush, and Sajo’s skinny olive tree, side by side in a small corner of the massive 20-acre garden. Hopefully their little plants can grow big and strong to protect the fragile souls hidden inside. I blink open my eyes in the bright light and look at the wooden fence, where a beautiful but fraile morning glory vine and a silvery dichondra are creeping up the grey-brown planks. Next to the morning glory is a metal plaque that reads, “Saralina Silva, moonfall 1037 - ----” and next to the dichondra is a plaque that says, “Floratine Terrestra, moonfall 1036 - ----.” Mine is the dichondra, and my best friend Saralina’s is the morning glory. 

With a quiet sigh, I stand up and step onto the path of stone bricks. Each stone brick is engraved with the name of a person, their plant, and the moonfall they passed away. Every heavy step I take reminds how many of those people could have been saved if everyone was more careful. Although the bricks, heated by the sun, are warm under my feet, a chill runs through my body.

----------------------

“Mmm, this sandwich is delicious!” Mum said, chewing with her eyes closed.

“I agree, but I still think your tomato sandwiches taste bett-”

I was interrupted by a loud splash in the direction of the lake.

Rymnie and Sajo had jumped off the dock, sending little droplets of water jewels flying over the picnic blanket. Dad chuckled and ran off to play with them in the lake. I turned back to Mum and she was grinning, shaking her head at the rest of our family. 

I breathed in the cool air and took in the reflection of the mountains on the turquoise lake. Elegant willow trees leaned over the water, swaying their braided strands of leaves in the breeze.

“Mum, isn’t Spirit Lake so beautiful? Thanks so much for bringing us here!”

“...Mum?”

I pull my eyes away from the dazzling lake and gasp. Mum was clutching her stomach, her content grin replaced by a frightened look of realization.

“Dad! Dad! Mum-she’s- Mum's sick!”

Dad whipped his head around, his shoulder-length hair sending droplets of water in all directions. His eyes widened, and his playful smile faded into a look of surprise. He sloshed through the water as fast he could and ran to Mum’s side. Her face was now so pale, it matched the flowers on our picnic blanket.

Dad turned to me and said tensely, “Floratine- get Sajo and Rymnie. We have to go to the hospital.”

During the drive to the hospital, Rymnie and Sajo’s mouths wouldn’t even open to let the millions of questions burst out. Dad wrapped Mum in the red and white picnic blanket, and glanced every five seconds to check if she was OK.

Just fifteen minutes from the hospital, Mum’s trembling hand reached over and touched Dad. 

“Please… pull over. I want to… say… goodbye,” Mum whispered, her normally sweet and silky voice replaced by one thinner than paper.

“What-Maria-we’re almost there! Hold on...please!” Dad pleaded, not even trying to hide the desperation in his voice.

Mum shivered and gripped Dad’s arm tighter. Finally, Dad succumbed and pulled over on the highway. 

“Come...let’s have a big bear hug,” Mum whispered.

We all crowded around the passenger seat and embraced Mum in a traditional Terrestra Family bear hug. Her thin lips pulled up into the faintest ghost of a smile. 

Mum looked each one of us in the eyes and whispered, “I’ll love you...always...”

Then Mum closed her eyes, and slept.

---------------

I shake my head, trying to clear the memory out of my head. It’s been nine months and twenty-three days, and that memory still haunts me.

A week after Mum’s death, Doctor Sana, the soul keeper of the soul garden, read Mum’s will to us and distributed the items she wanted us to have. Rymnie and Sajo each received one of Mum’s secret pastry recipes and I got the lily-shaped pendant that she always wore around her neck. Dad was given something earlier but we weren’t allowed to know because it was “an emotionally hard time for him.” Quite obviously it was hard for us kids too. It still is.

I open the creaky wooden gate and walk out of the soul garden. The stone brick path continues through the forest to a clearing called “Witches’ Grove,” which is the least witchly place in the world since it’s filled with tulips and dandelions. Since Mum’s death, Dad has been spending every afternoon at this clearing digging a hole. The townspeople say he’s gone mad with grief, and is trying to dig his way to Caelpratum. Caelpratum is where everyone who’s good goes after they die. It’s a lovely meadow filled with the spirit plants of everyone who resides there. The townspeople also say that even if Dad digs his way to Caelpratum, the meadow fairies will kick him out because of his sins. Since Dad is the nicest person in the world(at least before Mum’s death), I find that hard to believe.

