Scripta Book 2016

SCRIPTA Volume L 2015-2016



Editor’s Note Art is a form of speaking, whether it is through words orimages. We write and create to tell stories--stories that speak of ouridentity, our thoughts, our passions, our aspirations. Each artist hasa unique story to tell, and that is what is so beautiful about Scripta.Through each person’s courage in submitting to Scripta, we get toshare in learning and knowing a little bit more about each other. To-gether, we are able to fill that void inside of us, “[longing] above all tobe known and accepted” as Frederick Buechner says in The HungeringDark. Art builds the bridge between us, allowing us to put aside ourmasks and simply be. In this way, art is both beautiful and necessaryto life. Through the art we create, we are able to speak; to quote WaltWhitman, to be an artist means that you have the opportunity to“contribute a verse” to “the powerful play” of life. Thank you to all the artists that set aside their mask and lettheir guard down to “contribute a verse” to this year’s Scripta. Wewere delighted at the copious amounts of entries, and we thoroughlyenjoyed pondering, reading, and admiring all of them. Without all ofyou, there would be no Scripta. The Scripta Staff would also like to thank Steve Van Haitsma,our literary judge, and Michele Gort, our art judge, for taking thetime to choose this year’s award winners. Finally, we especially wouldlike to thank Mrs. Howell for all the time, encouragement, and adviceshe provided for us in preparing the book. With that, we hope youenjoy this year’s Scripta! Maddie Vonk Sebastian LarsenSenior Literary Editor Senior Art Editor Emma DeBoer Helen LimJunior Literary Editor Junior Art Editor

Home By Brittney Statema I am from the calm. Serenity is my companion. My home provides a shock of awe it guides me back to my core— a gentle tug on my heart. Beauty infiltrates every single thing. Colors leap dancing on covert landscapes, gyrating mysteriously. Everything emanates a heavenly, golden glow. Sacred. Untouched.Dancing orbs of H2O glide effortlessly through the air. Hushed, unspoken promises drift on the breeze. Waves sigh, quietly lapping at the shore. The sky is shy, then gains its courage, radiating the purest grandeur. Disinterested love thrives; it consumes all who enter and experience. God is and is in everything. The world is in balance. I’m from Pure Michigan, a combination of dunes, woods, and lake— constantly alive and evolving.

Light From WithinChristian Koele

CompleteBy Lauren Burkeall at once, likea swoosh of tenacious water, awaveof desperation buried meinto the depths of an ocean ofdisorientation.and I heard them yell, going, going… g o n e.Are you awake?a gasp parallel ofinto a vast, untouchablecrisp alivenessthere is a heave,a deep breath oflife thatI looked aroundand saw everythingmade me.lying here andthereininvisible fragmentsMillions of particlesdancing and spinning before myeyeslike a ballroom of peopleentranced

by the symphoniccommotion ofall emotionsfluttering around them.the world isawakespinning with allurementand what Ifailedto notice before,altogether hasbecomeapparent.Precious moments as thoserevealedto metrue intentions.and it was then,likeThoreau,I began to suck outallthe marrow oflife.I am awake.

TerrariumEmily KuipersHonorable Mention

Come Back By Emily Kuipers //and don’t you know that you are who you’re supposed to be and not anything lessthat you will always have a place and will always be loved and don’t you know that life does have a purpose that it’s not meaningless or worthless it’s what you make it to be and don’t you know that life can come and go in the blink of an eye here one day gone the next and don’t you know that I love you I miss you Come Back//

Inhale By Ben Praamsma I inhale the morning dewascending from the grass into an ocean of clouds. I perceive the cry of jubilant seagulls calling for a friend to enjoy the gentle morning breeze. I sense the scurrying insect,his minuscule task a threat to his very existence. Washing over me I feel a stream of sunlight, gushing forth from over millions of miles away. I caress the rough bark on a birchwood tree and know the ages of growth and life expressed.

