december 27 - january 2, 2018 25 cents newsstand...

online at www.connectionnewspapers.com

December 27 - January 2, 2018 25 CENTS NEWSSTAND PRICE

By Carson L., 1st Grade, Union Mill Elementary School

2 ❖ Centre View ❖ Children’s & Teens’ Centre View 2017-2018 www.ConnectionNewspapers.com

Centre View ❖ Children’s & Teens’ Centre View 2017-2018 ❖ 3www.ConnectionNewspapers.com

The Centre ViewChildren’s Centre View

is published byLocal Media Connection, LLC.

A digital version of this publication and 14sister publications

available at www.connectionnewpapers.com/documents

For information on advertising [email protected]

For information on local content [email protected]

Dear Readers:This week, Centre View turns over its

pages to the youth and students.We asked principals and teachers from

area schools to encourage students tocontribute their words, pictures and pho-tos for our annual Children’s Issue.

The response, as always, was enor-mous. While we were unable to publishevery piece we received, we did our bestto put together a paper with a fair sam-pling of the submitted stories, poems,drawings, paintings, photographs andother works of art. Because of the re-

sponse, we will continue to publish moreartwork and writings in January.

We appreciate the extra effort made byschool staff to gather the materials duringtheir busy time leading up to the holidays.We’d also like to encourage both schools andparents to mark their 2018 calendars forearly December, the deadline for submis-sions for next year’s Children’s Centre View.Please keep us in mind as your childrencontinue to create spectacular works of artand inspiring pieces of writing in the com-ing year. The children’s issue is only a partof our year-round commitment to cover

education and our local schools. As al-ways, Centre View welcomes letters tothe editor, story ideas, calendar listingsand notices of local events from our read-ers. Photos and other submissions aboutspecial events at schools are especiallywelcome for our schools pages.

Our preferred method for material ise-mail, which should be sent [email protected],but you can reach us by mail at 1606King St., Alexandria, VA 22314 or call703-778-9415 with any questions.

— Editor Steven Mauren

Welcome

By Alanis, 5th Grade, LondonTowne Elementary School

By Bailey L., 4th Grade. UnionMill Elementary School

Frog Pond by Anthony Yu, Age 6, 1st Grade, London Towne ElementarySchool By Chloe Shulsinger, 6th Grade, Deer Park Elementary School

Children’s & Teens’ Centre View


Deer Park Elementary School From students of Precious Crabtree, Art Resource Specialist

By Aaliyah Adams, 5th Grade By Brianna Duong, 6th Grade

By Addison Cook, 2nd Grade By Annabelle Campet, 1st Grade By Ella Ryason, 2nd Grade

By Lilly Davidson, 1st Grade

By Joshua Bonta Reavis,5th Grade

By JackieLarsen,5thGrade

By Lily Olson, 6th Grade By Tyra Smith, 6th Grade


See Westfield, Page 8

Our Last DanceI wasn’t her first pair, but at the

time it seemed like I was the onlypair on earth. On the surface, shewas grace, beauty, and loveliness.A perfectly poised ballerina. AndI, her shoe. After each class shewould place me in the passengerseat and she and I would drive.She’d sometimes get fast food,which she would place next to me,warming my ribbons, looseningmy threads. Sometimes we wouldgo there. THERE, there. And shewould be gone for small incre-ments of time, coming back witha scowl and a slammed car door. Ididn’t like seeing her angry. I likedseeing her dance. Practice until Icould barely contain her feet muchlonger.

One day she forgot to take meoff. She forgot to set me in thepassenger’s seat. She forgot tocheck for ripped seams. She for-got how the asphalt hurt my sole.I drove that day. I had never drivenbefore. It might’ve been more funif she hadn’t been so angry. If shewasn’t slamming the pedal sohard. We stopped. We stepped out.We were THERE.

The grass was prickly and thegravel threatened to poke holes. Iwasn’t made for gravel. I think sheforgot, though. I was okay though.Because soon we stopped on aspiky mat and then onto a floorthat was smooth again, and cold.And so hard. Nothing like the softwood in the studio. She walked inand someone came rushingaround the corner. The stranger’sbarefeet were older and had thickblack hair and jagged toenails.They stopped when they saw me.A shout from her. A shout fromhim. She stomped her foot. An-other pair of feet joined. The feetof a woman, slender with chippedred paint. She stood close to theman with the foot hair.

We stepped forward. Redchipped paint stepped back. Blackhair stepped forward. Toe to toe, Icould see suddenly. Betrayal. Histone told of anger but his feet toldof fear. He wanted us to leave, butshe and I, we stayed. She told himher mind and I pinned his jaggedtoenails with my stare.

Then we left. And she slammedthe car door. But she waited be-fore she turned on the car. She fi-nally saw me. She pulled off withthe car when I was once again inthe passenger seat. She turned themusic loud, but it didn’t stop mefrom seeing the tears. She wasn’tsad. Angry, I thought. It was thenwhen she started repeating thatword that would haunt her and I.