I hear the familiar chhkk shook foom of Dad digging and throwing the rocks and dirt over his shoulder. I peer into the depth of the hole, and see a faint lantern light bobbing up and down as Dad continues to shovel.

“Hey Dad,” I call into the hole, my voice echoing up to me in layers of sorrow.

My only response is a clank of Dad’s shovel against something hard, probably a rock. My dad grunts and he begins to dig around the object. I sit down, dangling my feet off the dirt cliff, sending specks of dirt and rocks tumbling into Dad’s abyss. Suddenly, Dad drops his shovel and gasps. I hear the sound of Dad climbing up the ladder, so I stand up and wait for him to come out. Dad pulls himself out of the hole, his once shoulder-length hair now hanging in tangles halfway down his waist. His sweat is muddy, staining his face with rivers of grey.

In a ragged voice, hoarse from nine months of unuse, he rasps, “Floratine, give me your mother’s pendant.”

“Dad, this is mine. Mum gave it to me,” I say, shocked at hearing my dad’s voice.

He takes one step closer, breathing his stale breath into my face. Reaching out with one of his calloused hands, Dad tries to grab the pendant from my neck, but I turn and start to run down the path. I don’t know if it’s Dad’s dishevelled state, the fact that he tried to grab Mum’s pendant, or the manic gleam in his usually lifeless eyes, but he scares me. I hear his hiking shoes thumping on the dirt trail, then on the stone bricks, getting closer and closer until I feel a large hand grab my shoulder and pull me around. Dad snatches the lily pendant and pulls hard, breaking the chain around my neck. Then he turns and runs down the stone brick path again. 

I reach up and feel my neck, empty from the chain that connected the last piece I had of Mum to me. Tears prick my eyes as I stare at Dad’s receding form, disappearing as he rounds a bend into Witches’ Grove.

Feeling a knot in my stomach, I run to the gate of the soul garden and fling it open, and scramble inside.

“Doctor Sana,” I shout, “I need your help!”

The door of the soul shed creaks open, and Doctor Sana peers out, his face streaked with dirt.

“What is it, Floratine?” he asks, his brow furrowed in annoyance.

After a deep breath, I tell him everything that has happened since I left the garden just thirty minutes ago. With every word I say, Doctor Sana’s face goes a shade paler.

“Floratine, what your dad is doing is far more than just violating the law of the soul garden. He’s violating the law of The Soul Keeper.”

I gasp and whisper, “The Soul Keeper?”

With a grim nod, Doctor Sana turns and hurries back into his shed, his long green robe swishing behind him. After some clanks and clunks, Doctor Sana emerges from the shed, brandishing what looks like a gnarled branch intertwined with golden vines. Without another word, he beckons me to follow him and runs out of the garden.

As we rush down the path, a sound of chanting fills my ears. Doctor Sana quickens his pace, his gardening boots thumping rhythmically on the path. Once we reach the clearing, Doctor Sana begins to mutter a spell under his breath, clasping the wooden branch between his hands like a staff. I pull my eyes away from Doctor Sana, and stare at the whirlwind of leaves and flowers spiraling from Dad’s hole.

Inside the hole, the chanting grows louder, winding its way into my head. I fall to the ground, clutching my head as a whirlwind of memories cascade into my mind’s eye.

I see Mum singing while brushing my hair; Mum holding my hand while I chatter about my day; Mum making paper snowflakes with Rymnie and Sajo; Mum snuggling with Dad while they watch a movie; Mum laughing at Dad during the Family Talent Show. The pain in my head subsedes and I slowly open my eyes. 

I don’t hear the howling of wind anymore, and the ground is littered with pale pink cherry blossoms. I stand up and find that the hole Dad dug is gone. In its place is a beautiful woman, wearing a flowing white dress laced with purple water lilies. Dad emerges from behind a large oak tree and gazes in awe at the gorgeous woman.