Little ThingsRoss Barz

Everyone Must Leave Something: He Left Me A BookBy Alexi ZastrowFirst Place Personal Narrative In Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury writes of a society that isstripped of texture, quality, and a meaning for life. Books are amode that Montag, the main character, believes can give meaningback to his society. However, these banned books can only be foundin the people who memorize them in the outskirts of town. Granger,one of the men who memorizes books, comments to Montag, “Ev-eryone must leave something behind when he dies” (148). Granger’sgrandfather left him sculptures and memories of his grandfather mak-ing toys for children in the slums. Granger generalizes saying that this“something” left behind could be “‘[a] child or a book or a painting ora house or a wall built or a pair of shoes made. Or a garden planted’” (148). Oddly enough, my grandfather left me with books: He giftedme with eleven Nancy Drew books. As Granger’s grandfather left himwith mementos, my grandfather left me with books with batteredspines and yellow-stained pages that he searched for at my request.Both of us are left with sentimental mementos: Granger’s are hand-made; mine, found. These books not only serve as a reminder of myGrandpa and his quirky obsession for everything old-fashioned, butthese books’ contents reinforce the idea that endings are not predict-able, especially in life. As soon as my Grandpa found out I had a liking for the olderNancy Drew books, he was on the hunt. My family always used tosend my Grandpa on “missions” to find anything old or eclectic. Ourhouse is currently scattered with items like a Mickey Mouse phone, atypewriter, and more items that people could dismiss as old-fashionedand useless. In fact, there are two storage units full of items-like twohundred reel to reel tapes. He would go to his antique stores, talkto friends or the owners, and track down whatever item we desired.My grandpa was reserved. Everything for him was black and white,right or wrong. Either it was or was not on the line when we playedshuffleboard on the driveway. He would always make sure that thedriveway was perfectly polished and in order when we arrived. He wasvery particular about how things should be maintained like his Lioneltrain collection or the rose bushes that bloomed beautifully everyyear and lined his yard. He was quiet mannered. He would often givea one or two word answers and would only elaborate more than a fewlines when he had a story to tell, or when we broke out the boxes of

photo albums from his childhood, but once he got talking, there wasno stopping the anecdotes. Thus, it surprised me when I could hearthe excitement in his voice as he was asking my mom to talk to me onthe phone: “Now, Alexi, the books should be coming in the next fewdays.” He made sure the books weren’t the newer reproductions;they were old, musty smelling with yellowing pages; they were justthe way I liked them. I remember coming home from school with aFedex package setting on the counter addressed to me in my Grand-pa’s cursive handwriting. I carefully unwrapped each book that wasmeticulously covered in bubble wrap. I breathed in the musty odorof the old books with stale, fragile pages. A grin stretched across myface. I immediately selected a book, plopped down on the couch,and read the book cover-to-cover in a matter of days. I gravitatedtowards one book: The Scarlet Slipper Mystery was the oldest of thebunch from 1954. Its cover didn’t have the typical colored pictures;a simple silhouette of Nancy Drew with the title adorned the coverinstead. Inside the cover were depictions from the various mysteries.I remember trying to guess which mystery represented each picture.After I outgrew the Nancy Drew phase, complete with a NancyDrew-themed birthday party, I kept the books perched on my shelf.They were and still are a reminder of my Grandpa’s quirky love foreverything old and his love for me. From these books, I learned that even with the best detec-tives on the case like Nancy Drew, life is unpredictable. Nancy Drewalways seemed to have a culprit or prime suspect from the beginning,but there were always twists, turns, new suspects, and culprits. I usedto get frustrated because I could never predict the perpetrator beforeNancy would reveal him or her. The mystery would get my bloodpumping. As I could never predict the ending to the Nancy Drewbooks, I never would have predicted the perpetrator that would takemy grandpa--cancer. Last year, I remember grabbing The Scarlet Slip-per Mystery off my shelf and clutching it to my chest. I cried myself tosleep after looking up the statistics on Google of survival rates of menage 70 with pancreatic cancer. I breathed in the book between sobs.I inhaled the memory of my Grandpa’s quirky passions and his lovefor me. I touched the cover that he had touched. I had not predictedthe cancer, but the doctors predicted the inevitable--a few months,maybe a year. However, in true Nancy Drew fashion, my Grandpa’sdeath brought on twists, turns, ups, and downs. Even though themystery of how long my Grandpa would live here on Earth is solved,