Dad.What did it mean? That was not

a ballet term I heard in the studio.Perhaps it was There. Perhaps it

was jagged toenails or chipped redpaint. I didn’t know. What I didknow was that she and I didn’tdance the next day. Or the nextafter that. Or for the rest of thatweek.

It was four days later, Sunday,when a pair of pink tights and slip-ons came into her room. I couldsee the familiar feet from myseemingly permanent spot on thebedroom floor. She pulled my bal-lerina off her bed and onto thefloor. They hugged for a long time.Pink tights and black slip-onsmade my ballerina smile. Theytalked. They laughed. They cried.

I’m not sure what pink tights andblack slip-ons said to my ballerina,but a long time later my ballerinapicked me up. Cupped in her per-fect hands, I looked directly at herand she smiled, her puffy red eyescrinkling in the corners. She said,I’m sorry.

And I tried to tell her, I forgiveyou. It passed between us in awave of emotion. I could never bemad at her. And by the tear thatfell I could tell she understoodthat. She then looked to her friendand together they grabbed theirbags and left. Pink tights and slip-ons drove. For the first time I gotto rest in my ballerina’s lap in thepassenger seat.

Our instructor didn’t miss a beat,merely told her off for not gettingto her position fast enough. Thingswere back to how they used to be,or so it would seem to an outsideobserver. But there was a changein her that day, a fire. Ballerinasweren’t traditionally meant to pos-sess fire, but its burn seemed tobe mending and molding as if shewere molten and dance her arti-san. She pushed her whole bodyinto it, she leaned into it, callingto it, reaching out to it. She washeavy as an elephant’s stomp andlight as hummingbird’s wing beat.She was slow as a sloth and fastas a cheetah. She was changed,remolded. Wielding her newfoundfire like it was attached to her verylimbs.

The music ended.But the spell was not broken.

She did it again. And again. Andthen again once more and the firestill lived. And she left the studiodripping in sweat with a smileplastered on her face. And in thecar she checked me for rippedseams. Then we didn’t go to fastfood or to THERE, we went some-where new.

She took me to a hill where wecould see all of the small town.Where the sunset was the mostbeautiful shade of orange andpink. And she sat on the hood ofher car with me in her hands andsaid, “I don’t think I’m going to for-give him,” She looked down at me,“and I think that’s okay.”

I had the distinct feeling ‘him’was THERE.

And so she and I danced. Andfor two months straight, even onher worst days, she danced withthe same fire. The instructor no-ticed. So much so that she wasplaced in the front row. And thenin the center. She was the onewhom all eyes were drawn to. Shewasn’t going through the move-ments, she told a story with herbody. She was exaggerated. Shewas dramatic. She was entertain-ing. Dance became more than

Westfield High School

mere movements to her, it becamean expression of her soul. Her fire.

On opening night she was stillfront and center. She walked outonto the stage: back straight, armssoft but poised, chin up. She woremuch more makeup than usual,but then again, so did all of them- including pink tights and slip-ons(though she wasn’t wearing slip-ons that night).

She had been on the stage manytimes but never had she felt sosure. Her footsteps sure, her atti-tude sure, her mind sure.

Up on stage the dancer can’t seemuch more than the front row, therest of the theatre drowned out bythe stage lights. However, Icouldn’t help but think that shesaw something that day when wewere waiting for the music to start,and her foot twitched, ever soslightly. Ever so unsure.

Then sure again. The musicstarted. And her body did what ittrained to do. From the outside,she was exaggerated, she was dra


See Mrs. Anneliese, Page 12

London Towne Elementary School From students of Shawn Heller, art teacher

By Angelina G., 2nd GradeBy Joeli C., 2nd Grade

By Aya E., 4th Grade

By Lucia, 5th Grade By Javier M., 4th Grade By Rebekah Y,. 5th Grade

8:15 p.m. Night had fallen on the city ofMetropolis and all seems well. Curfew willstart in approximately ten minutes and thecitizens are scurrying like timid mice toreach the safety of their homes. Rebelliousteenagers seeking to avoid yet another rep-rimand from the local police. Workingmothers with sweet pralines and beignetstucked away in their leather handbags fortheir children.

The daily commute home could makeanyone feel a little antsy.

One young mother in particular, Mrs.Anneliese Bernard, was only a block awayfrom her home when she was interruptedby an officer with a serious message to de-liver. The officer, with a troubled expres-sion on his face, walked up to her and said,“Madame, I regret to inform you that, um,

a creature, a very dangerous creature, is —”

Mrs. Bernard looked up and snapped,“Would you stop with your rambling andjust get to the point? I must get home.” Shejust didn’t have time for these foreign offic-ers and their nonsense i.e. meaningless cur-fews at 8 and “dangerous creatures.”