She laughs, her voice tinkling like windchimes. Dad edges slowly towards her, his eyes fixed on her flawless face.

“M-Maria? Is that you?” he whispers, his mouth agape.

“Hello, Peter,” the woman says, holding out her arms.

Dad rushes into her arms with a sigh of relief. I watch in horror as her dress grows longer, enveloping Dad in the soft fabric. She laughs that tinkling laugh again, draws a long purple strand of glittering liquid out of Dad’s throat. Dad falls limp on the ground as the liquid swirls and transforms into a purple water lily on the woman’s white dress.

I gasp and slowly back away. The woman turns her flawless face towards me and glides across the clearing. A faint smile lingers on her perfectly red lips. I try to look away, but soon I’m fixated on her face too.

“Why, isn’t this my favorite daughter, Floratine,” the woman says, the sweet words gliding out of her mouth like honey.

I try to wrench free of her hypnotizing gaze, but her eyes are so blue...so captivating. I feel her soft arms around me, and I snuggle in, just like I did during Terrestra Family bear hugs. Her dress wraps around me, like the cool spring water of Spirit Lake. I feel myself gliding into unconsciousness, and the last thing I hear before everything goes black is her tinkling laugh.

--------------------------

The Soul Grabber is a demon,

She sucks human souls.

One look at her flawless face,

And she’ll swallow you whole.

So there I was, rolling along with my fellow chocolate pieces on a giant conveyor belt in a loud, chaotic factory. Some chocolates were trembling and crying out loud. Others were bravely steeling themselves for what was to come. For we were all headed into a vicious battle, one that we would not likely emerge from unscathed. Rumble rumble rumble. The conveyor belt brought us ever closer to the gaping maw of our indomitable opponent: a massive, clanking machine. 

My fellow chocolates and I were all born some minutes earlier from a vat of liquid chocolate simmering in a fiery furnace. We learnt of our objective from the batch before us: liberate the chocolate factory from the evil rule of The Machine, a large metal monster residing on the other end of the factory. We could only watch in horror as they were all promptly devoured and slain by The Machine. Our last glimpse of our predecessors was their corpses, imprinted with strange marks and cut into many little pieces, being carried away from the battlefield and deposited into little cardboard graves. 

Within seconds, the conveyor belt had brought us to the mouth of the monster. It was truly a terrible sight. With spiked wheels, pumping pistons, spinning centrifuges, and a pair of glowing red eyes, The Machine was THE most fearsome monster in the world. “Let’s go, comrades!” I heard one of the chocolates yell out as we were about to enter the belly of the beast. “For the freedom of the chocolates!” 

The darkness suddenly enveloped us. We immediately heard the whirr of machinery, and screams began to sound out from the frontline. The first obstacle slowly came into view. Illuminated by the creepy glow of the conveyor belt lights, a huge metal plate descended from above, crushing many of the chocolate pieces. When the plate lifted up again, the pieces were completely unrecognizable, covered in odd symbols and molded to be completely rectangular. Thankfully, the affected chocolates could confirm that, besides their new look, they were completely unharmed. 

When my platoon neared the giant plate, I mustered all my strength and flipped myself to the very edge of the belt. The plate came down again with a loud clank! I was the only one of my platoon to escape a terrible fate. My fellow chocolate soldiers were not as lucky; they were all converted into hideous, flattened, and twisted versions of themselves. 

Having passed the first obstacle, we continued our solemn march into the deep dark depths of The Machine. The lookouts strained their eyes to try and spot the next opponent. Before long, the hiss of steam could be clearly heard. Two massive circular saws rose up from under the belt and cut deeply into the surprised chocolates. An ambush! “Stop the belt!” “Halt!” “Retreat!” We yelled out for the conveyor belt to stop, but to no avail. Our very own conveyor belt carried our troops straight into the vicious teeth of the monster, inflicting mortal wounds. 

I was lucky once again. From my advantageous position from the side of the belt, I was able to slip by the saws, undetected and unhurt. 

As our army left the blades behind them, everything became quiet. The clank of machinery faded. The lights gradually dimmed. “Hello? Anyone there?” Concerned, I tried calling out to my comrades. 