I know that he is with the Lord who he loved. The physical books remind me of my grandpa and his quirks;the mystery of the books reminds me I can’t always predict the end-ing or the future. Every time I look at my bookshelf, The Scarlet Slip-per Mystery is there, and it is a reminder of my grandfather. Grangersums this idea up well saying, “Something [his] hand touched someway so [his] soul [had] somewhere to go when [he died], and whenpeople look at that tree or that flower [he] planted, [he is] there”(148). Granger sees his grandfather in items he left behind; I see mygrandfather in The Scarlet Slipper Mystery. The books are my reminder;the sculptures, Granger’s reminder.BelovedTessa VanDeWalkerHonorable Mention Photography

AbigailHannah GritterHonorable Mention Drawing

Home BoundSebastian Larsen

Limits O*∞ By Scott Nieboer I used to believe that nothing was impossible, that if I tried hard enough, I could do anything. I would hit the ground running, and run until I hit the ground, and then get back up again. I used to not believe in 0, that everything had a chance. But after meeting you,I couldn’t believe I could ever be with someone so amazing, and it turns out that I was right. But the thing is, you’re worth more than infinity, so I’m willing to wait that long.

MetachromatismAbigail Venlet

Mansfield By Ben Praamsma The passing of a zephyr bears a weightless feather The rustle of crisp leaves a moment of serene peace The warble of a thrush dwells within the lowbush The collision of clouds make a heavenly shroud pierced by shafts of sunlight moving across mountain height on a precipice I see displayed All that the LORD has madePerchingQuinn Bouwkamp

Rusted TearsBy Ryley Verde The sound of crinkling bonereaches my ears and the iron sea inside mebegins to stir. Gears within megroan and strain,pulling taut against each other,inharmonious in their efforts. My rusted tearshave since corroded themselvesinto my complexionetched there by thousandsof their precursors. And though a thousand candlesburn within me,it is only an illusion of wildfire Each candle flickers,threatening to extinguishwith every whim of the wind And it will burnand raze to the ground and the ghosts of my good intentionswill rise up from the ashes.

World ViewAdrian HuizengaEditor’s Choice

Red BarnRebeka Rooks

Why Shouldn’t I?By Elizabeth OkmaSecond Place Short Story It plays across the screen in vivid color, crude, shot with acheap camera. A man’s hand pulls away from the lens. A young sol-ider dressed in camo sits, bloody, in a folding chair, his hands claspedbehind him. He is forced to look up at the camera by a silent man in ablack ski mask. Another, better dressed in a suit with long brown hair, takescenter stage. “I believe you have something of mine, and now, I havesomething of yours. You have forty-eight hours to give me prisoner21-093, or your friend will be coming back to you in pieces,” he says.———————————————————————————— The hallway echoes with the familiar taps of the guard’sfeet on the tile and jingling of keys in his hands. He stops in frontof a small cell where a young lady sits in silence, staring at the wallthrough her brown bangs. In her head, she’s counting the cracks forthe twentieth time. He watches for a couple seconds before openingthe door with a dull clank. “To your feet,” his voice utters the same words he has withevery visit, and with routine, she slowly tilts her head and stares athim out of the corners of the same curious eyes. “Come on! I don’thave all day, and neither does your guest,” he says.———————————————————————————— The room is still just as clean and dull as the last time she wasthere. Same cold steel chair. Same matching table. Same polished twoway mirror, but this time, a different man waits for her. There’s nofancy suit, brief case, or police badge. This one wears a white t-shirtwith a camo jacket slung across the back of the chair. He looks to bein his twenties, with anger and frustration in his blue eyes, and scarsfrom places that she can only guess. “They warned me that you like to stare,” he said. There’s nojoking manner to his voice. He waits for her to talk back, but she simply takes one lastglance at his eyes before letting her’s wander around the room. “They told me about this quirk too.” This time she hears im-