Looking slightly embarrassed, the officercontinued, “A cloned dinosaur has escapedfrom the Institute of Paleontology down thestreet. We believe that it’s currently some-where in the English Quarter.”

“Uh huh, right. Of course. Whatever willwe do?” Mrs. Bernard laughed mockingly.“Okay Officer, this has been very entertain-ing but I would like to reach home beforethat clock strikes 8:30 and you’re escortingme to God-knows-where with handcuffs.”

Curfews could tether her whereaboutsat night but they were weak and power-less against her spirit. She smoothed outthe wrinkles that had formed in her skirt,adjusted the broach loosely pinned ontoher shirt collar, and briskly walkedaround the officer before he could uttera protest.

He didn’t attempt to follow her; therewere hundreds of citizens who wouldhopefully be wiser than that impudentwoman. After walking for a few minutesdown the cold, almost isolated streets,that were usually bustling with people,she felt a subtle pang of guilt … Howcould she have been so brash in front ofan officer?

By Grace Blevins


Mrs. Anneliese Bernard’s Nighttime Walk


21800 Towncenter PlazaSterling, VA 20164703-450-5453

1051 Edwards Ferry RoadLeesburg, VA 20176703-771-4688

www.sterlingappliance.com


See John Cena, Page 12

John Cena: TheBarbarian of the Wastes

Long ago, when battles were won withblood and steel, and everyone’s body wascoursing with excess testosterone. Tyrantsruled the lands, and great, evil warlocksused their powers for self-gain and destruc-tion. One man and his alligator would riseas great warriors, heroes who would throwaside the yokes of despair on the humanrace. His name was John Cena, and by hisside the flute playing alligator Angus.

Cena himself was a strong man, with eyeslike flint and a mind to match their sharp-ness. Angus was just an alligator with somemusical talent and a flair for the dramatic.But despite their magnitudes of differencesthey were a team that could outwit the wili-est of wizards and outmuscle the stoutestof warriors.

They entered legend first at the town ofTyran, a dusty, scum-infested city ruled bya man known as the Blood Tyrant. Whenthey first entered the city they were ha-rassed constantly by the guards, at leastuntil Cena the Barbarian issued a restrain-ing order. The Blood Tyrant was furious, ashe had intended for the guards to drive theheroic duo out of his town. Cena and An-gus were looked after by a sympathisingelderly couple, who were systematicallycaught and executed for treason. In a ragethat would scare the red nose off a clownthe two heroes charged the stronghold

where the tyrant resided, all the whilescreeching in fury and cutting down anytyrant’s pawn in their path. When theycaught up to and challenged the boss, thevillain entered into a monologue that is toolengthy for the time we have.

After politely letting their opponent talkabout his daddy issues and origin story, thecompanions began their relentless assault.Angus began his off-key funeral dirge, whileCena flexed his well-trained muscles, de-creasing the morale of their opponent dras-tically. Soundly and quite graphicallybeaten, the villain revealed that he wasworking for a powerful warlock, who livedin a tower deep in a desert. He thenpromptly sued the two heroes for assaultand to this day the lawsuit is pending inthe courts.

Off they went, to create their second leg-end. Though the desert was treacherous,filled with poisonous beasts and plants, andhounded by the wizards conjured demons,they made it to the wizard’s tower. Theydefeated him by dressing Angus in drag,distracting him, while Cena destroyed thecrystal which was the wizards source ofpower. Similarly to the Blood Tyrant, thewizard said that he too was under the com-mand of an even greater foe: a demon witha Masters in Soul Stealing and Seducing theWeak, a recent graduate from Tartarus StateUniversity.

After they defeated the demon by explain


From Page 5

matic, she was entertaining.But she told me, not with herwords but with her feet, thatshe was not there.

She wasn’t trying to bestherself or spew her fire every-where. She was trying to getout of her own head, her ownwandering head, back to thedance. I knew it from theflashes.

The flashes of intense emo-tion where the fire created ahalo around her entire bodyand then she’d turn back tothe audience and in a blinkshe’d be gone to the lostagain.

And then the music wasover and she walked off thestage. Then the usual hap-pened. Flowers, analyzation.Hugs, questions. But then theusual didn’t happen.

Walking. We were walkingout the door again. To the caragain. A call. We stopped.

“You danced beautifully to-night.”

“I thought you weren’t com-ing.”

“I want to make this right.”At this point a droplet fell

on the pavement next to me.I had the distinct feeling itwasn’t raining.

“I don’t forgive you.”“I’m not asking you to.”A hug. Those hairy feet

were in nice shoes.The dance was finally over.

By Taylor Lane

11th Grade

Food Everywhereby Anthony Yu,Age 6, 1st Grade,London TowneElementarySchool

Flower Fairy byAlexander Yu, Age 9,

4th Grade, Colin PowellElementary School

London Towne Elementary SchoolFrom students of Joe Fischhaber, art teacher.An ink printing project where students visually depict sound.