All was deathly still. 

After many a minute trudging alone through the darkness, I saw, in the distance, a small pinprick of light. It gradually grew larger and larger, until I could distinguish the outline of an opening leading back out of The Machine. Some humans stood around the outside of the opening. They looked happy at our arrival. 

Oh? We did it?! We really did it! We beat The Machine!!

As our army paraded through on the conveyor belt, the humans gingerly lifted the dead chocolate pieces into little coffins made of cardboard. Soon, I was the only piece still left on the belt. The humans gathered around me, and one of them stepped forth to present a medal of honor. He cleared his throat and began a speech in a deep, booming voice. 

“Hmm, it seems like this one didn’t get properly formed. They slip by sometimes. According to company policy, we’ll just have to throw it out.” 

With that, the human picked me up, opened the lid of a trash bin, and tossed me inside. “Wait, what about my medal? My awards? My fame? Noooooo!” As the lid closed, I could see a new batch of chocolate pieces being marched into The Machine, and to their doom. 

The human turned his back, and everything quickly faded to black.

The morning breeze gently pushes me, my hulking feet to forge ahead as I keep imploring my brother to pause the fifth day of training for our 100-day fitness challenge. I trudge forward, dragging my brother's T-shirt and cursing him for inheriting Flash’s ability while leaving his poor sister to be the Salmon. Another dreary day ruined by running, I thought to myself. Or is it?

Sunlight drizzles down the pathway and through the cherry tree as it shines on my back. Even with my irritation, I can’t resist the mellow sensation that flows inside my heart. It is finally the last lap for the day, counting my steps, I stride forward to embrace the finish line in 1 step, 2 steps, 3 steps, and ---- 

“M-E-O-W-”. I pause. The excitement of binge-watching the Harry Potter series in the next 25 seconds slams to a brake. The high-pitched sound instinctively tells me that it was a cat, from where exactly I don’t know, but it must be close. 

Then I see her, hiding beneath a Jeep where moss has rambled up on two of the four tires. An American Short-hair cat. One of the rare kinds that are mostly white, with a few splashes of gray here and there on her back. I bend down, holding out my right hand benevolently, beckoning the kitten to come to me. She, on the other hand, squints her ocean blue eyes as if to inspect whether my invitation is sincere enough. The cat shows no signs of terror, but maybe it's the unease and trepidation written on her face that gives an inkling perhaps that something is wrong. 

Her feeble strength and corpulent body size restrains her movement in the limited space. Then she rolls over, stomach facing the sky, the snowy white belly bulges with an obvious bump around her belly button. The large belly seems burdened with responsibility, even more, a mother’s responsibility. 

Being a resident here for more than 2 years, this is personally my first time encountering a pregnant mama cat in our vicinity! Should I just walk away? Wild cats should know how to handle this kind of situation, right? Maybe someone else will notice her, too! I crossed my fingers to wish her good luck, but the other side of me seems to step back -- what if no one notices her? The continuous moaning sound is unbearable! She probably is soon in labor! 

With a sudden blow of wind, my mind has settled on a decision - the mission of providing a temporary safe shelter for this mama cat is on our shoulders. My brother and I’s initial plan is to send her to an animal shelter so an experienced vet could solve the problem, but it is only 10 am, 1 hour before our closest animal humane society opens, which means mama cat needs to wait for a total of 60 minutes in pain. No, we need to think of another plan right now to help you, I thought to myself. 

Perhaps a cardboard box would suit her well - an Amazon cardboard box, approximately 50cm by 30cm, should do the job. I squat down, move a few steps closer to the mama cat, and put the box a few inches away from her, in case she misunderstands our intention. 

“We are here to help you, girl. Please cooperate and everything will be fine.” 

With the tender treatment, mama cat seems to understand my intention - she wobbles forward a few paces, curls up her body into a “C” shape, and tries to find a comfortable gesture to take a nap. I called the animal shelter to recount the matter and text my dad to take the mama cat to the shelter. Meanwhile, my brother runs down to the neighbor's house in search of some cat food. After 5 minutes, he comes back with an uncertain smile hanging on his face. Behind him, Briana (my neighbor) as well as two teenagers are rushing in my direction, or rather, mama cat’s direction. 