patience: “Makes it harder for them to identify you too. Doesn’t helpthat you don’t have any identification, medical records, or match-able DNA. You wouldn’t even be here if you hadn’t gotten caught inthe middle of police raid with a well-known fencer. Everyone thinksyou’re something important, but I fail to see why.” The rising hatred in his voice causes him to pause. He doeshis best to calmly slide a tan folder across the table. She hesitates, buther gentle hands flip it open; her eyes lock on the picture on top. It’sa blown up screenshot from the video. He lets her look at it a little longer before speaking again,“I’m Lieutenant Blake Carson with Army Special Ops, and thatpicture came from a video sent to us a couple hours ago. We’ve con-firmed that the man in the suit is Markus Daryen, a man linked to nu-merous terrorists organizations, and he’s threatening to kill SergeantJason Maverick unless we give you over to him.” Again he waits for a response, any sign of emotion, but herface is empty. Blake watches her read over the transcripts containedin the folder and then lower the picture back down on top of them.No answer comes out; she just stares at her blurred reflection in thetable. Blake leans in, “The trade goes down in an hour unless yougive a really good reason not to.” His patience is gone. He gets up to leave. He’s halfway to thedoor when he’s stopped by a calm voice. “Don’t.” She now stares at the opposite wall and reenters the silenceshe had held for so long. Blake walks back to his seat. For the firsttime, he sees hesitation and a piece of fear in her eyes. “That man in the chair is my best friend, and as of now, Idon’t see a reason as to why a good solider should die for a friend of aterrorist. So I suggest you tell why I shouldn’t.” Her eyes bore into his, “I’m not his friend, and if you give himwhat he wants, nothing will be safe from him.” “What do you mean?” Again she pauses as if to consider something, but continues,“They’ve kept me here because they believe I can give them thefamous thief, Ghost, but I’m more than that and Markus knows it.He’ll use me, get what he wants, and no one will be able to stop him.” “Why should I believe you?” “Because you’re playing a game you are destined to lose nomatter what you pick, but Markus underestimated me, and I will

never let him use me.” “So what do you advise I do?” he says hopelessly. “Put me in the game, and let me be the wildcard.”The Egrets OceanLian Robinson

One Hundred Days By Emma DeBoer First Place Poetry What if? What if the days you had were numbered? You say they are? Yes. But what if they were a number you knew. One Hundred. One Hundred more days to make memories before you are one.One Hundred more days to complete your dreams before they die with you. One Hundred more days to love, to wish, to kiss, to breathe, to dance, to laugh, to live. What would you do?

BeachdazeLily Lemkuil

That Hispanic GirlBy Daniela BurgosHonorable Mention PoetryA bowl of water and olive oilIs just what it seems like when you move to a countryWhere you know you won’t match.They don’t combine even if you stir,And stir, and stir.A hispanic girlSpeaking in Spanish with her familyAnd expressing herself with sign language with school friends.A hispanic girl,Trying and trying to deal with a different kind of math,When all of her friends are playing outside.A hispanic girl, who misses her friends,When others, all they do is mock her.A hispanic girlWho just wants to stay home,So that people will stop evaluating her.That brave hispanic girlWho goes to school anyway,And laughs with them even when it hurts.That hispanic girlWho is proud to be who she isAnd doesn’t care what others say.That brave hispanic girl,Who learned a new language in less than six monthsAnd was not afraid to keep trying.