By Lillian, 5th Grade

By Blessing, 5th Grade

By Abel, 5th Grade

By Jair, 5th Grade

By Alice, 5th Grade

Gallery

Westfield


Union Mill Elementary School From students of Jennifer Martinelli, art teacher

By Moises J., 5th Grade By Angye A., 5th Grade

By Amelia S., 2nd Grade By Parsa I., Kindergarten

By MatthewD., 1stGrade

By Rebecca M., 6th Grade

By HudsonM., 1stGrade

By JacquelineN., 3rd Grade

By Sydney M.,4th Grade


Union Mill Elementary School From students of Anne Hollis, art teacher

By Sholka E., Kindergarten By Bisaj S., 1st Grade By Mason A., 3rd Grade

By Hibah F., 4th Grade By Carter R., 4th GradeBy Mosawir R.,2nd Grade By Grace S., 1st Grade

By Ashley P., 5th Grade By LaMara L., 5th Grade

By Molly V., 3rd Grade

By Luke V., Kindergarten

By Anu S., 6th Grade By Ester C., 6th Grade


See Colin Powell, Page 15

My Dream JobBeing a teacher has always been

my dream job. Teachers have end-less possibilities. I can imaginemyself in a classroom teaching stu-dents not only about history butabout their future. I love to learnand the best way I can see myselfusing that love is to share it withyoung minds. Being a teacher hasmany jobs put together. One of thebiggest roles is to be a trainer, notthe type to do pushups or run, butthe ones who help students creategoals and accomplish them. Iwould love to be a teacher!

By Lauren Kim

Age 11, 6th

Grade, Mr.

Buschenfeldt

In Winter!In winter I see the pretty white

snowflakes swirl in the air thensoftly fall to the ground.

In winter I taste the cool pep-permint flavor of a candy caneswirl all around my mouth then Iwash it down with the warm tasteof hot cocoa.

In winter I touch the wrappingpaper and the pretty bows onshiny packages.

In winter I hear the sounds offamilies coming together to sharethe joy of the season.

In winter I smell the warm, de-lightful smell of sugar cookies bak-ing in the toasty oven.

This is what I see, taste, touch,hear, and smell in winter!

By Raelyn Stump

Age 11, 6th

Grade, Tara

Carlson’s Class

The RaceOn a bright, balmy summer day

there was a race held at ColinPowell ES. Ten mins until the nextrace, I heard the speaker yell. Thatmessage got me more edgy. I wasat the edge of the seat.

“Why are you trembling?” askedmy friend. “You are so prepared.”

“You think!”“Well, yeah!”The next race will be starting in

less than 5 mins. Racers come tothe platform. We heard thespeaker say.

“I guess I have to go.”“Good luck and I will be at the

finish line ready to congrat you forwinning.”

“Thanks.”But somehow I had bad feeling

about this race.When I reached the platform. I

saw the others players stretching

out. Then the one with the bluehair tie and red shorts came up tome and said “I am going to win.”

“I replied saying, ‘in yourdreams.’”

We all became silent when weheard the speaker saying “racersget to you positions.”

3 … 2 … 1 … GOI ran with full speed. I looked

back and saw the rest of the rac-ers back of me. Thud. Thud. Myheart was beating, faster than thesound of light. I was scared, “couldI make it or not” a few more stepsthen I can cross the line. But Iguess my legs had other plans. Islipped and fell down, hard. As Iclosed my eyes, I could see theracer who said she could win, crossthe line. I told myself to get backup. But my body didn’t listen tomy command. But then I wasjolted awake by the sudden ring-ing of my alarm clock.

Then I realised it was only adream. But my back was hurting.Then I got a text from my friendsaying “how are you? Does yourback still hurt? I know you are re-ally sad you didn’t win. You cantry again next year.” Then Idropped my phone because I wasastonished. Did my dream come

true?By Nandita Sugasi

6th grade, Mrs. Carlson

ThunderstormOn a cold, stormy night, the

lightning strikes and then a splitsecond later, it rains. The lights inmy house start to flicker on andoff. The wind outside goes swishand swoosh. The leaves on thetrees are dancing as they maketheir way to the floor. When I lookoutside the window, I see a graylong blanket with some big graycotton balls as clouds. I hear thun-der as loud as a lion. When I openthe window, I smell the crisp soiland grass. I close my eyes andimagine the stormy Earth back tothe peaceful Earth. Then a gust ofwind goes up my face, almostknocking me down. My eyes shootopen as I see the horrendous thun-derstorm still there. I run upstairsand pull my blanket over my face,telling myself to sleep. I hope thatthe Earth will be back to normaltomorrow.