“Ohh finally, my boy!” the two teens, evidently the mama cat’s owner, exclaim with great excitement.

Wait...my boy? With pieces of doubt and curiosity, I was about to inquire but my brother stopped me. He put one hand on my left shoulder, the other patted my back, and he whispered, “Briana told me they were looking for a missing cat this morning, it accidentally ran out yesterday night, and the kitten is terrified because he never goes outside. HE is just a chubby blubber, haha!”

Unable to believe what I just heard, I covered my face with my hand and rubbed my eyes over and over again. I put a serious face on and examined the “trouble-maker” from top to bottom. With a smirk, I chuckled, “Yo, it seems like I just found a perfect partner for the 100 day fitness challenge, bro!”.

Moths 

There is a streetlight

It is a light too great;

one that is harsh and hot, radiating blistering rays.

As it shines, many moths orbit it.

The months are following the light not by will,

but from the rules they must follow.

They yearn fly away from the pull

The light seems tangible, solid, and hard

The months are different and distinct

Red, blue, large, grey, each bumbling around

but not colliding with each other.

The moths see lights in the distant

lights from planes and faraway cars

relative to the moth, the speed and distances are huge.

They see the lights they don’t have

Large, blue, red, white, 

some that have strange incomprehensible properties

And so the moths do not believe they are the only in their world.

They continue the follow their light as instinct

and then their light burns up.

Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe has been widely lauded for its vivid language and powerful message– when considering it in the context of similar literature, it’s hard to recall that Achebe’s vision was the first of its kind. Before Achebe, most accounts of interactions between missionaries and indigenous populations depicted native peoples in a condescending tone. Achebe, on the other hand, created a multifaceted story of how conflicting beliefs could lead to the destruction of tribal culture. His natural descriptions and devastating plot are perfectly placed, making it difficult for the reviewer to want or expect anything other than what there already is. Regardless, the historical and academic status of Achebe’s novel should not make it exalted above literary analysis.  

Within a sparse 209 pages, Achebe paints a tribal village in Nigeria –Umuofia– and then tears it down completely. The destruction of Umuofia is mirrored and deepened by the experience of Okonkwo, a successful yet fearful man. Achebe accomplishes a difficult task in forcing the reader to sympathise with Okonkwo, who frequently beats his wives (yes, there’s multiple), and has few aspirations beyond gaining tribal status for his name. In truth, he shows that Okonkwo’s behavior is driven by a fear of failure and a wish to act “rightfully” by the standards of his community. However, as the book goes on and missionaries enter Umuofia, Okonkwo’s son, Nwoye, turns to the Christians in order to escape a life of degradation and manual labor. This initial split mirrors the ultimate dissolution of Umuofian culture, as those who cling to traditional ways are slowly crushed by the “laws'' and “civilization” of the white men. Throughout it all, Achebe showcases how human nature makes cultural conflict inevitable, often with devastating consequences to those involved. While I inwardly despaired at the destruction of familial and cultural bonds during the book, it was impossible for me to create a scenario in which things could have been different. This is what sets Things Fall Apart squarely in the genre of tragedy, alongside classics such as Sophocles’ Oedipus and Antigone, as well as Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. 

Achebe’s message is enhanced by his skillful, yet simple, word choice. Perhaps the literary appeal of Things Fall Apart lies in the nuances of imagery and metaphor which ebbs between lifeless and beautiful, so as to match the tone of the scene. For example, when Nwoye first discovers the message of the missionaries, Achebe writes, “The words of the hymn were like the drops of frozen rain melting on the dry palate of the panting earth.” Similarly, Achebe describes Okonkwo’s inner turbulence by writing, “He saw himself and his fathers crowding round their ancestral shrine waiting in vain for worship and sacrifice and finding nothing but ashes of bygone days...He, Okonkwo,was called a flaming fire… And immediately Okonkwo’s eyes were opened and he saw the whole matter clearly. Living fire begets cold, impotent ash.” Notably, Achebe’s choice of metaphor showcased how Okonkwo’s fire had, in a way, burned Nwoye into parched desert. Such usages of language are searingly effective ways to evoke the human impacts of cultural clash.