That brave hispanic girl,Who put her whole trust in GodEverySingleDay.That hispanic girl.Storm’s ComingFaith LemkuilThird Place Photography

Frosted BeginningsRoss BarzDwindling SunlightTaryn BushongHonorable Mention Photography

Music, Music, All AroundBy Katherine KoningHonorable Mention PoetryMusic, musicAll around.Its only desire: to be heard.The boundary between reality and theory is blurred.Deep in the heart,A work of art.Composition,Without intermission.A smile is music.Tears are music.Laughter is music.Encouraging words are music.Let music never become muted,Drowned out or polluted.Let stress not pause the beating in the heart.Let it never stop or depart.Music for every situation,A solution,A teacher,A healer.Find your inner musician,To complete your life’s mission, createMusic, music,All around.

Shades Of WhiteBy Sarah VroegopEditor’s ChoiceInspired by the “Three Shades of White” prompt in Creative Writingand The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. Everyone has a changing shade of white. It’s that easy. Thewhites are perched on people’s shoulders, and I can read them likeyou can read sentences. For example, there’s the blinding, pulsingwhite light that cuts through everything. It’s the kind of white thataccompanies an absolute feeling. If you were really happy, you’d havethe blinding white. But there are hundreds of whites; I can sit and Ican read people like I’m running my fingers through a bridal shop. “Rosaline, you know people don’t actually have white colorson their shoulders, right? Emotions don’t work like that.” “I know, Dr. Webber. Emotions can be controlled. And colorscan’t.” There’s a pause where she just looks at me like she doesn’tknow what to do with me, and then I start up again. “Did you knowthey have medicine for people who don’t feel happysometimes?” I say, “My brother takes them. They’re in his bathroomdrawer. He has a dark, clumpy-paint kind of white.” She leans forward a little bit. “Your brother comes to mesometimes, remember? And I help him.” “His white is still like paint when he comes home a lot.” “What does the dark, paint-like white mean?” “It means he can’t quite see the point of being alive anymore.His life is drying up on him.” I’m walking home with my mom because she doesn’t like itwhen I walk by myself. I see people pass all around me on the street.Most of them have a healthy mixture of whites on their shoulders; Idon’t see absolute whites that often. “Your brother is doing better today,” my mother says to me.“He’s going to come home tomorrow.” This should make me happy, but all I can think of is his whiteand how very, very dark it was when he left our house. Then I getdistracted by a young man who has a particularly blinding white. I’mdistracted, so I don’t hear my mother. “What?” I ask her.

“Dr. Webber asked you to start using the names of actualemotions instead of your white colors; it says so in her note. Here,pick someone you see and describe their emotion for practice.” “But the whites are what’s actually inside of them. Theysometimes can change how their faces look and that messes me upwhen I have to look at just their faces because the emotions areharder that way.” “Just try, Rosaline.” I sigh. “Okay, that lady over there outside of the cafe has theemotion of worry right now, I think,” I inform my mom. “What makes you say that?” I don’t tell her that the lady’s got a crispy, icy white, which isthe white of worry. “Her face looks pinchy,” I finally say.She smiles at me. “Good,” she says, “You’re right.” “What should we do about it?” I ask my mom. “About what?” “About her worry.” “It’s not our job to do anything about it.” “Oh.” I see Dr. Webber again the day my big brother comes home.She’s trying to help me identify emotion like a normal person. “Why don’t you try talking to your brother to find out whathe’s feeling?” she asks me. “Because he doesn’t say much when he talks,” I tell her as Ifidget in the chair. “Looking at his color is so much easier for me.” “But don’t you see that when you tell people what they’re feel-ing it’s a little scary for them? Sometimes people don’t wantothers to know what they’re feeling.” “Why not?” “Because emotions are private. People don’t want to be judgedbased on how they’re feeling or they don’t think that others will un-derstand how they’re feeling. Does that make sense?” “But I don’t hurt people, I just notice their whites!” “I know, Rosaline, but it feels like an invasion of their pri-vacy.” “They have it right on their shoulders! What am I supposedto do?” My voice is getting very high and shrill, now and I can tastethe yellowy white of loneliness. And I don’t like the taste; it tasteslike the insides of a lemon. “IT’S NOT MY FAULT! I CAN’T HELP