As I finally close my eyes, I amjolted awake by the sudden ring-ing of my alarm clock. I run overto my parents room to go andsnuggle in bed with them but it

was empty. I notice that the ceil-ing was leaking. I rush downstairs,and I see that there is a hugepuddle in my house. I look outsidethe window and it is flooding! Iscream “mom, dad.” I don’t hear areply. So I go out the door andglance around. I start to shiver.Out of the corner of my eyes, I seemy mom, dad, and brother help-ing my neighbors, standing in wa-ter that is knee-high. When can theworld turn back to normal?

By Nandita Sugasi


EraserI am an eraserI like doing pacers.

You erase me all the way,I hate it all day.

It’s like the pencil is my enemyHe stares at me like I am crazy!

You erase, erase, and erase,While I pace, pace, and pace.

But wait a sec ... I am not done

I like erasing words on paperCause I am an eraser!

By Nandita Sugasi


FallAs I perch upon a grand oak tree

like a mother bird on her nest,strings of thoughts chug throughmy brain like a clamoring train. Isit and gaze some more at the per-fectly precise grass when I decideto pluck one miniscule thought outof my impossibly crowded mind.

“What will it be,” I ponder. Isearched and excavated my mindlike an archaeologist and mythoughts were the fossils when Istumbled upon the most spectacu-lar of thoughts: fall. It may seemutterly promiscuous to investigatesuch a thought but unlike a youngevolving tree, I couldn’t beswayed.

I focused hard and I focused wellin my grand oak tree and that iswhen I began to think.

Fall is such a wonderfully whim

Colin Powell Elementary School

C E N T R E V I L L ECOMMUNITIES OF WORSHIP

To highlightyour faith

community,callDonat

703-778-9420

bThe Church of the Ascension

Traditional Anglican Catholic Services1928 Book of Common Prayer, 1940 Hymnal,

and the King James Bible with Apocrypha

www.ascension-acc.org (703) 830-3176

Holy Communion 10 a.m. Sundays (with Church School and Nursery)

13941 Braddock RoadCentreville VA 20120

in the “Old Stone Church”of Historic Centreville

The Church of the Ascension(703) 830-3176 www.ascension-acc.org

Centreville Baptist Church(703) 830-3333 www.cbcva.org

Centreville UnitedMethodist Church

(703) 830-2684 www.Centreville-UMC.org



ShadowsSweeping across the roomHovering under my feetAnchored to the formDividing dark from lightOver the ground it stretchesWithout any thought or mindStaying long after my soul is gone

By Sarah Harvey

10th Grade

GreyIn the world of greyEveryone was greyTheir eyes. Their hairTheir lips and their noseFrom the clothes they boughtTo the car they droveEverything wasGrey

In the world of greyThere were no differencesEveryone was the sameThere was no warOr hateOr discriminationEverything wasGrey

In the world of greyYou couldn’t be blueWhen you were sadOr pink and redWhen in loveOr a glowing yellowWhen happyEverything wasGrey

In the world of greyEven their bloodIs greyEven their artIs greyEven their tearsAre greyEven their screamsAre greyEverything isGrey

In the world of greyEveryoneWasGrey

By Sarah Harvey

10th Grade

Shadow (ABC Poem)Abandoning the shadows positionBetraying the one he followedCut at the seamsDisappearing into the nightEscape its dark homeFreedom almost at its fingertipsGoing to find a better lifeHappiness to be found somewhereIsolation holding the shadowJust wanting a chanceKicked around all dayLaid down on the groundMaybe one dayNot today thoughOne day the owner will forgive the shadowPossiblyQuite doubt it thoughRight now the shadow has no way of escapingSunlight creates itTill night fallsUnder the stars it laysVery curious about the world around itWondering what more there isXaerning its place in life for so longYawning at everyday that goes byZacrete job all in all

By Paige Jefferson

Creative Writing, Period 1, Mrs. Taylor

Just a WeedIt was never planted.It was just a weed.Growing amongst the grass.Not a care in the world.Unknowing is life’s cruel actions.And then it met floods,And droughts,And lawn mowers,And weed killers.And despite its circumstances,It lived!It lived and grew and thrived.Yellow petals emerged from the green leaves.Beautiful and brighter than the sun.But still,It was a weed.Even then, it stood tall and strong.And then it met heat waves,And frosts,And children’s feet,And animals paws.And despite its circumstances,It lived!However, it did not grow or thrive.Yellow petals fell to the ground.Disfigured and dead they laid.The other plants watched,As it slowly fell apart.They watched and watched,But could not fight.They were rooted down,And they could only observe.The leaves closed up,And started to fall.It sunk defeated.It was truly only a weed now,And nobody likes a weed.Dead and ugly and a waste of space.The other plants just continued to watch.They watched as the sun shone,Or storms raged,Or children and animals ran about,Or temperatures changed.And they watched,As the little weed stopped fighting.Until one day,The shriveled leaves started moving,Then falling off.And in their place,Seeds started to grow.A new form of life.The little weed started growing,Growing tall and strong again.It was not dying, merely changing.But by being different from other plants,It was automatically labeled a weed.Unwanted.Unnecessary.Bothersome.A burden.The little weed was hurt,Hurt by the destructive hand of life.Yet, the little weed bounced back.The little weed rose above life,The little weed took what it was,And used that to its advantage.The little weed found happiness and love,In itself.That’s all the little weed will ever need.