In contrast to his colorful imagery, Achebe also uses drab, grey language in the ending of his book. This choice lends to the pervading sense that something sacred is being destroyed. It also implies that the destruction of Umuofia is beyond sadness; whereas Oedipus and Antigone included moments of melodrama to help the reader process tragic events, Things Fall Apart leaves the reader in a state of perpetual discomfort. In fact, the book concludes with the District Commissioner (a missionary) surmising, “The story of this man [Okonkwo] would make interesting reading. One could almost write a whole chapter on him. Perhaps not a whole chapter but a reasonable paragraph, at any rate. He had already chosen the title of the book, after much thought: The Pacification of the Primitive Tribes of the Lower Niger.” The irony implicit in Okonkwo’s complex narrative and the white man’s observations created a truly memorable ending and works to unearth the idea that everybody’s story is far more complex than the average spectator would assume. 

As for the actual happenings within the book, I didn't find any surprises. Things Fall Apart is the antithesis of a sprawling, historical drama: where readers seek novelty, they will only find repetitive accounts of tradition; where readers seek romance, they will find misogyny; and where readers seek breadth, they will find a plot that could be comprehensively summarized in the span of a sentence. In fact, the entire book is based off of the historical precedent of missionaries arriving in Nigeria during the 19th century. The true genius of Achebe’s story lies in how he chooses to make sense of an all-too-common subject, and the reviewer should not attempt to analyze Things Fall Apart through the scope of current fiction. Instead of working to elicit emotion or suspense, Achebe establishes a world rich with culture as a backdrop for the ideas he seeks to convey. He details traditions such as wrestling competitions and The Feast of the New Yam, as well as giving a view of tribal values and taboos. 

Just when I was getting acquainted with Achebe’s world, things began to (surprise!) fall apart. Okonkwo finds that tribal customs can no longer exemplify his own need for strength and validation, while the tribe itself loses its integrity under the influence of well-meaning missionaries. At first, the missionaries seem empathetic and accepting. Achebe writes, “Whenever Mr. Brown went to that village he spent long hours with Akunna in his obi talking through an interpreter about religion. Neither of them succeeded in converting the other but they learned more about their different beliefs.” Indeed, the “atrocities” of the white men never outweigh the flaws inherent in Umuofian society, but the interaction between two belief systems tears a divide within the tribe. 

Achebe is especially skilled at providing a balanced account of the events in his book. While I cringed at Okonkwo’s manifestations of “strength,” I understood his need to escape from his father’s legacy; while I felt pity for Okonkwo when he “mourned for the clan, which he saw breaking and falling apart,” I also cheered Nwoye’s decision to leave his abusive family; while I derided the missionaries’ arrogance and single-mindedness, I couldn’t help but nod along when they explained, “If any man ill-treats you we shall come to your rescue. But we will not allow you to ill treat others.” Part of the beauty of Things Fall Apart is that there is no protagonist or antagonist. If I were to scrounge for one, human nature would be the only possible culprit. Again, this quality connects Achebe to other tragic writers, who created flawed, well-meaning characters who fell victim to a force outside human reason and morality.

Ultimately, the appeal of Things Fall Apart is that the reader can see themself in every character’s sentiments and emotions, leaving ample room to investigate how normal people can cause immense suffering. However, it should be noted that readers accustomed to black and white narratives may have trouble parsing through the book’s complexities. Several of my peers have reflected with scorn at how Achebe chose to make a protagonist out of a deeply flawed character, or how the missionaries, who were supposed to be the “good guys,” showcased deplorable behavior. In addition, younger readers may feel lost as to what the “purpose” of the book is. Those who seek an inoffensive story to breeze through would be able to find a great list of “faults” in Achebe’s writing.

Hence, I would only recommend Things Fall Apart to people who are open to having their views questioned and changed. In this way, Things Fall Apart is similar to other timeless tragedies: Creon, Antigone, George, and Lennie are neither perfect nor evil, and their world is neither completely oppressive nor completely egalitarian. The art and the worth of such stories lie in the oft-unexplored realm of the in-between.