IT! Dr. Webber, I didn’t do anything bad, I promise, I promise. Ijust see people’s whites: I can’t help it. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I promiseI didn’t do anything; I’ve tried getting rid of it, but I can’t, and I’msorry!” “Rosaline, I wasn’t blaming you; it’s okay. Why don’t you justtry talking to your brother and see what you can tell about hisfeelings? Without looking at his color.” “That’s so hard!” I wail. My hands are shaking. “I can’t do it!I’m not normal!” “Just try, Rosaline. For me. Okay? It’ll take some practice.” When my brother comes home the first thing I see about himis his white is less gray than when he left for the hospital. “Your white is better!” I cry when he walks in the door.My mother is behind him, and they exchange this look that I can’tquite place because I’m still very bad at faces. Then I remember whatDr. Webber said, and I have to practice. “I mean, how are you feeling?” I ask to his face. I try to keepmy eyes away from his white. “I feel better,” he tells me. “The hospital helped me a lot.” “How?” “Well they gave me some new medicine, and they helped mefigure some stuff out.” “What kind of stuff? How did it make you go from one badfeeling to a now better feeling?” “I don’t know, Rosie,” he says, “I just figured some stuff out.”And with that, I sit down on the couch with a huff. “What?” he asks me. “I’m just trying very hard to talk to you to figure out yourfeeling, but I’m no good at it. And you’re not helping.” He looks at me like he’s wondering what in the world to dowith me before he sits down next to me. “It takes time and prac-tice, Rosie. I’ll tell you more about what I’m feeling when I’m ready,okay?” “Okay,” I say to him, and he gives me a big tackle kind of hug. The next day I am walking in the park with my big brotherand I’m trying very very very hard not to look at people’s whites andlook at their faces instead because that’s normal. It makes me veryfrustrated. I wish normal people could just look for the whites. I’m so frustrated and yellowy white that I’m almost stomp-ing next to my big brother. I look at the ground instead of at people,which is why I almost miss it: I glance up and there is a boy across

the park with real color on his shoulder. His color isn’t white; it’s avery frothy blue and green that seem to splash and roll into each oth-er easily. It waves across his shoulder, and I can see glints of brightestwhite in it too. He’s walking away from me, and my brother doesn’tunderstand when I start running across the park. “Rosie! ROSALINE!” I hear him calling after me, but I don’tstop until I run around the front of this boy. He has black hair andeyes the colors of those colors on his shoulder, which is why it’s easyfor me to look at his face. When he sees me he stops, and his eye-brows go up. I know that means surprise. I have to catch my breath, but this boy grabs my shoulders.“I’ve never seen anyone with your colors before!” he says. “What are they? What are my colors?” I ask wildly. “You’ve got a bright, light red with a little bit of purple andsunset orange. You have colors. And so many of them!” “But you have colors too!” I cry, “Your colors are very blueand green, like the sea as it mixes together! Can you see people’swhites too?” “Yes!” He says, and I feel like something inside of me is com-ing together finally. Then my brother catches up. “Rosaline! What are you doing?” my brother demands. “LOOK AT HIM!” I shout, “HE CAN SEE COLORS TOO!” “What?” “The whites that everyone has, he can see them too! I’m notcrazy; he’s just like me!” My big brother’s eyebrows scrunch together, and he looksguilty because he thought I was crazy. “My parents thought I was crazy too!” The boy says, and Ilaugh, even though before the idea that I was crazy was blinding-white terrifying. “My name’s Tobin,” the boy says. “I’m Rosaline,” I tell him. “Rosaline, we’re going to be the best of friends.” He grins.“We can be crazy together.”