By Caitlin Macler

11th Grade

The Power ofa child’s mind

polka dot polkadot go fetch im the mind of achild Me and the kids next door rule this land oneday we will leave this land and shall not returnsome will and will be mocked for it grownup existhere but few do not many return but who who doknow the mind of a child is more stronger than theeye can see know polkadot go fetch

By Manolo J. Mota-Flores

11th Grade

DreamfulShe closed her eyes and began to dreamShe dreamt of a life without food scarcityShe pictured quiet hills and not starving facesWondering if they even existed

From Page 7

John Cena

ing that the world is a terrible place andno fancy degree guarantees success, the de-mon broke into tears and said his scholar-ship was given to him by a pirate captain.Who was also a ghost. That ran a racketeer-ing job in New York.

And so it went that every time they de-feated a great foe the loser would tell of agreater foe behind the strings. They createdeven more legends by defeating The NotSo Sexy Succubus, The Vampire of WaverlyPlace, a clown, a random goblin, five goats,and 50 ogres that failed on their auditionfor the position of Shrek. Finally, the finalconfrontation, the last battle that woulddecide the fate of the world.

The Overlord was a crotchety old king,whose jowls sagged immensely and smelledof dead skin and applesauce. The only prob-lem was that he was rigged to a magicalthrone, that made him immortal and pro-tected him from outside threats. Historically,great kings sat upon this chair, bringinggreat prosperity to their empires until theyretired and inevitably the inheritance issuegot everyone important killed and somerandom person was put on the chair. Theold guys still had a blast playing golf as theworld burned around them though. Thisking, however, was not meant to sit on thethrone. The chair would electrocute anyunworthy fool who dared to sit on it. Thecurrent “king” was one such fool. He stayedin power by using a wooden board to siton, while still granting him the effects ofthe throne.

A party was being thrown in the king’shonor, but he knew that Cena and Anguswere coming for him, and barred the gates.Angus once again dressed in drag, whileCena disguised himself as a clown, but withthe addition of a full-body fat suit. Theyentered as a pair of musical performers, andthey entered with no consequences.

Angus went first. Following the plan, heplayed a terrible rendition of Justin Bieber’s

“Baby.” The court winced, and the king wassilent in his white-knuckle rage. Then An-gus’ song was quickly followed by RebeccaBlack’s “Friday,” causing more grief amongthe court. For another hour Angus madeterrible songs even worse.

Finally, the king could take it no longer.He leapt to his feet, screaming obscenitiesof the most vulgar nature, all directed atthe hapless alligator. Cena, unbeknownst tothe king, had snuck behind the throne. Hisroyal rage exhausted, the king sat down,still purple faced and huffing.

With a flash of speed only professionalwrestling could endow, the board of pro-tective wood was nicked out from beneaththe king. When the royal behind and thethrone collided, the continent’s, and theworld’s, problems were solved.

Then Cena took the corrupt court andthrew them into the Sun. Because he cando that now. When the people heard of this,they celebrated, some even saying that theyshould be ruled by the great heroes that hadrescued them.

When confronted with this seeminglyobvious decision, Cena said nothing. Hewaved his hands, disappearing in front oftheir eyes. All that was left was Angus, theflute playing alligator who was probably abit tone deaf.

The people still wanted to have a HeroKing, so they just shrugged and put Anguson the throne. To their astonishment, he wasnot electrocuted. Finally, these downtrod-den people had a worthy king! Angus ruledwith wisdom and compassion for many cen-turies, until the hordes of the HamburgerHelper nomads invaded.

To this day, people tell stories around thecampfire of the adventures of the two he-roes. There is even an obscure legend,whose origin is unknown, that believes thatCena shall return, and bring about anotherage of heroes.

By John Arpin

12th Grade

From Page 6

Mrs. Anneliese “Je ne regrette rien,” she reassured

herself. The dimly lit window of 135Moonstone Lane, her home, was clearlyvisible.

She heard a soft, steady pattering offootsteps and sharply turned around. Herfirst instinct was to bolt towards the glassdoors of the apartment’s main lobby,sprint up the stairs, and slam the doorbehind her, but that just wasn’t the logi-cal, adult reaction.

A large shadow loomed over her from

behind ….It’s nighttime. There’s always scary

shadows at this hour she thought ner-vously. A foot, larger than any foot shehad seen in her 30 years of living, pushedforward. The officer’s warning immedi-ately entered her mind. The monstrositystrided towards Mrs. Bernard, revealinghis huge, bird-like head and long sharktail. “Oh, for the love of God,” shebreathed.