SimplicityAllison Zylstra

Onto The Blue VoyageNicole Larsen

There Is Another By Maddie Vonk“All that is gold does not glitter” ~Gandalf, The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien Quite often it’s most unexpected When the fill comes forth Line to define is added thus To distinguish newfound worth It can dwell within a mind Against the sensical rules For it fabricates from but a story A crucial piece, a jewel It will not be that of perfection Beyond it will not shine But it will emanate wonderful bravery For this, one soul may pine

The One RingVerlonna TenBrink

December 23 By Lian Robinson Life flew by so fast I don’t know where it went My time here is slowly ending I want it to last Never leave, please never leave keep a piece of you behindwhere your memories, where your memories are living in this lakeside town December 23 so young and so free driving with the windows down wind blowing through my hair This might be the last time You’ll see me down these streets I promise you, yes I promise you I’ll come home soon. Time is ticking quickly too fast for me to think I’m ready, I’m ready for what is soon to come Cause when I leave, when I leave I don’t know what I’ll do Remember me, please remember me 1,000 miles away Will you count the hours I’ll be apart from you the hardest thing I’ll have to do is walk away from you This is not a goodbye I hope to see you soon cause when this is over

I’ll be coming back to you Through this hurricane you & I will be stronger, longer I won’t be gone long I’ll see you in a blink of an eye This is way too hard for me to say goodbye right now August 17 Came way too fast for me Can’t these days all just be… December 23 I was young and so freeI drove with all the windows down at 11:33 That was truly the last time You’d see me down those streets I promise you, yes I promise you I’ll come home soon.

Summer BreathBy Elyssa VandenTopthe final breath of summer carries through the breezeit whispers softly in the air whith its final taste of heatI can smell it in the flowers which have no name to metheir peace is kept by most except the bumble beesthe world is silent, walking it’s still early in the dayon that final morn of summer before the leaves will start to change

Sand SkyAllison Zylstra

Tiger EyesCrystal VanOeffelen

Woman’s Best FriendBy Emilyn StaatI’ve never understood why cats get such a bad rep.They are the perfect mixture of“let me cuddle closer” and“stay the heck away from me.”They don’t follow you around, begging for attention,(unlike another popular domesticated animal *cough*)but they never turn down a scratch behind the ears.Cats are just fluffy little balls ofhappiness and independence.They make the best study buddiesand are always up for rainy days in.I mean, no cram study for a test is complete withoutOne: A mental break down andTwo: A cat to wrap around your ankles like fuzzy socks,its quiet purrs soothing your worries.You never have to worry aboutleaving a cat alone for a weekend.All it needs is a bowl of food and water,but try that with a dog and, well...Have fun cleaning that mess up.I’ll never forget the day when I came hometo find my mom holding a mini kitten,his emerald eyes peering curiously at me.He must have been the runt of the litter, for he was so small.She said the vet had found him by a dumpster,discarded as if nothing more than a broken toy.He was alone, scared, and had a nail in his neck.I mean, what kind of monster does that to an innocent kitten?The vet said no one wanted him, and they would have to put himdown.“Unless… You want to take him?”I wasn’t there at that exact moment, but I imaginemy mom reluctantly took the mewling ball of fuzz home.She never was a big fan of cats, but who could resist a kitten?We’ve had him for close to ten years now,

through good times and better.Like Bonnie and her trusty partner in crime,we’ve always had our moments.Klyde’s been through a lot, scratched paws, bleeding tails, and ohyeah,He lost an eye last year(which I think adds to his charm).He has simply turned into the Cheshire cat,with a mischievous wink forever etched on his face.I’ve never understood why cats get such a bad repand I probably never will.All they want to do is curl up with you,maybe next to a crackling fire whileyou have a cup of spicy, steaming hot chai tea.And if that sounds like a hateful little monster that cats are so oftencalled,then you don’t deserve the love of a cat.`