By Shreya Bolla

9th grade

She opened her eyes and took a sighOnce again she created a fairytale lieShe went to do her choresAnd hurried because she wanted to dream moreIt didn’t matter if rest lasted for a short whileBecause her mind was quite adjustableShe finished her chores and felt calmFinally all the work had been doneShe went to her spot on the floor and laid downHappy she could dream for a while nowBut suddenly her mother rushed inShe told her something bad has happenedHer father had fallen down during his workAnd is now no more in existenceHer mother and her cried much

They wept their unlucky fateNow the girl hates to sleepBecause nobody likes impossible dreamsHer humble house got smallerAnd she herself got thinnerNow she wakes up in the early morningSlowly doing her choresBecause dreams are for hopeful peopleAnd the dreamful old girl is no moreInstead she is a quiet angelWho owns a broken soulLiving in poverty is never easyJust ask this young girl

By Husbana Noor

9th Grade


Cats benefit from being in a foster home. We needlong- and short-term fosters for cats of all ages,mothers with litters and kittens on their own.

Adopt/Donate/Volunteer at www.lostdogrescue.org

Consider Fostering

You Can Make a Difference

visit our website, cl ick on Participate

“Voice for the Voiceless”I should be glad to have a voiceMy thoughts they can be heard.I should be glad to have a voiceThe ability of forming words.

I should be glad to have a voiceSince out there some have none.Their cry for help is all ignoredThey die one after one.

I should be glad to have a voiceAnd make the people listen,To make them change of what is wrongAnd do better for a difference.

I give my voiceless peers my handTheir eyes are filled with fear.I, with my voice, will raise awarenessThe people need to hear.

I should be glad to have a voiceAnd let their thoughts be heard.What they can’t say themselves for allMy mouth says word for word.

By Duc My

Age 20, Grade 12

“Shower”Hot and steamy,a burning against my neckstreaming d o w n my back, alltheway d o w nPatteringonto my feet.The running waterlike the ticking of a clockgiving me time ...Time to think, time to ponder,Time for aloneness.Am I alone?Surrounded by ghosts of steam;Ascending they are;The blurry view unreal;Enveloped in the warmth,I am dazed; I am gone.

By Duc My

Age 20, Grade 12

Frozen WafflesI hate how some items at the grocery store can be

discontinued. It would be interesting to take a polland see how many people have been upset by theabsence of a good item that used to be a staple intheir weekly grocery list.

My grandma shops at a commissary in Fort Riley,Kansas to save money. She goes every Thursday at 9a.m. When I visit her, I tag along and I have taggedalong with her quite a few times.

I love frozen waffles. I love microwaving them orputting them in the toaster. There was this one brandI only ever got at my grandma’s house and they wereso fantastic and huge. They came in a plastic bluebag; it was about the size of these laptops really.There were four waffles in this one big square andabout 8 big squares. You’re supposed to break a fewoff the square and only eat one or two, but when Iwent to my grandma’s house I always ate a wholesquare for breakfast.

These fantastic waffles have been discontinued forquite some time now, but I miss them so much. Thatis a lot of love for just some frozen waffles, isn’t it?I’m sure though that if anyone else had tried these

waffles they would get it. I know my brother gets it.This summer when visiting my grandma we went tothe commissary like we used to, and I picked up abox of Eggo brand toaster waffles. They’re fine andthey taste good but they just aren’t the same.

It is Thursday at eight in the morning; there’s aknock on the flimsy basement bedroom door. Mygrandma walks in asking if I’m going to be ready.This is quite honestly not how I prefer to wake up,especially in the midst of summer. I open my eyesand look at my grandma, I manage to say is, “Yeah.”

She smiles, I think, and shuts the door again. It’scloudy outside from what I can tell from the win-dow, so leaving the cold basement shouldn’t be toobad knowing it won’t be an inferno upstairs in thewindowed walls of the kitchen. The room I have alarge and there is plenty of space to do nothing.

I get out of bed fully dressed as the night before Ihad snuck out to hang out with my half-brother wholives in town. This is sort of common; it’s also thereason why I typically sleep in till two in the after-noon. Unless of course it is a Monday or a Thursday,like today. It was also Sunday last week, but I’m notreally a big fan of organized religion. I can’t exactlytell my grandparents that though. They brush it offas just me being a lazy teenager.

I make my way to the connected bathroom and Icheck myself in the mirror, I look exhausted but that’stypical. My toothbrush is then assaulted by my grimyteeth, then put back into the holder. Oh, there’s alsoa sauna in the bathroom connected to the basementroom I’m staying in, but it is and most likely alwayswill be infested by spiders. I ignore the sauna and Ialso ignore the feeling that something might be hid-ing in there amongst the spiders watching me. Leav-ing the bathroom, I almost trip over my Chucks. Ipull them on and grab my wallet.