Stare DownNicole Larsen

Sam’s Scripta StoryBy Sam Vandermolen Sam let out a deep sigh as he stared at his blank word docu-ment. Writer’s block was only thought to be imaginary in Sam’s mindbut at that moment it was all too real. It was as if writer’s block was agiant fist that was punching Sam over and over. The stress wasn’t helping either, nor the procrastination. Samhad so many great ideas for his Scripta entry but unfortunately he hadrun out of time. He mostly blamed college applications. (But evenwithout applications, Sam would’ve found something to blame.) Hestared up at the ceiling as if an answer to a story might be clinging it-self up there, and it would fall on his face if he stared up long enough.Sam wasn’t enjoying beating himself up over his lack of creativity. Healso wasn’t enjoying how this story was negatively portraying his workethic. Sam longed to find a memory or idea good enough to writeabout. Could he find one of his ideas from the past? Maybe he’d writea snarky story about his part time job or write a personal narrativethat would open a door and show everybody a different side of him.Sadly, the time was up. Sam was a mouse gnawing on a piece of cheeseand the trap was about to come down on him. “Curse you writersblock!” Sam screamed out loud, in anger. “And curse you brain for notcoming up with anything good when I need it!” Then, it hit. Like lighting striking a tree or a child jumping into a largepuddle, an idea stuck Sam’s mind and made a splash. But could itwork? He needed to ask an expert. Sadly for Sam, it was way past an expert’s bedtime, so heneeded to go with the next best thing. Sam quickly opened Facebook (because he’s a little behindwith current social trends) and found a friend he could consult. Theonly friend that would be extremely brutally honest to his face andwould understand what he was going for. Joe, I need you. Please. Sam typed in a desperate message. He was hit with a reply soon after: Yes? Sam needed a faster way of communication. This would notdo. Video chat me? Sam’s impatience got the best of him. He hit the video chatbutton, before Joe replied and waited to see his face. Joe soon ap-

peared on the screen, tired and groggy. “What do you want?” Joe barely managed to say. “Before you say anything mildly insulting, I just want youradvice,” Sam quickly said. Joe lifted his eyebrows waiting for a question or proposition. “I’m writing a short story I put off for Scripta, and I was won-dering if it would be a good idea to write a short story about myselfwriting a short story. “Hold on,” said Joe. “You just gave my brain the equivalent ofa brain freeze.” “Well, I’m not going to give your brain much time to thaw,”Sam said. “I just want to know if you think it’ll work or not.” “Short answer: no,” Joe said flatly. “Long answer?” Sam asked looking for a glimmer of hope. “Sam, it’s going towards a school competition. High schoolstudents aren’t going to understand your tired attempt at meta hu-mor.” “Wow, thanks Joe,” Sam replied sarcastically. “But that’s whatI was afraid of.” “Being misunderstood?” Joe wondered. “No, that my story is a product of my laziness and bingewatching too much Community.” “Well, don’t put time into it if you think it’s a lost cause,” Joesaid. “But I love writing,” Sam replied. “Besides, I think I alreadyhave the title.” “Hit me.” “Sam’s Super Awesome Short Scripta Story,” Sam said waitingfor a reaction. “Wow. Alliteration overload,” Joe told Sam. “Should I take it down a notch?” “Maybe just a few thousand.” “Okay, I don’t need your help,” Sam said getting tired of Joe’santics. “Good, I’m sleeping. Bye,” Joe said ready to leave. “Wait!” Sam said. “Do you have any faith in me?” “Sam, if anyone is going to write a meta story, it would be you.Give it your best shot; you never know what could happen. Be shame-less. Night.” And with that Joe had disconnected the call and most likelyfell asleep faster than a grandpa after Thanksgiving dinner.