I slowly make my way up the stairs and into thefoggy glow of the living world where two very spe-cial people have already had their coffee and break-fast. I’m greeted every morning with some personal-ized salutation. Today my grandpa says “Good morn-ing Madam Blueberry!” to which I reply somethingalong the lines of “Good morning grandpa.” It wasn’tuntil I left Kansas did I realize Madam Blueberry is aVeggie tales reference.

I make my way to the pantry which smells like dogfood for obvious reason. There’s also a toilet in thepantry area, as well as the laundry machines and asink which I’ve had to wash my shoes in on manyoccasions. Anyway, no one uses the pantry toilet. Idig around for my array of tea’s and find the box I’mlooking for. I take it out and place a bag in a mugthat’s white with purple lettering “Kansas State.” Idon’t have my tea kettle here, so I microwave somewater and pour it over the tea.

I’ve just had a sip of tea when my grandma bustlesinto the kitchen suggesting I put my tea in a ther-mos. For some reason I don’t like using thermoses,so I ended up not replying until I’ve chugged down agood amount of peppermint tea. The visual I getwhen remembering this is not pretty. I put the cupdown and turn to my grandma, “I’m ready to go.”

Writing this out I feel like my grandparents musthave thought I was a super odd kid, and this wasjust this summer. Anyway, my grandma asks if Iwanted to eat anything for breakfast, which, I didnot want to eat breakfast. I said no. I opened up thefront door and the door harp did the thing it alwaysdoes, it doesn’t sound like a harp it’s just very pleas-ant. I can’t really describe it in a way that would dothe door harp a justice.

Once we are all out in the musty garage coveredin sharp tools and broken kites my grandma shuts

Mountain View High School

See Mountain View, Page 14


From Page 13

the door and presses the garage door button. Now,I want to say my grandma drives an old boat fromthe ’70s, like an Oldsmobile, however, she drives a2013 Jeep Grand Cherokee. I have to squeeze be-tween the side of the garage covered in campinggear that’ll probably never be used again by mygrandpa at least.

I get comfortable in the car and my grandpa pullsout of the garage and turns on the absolute worstradio station. The station is called K-Love and it’s aChristian pop station. Christian pop songs make mewant to go back to bed.

The drive to the commissary is sort of a longerdrive. We go through a few small towns on the waythere. One particular town has been caught up in alot of meth usage so they put up a fuchsia sign withbig yellow letters and a pocket watch that reads‘Meth Watch.’ I love that sign. So we drive past thislittle town of Ogden, the place is littered with thriftshops and buildings filled with so much junk youcan’t tell if it’s a thrift shop or not.

Past Ogden, we get to Fort Riley. I had to get apicture ID to get onto the base. The picture honestlylooks quite awful. I pull the ID out of my wallet andgive it to my grandma to give to the military officer,post man, or whatever. He looks it over and looks atme and then hands them back. We drive into thebase.

Fort Riley is a pretty neat place. Military bases arealways neat to me. I’m completely antiwar and theaspect of being around tons of men and women whohave been overseas and killed other people is unset-tling, but these people are super kind. We pull up tothe commissary now next to a PX which I have noidea when they put that up there. Anyway, mygrandma asks me to pick up the grocery bags andwe exit the jeep.

It’s incredibly hot out as usual; this dry Kansasheat that makes you burn to a crisp instead of meltin a puddle. Once we get through the doors of thecommissary, my grandma leaves me to go pee. Sortof like my mom, both of them can’t go 20 minuteswithout having to pee. I make sure to put that onmy list of “what happens to you if you decide tohave a child.” Unsettling.

I roam around a display of new cereals and Chexmix. Nothing too promising. My grandma appearsso I ditch the mix.

We have a long grocery list and I would be lying ifI said I didn’t want to see if I could write out every-thing we bought on this particular day. First we got

fruit for the week. I try and stay healthy most of thetime so having fruit around as well as some hummusand pita chips is always a good idea. This week I pickout a bag of apricots and a few white peaches. I havepretty much free reign of the store, my grandma letsme get anything so when I don’t pick out a ton ofunhealthy foods she is impressed.

When my brother came home from his time in Kan-sas he had gained 20 pounds; I’m not even joking.This horrified me. My grandma occasionally asks meto get something in an aisle back that we forgot. I goand get it; this time it is pickles.

After a good 30 minutes of following the list wearrive at the beverage aisle. This is where the storehas the Red Bull. More specific to me, the sugar freeRed Bull. I go to grab the biggest can they have whichis pretty big. My grandma then gives me the look Ionly get in this aisle and says “You already never sleepat night, that can’t be healthy for you. Maybe go downa size?” I sigh “Yeah, okay. You’re right.” I grab asmaller sugar free Red Bull.

Every week I am allowed 1 Red Bull. One week Islept in and missed going to the store and mygrandma still bought me a sugar free Red Bull. It istimes like that which remind me how much I lovemy grandma.

The next aisle is the frozen food section, I get prettymelancholy in this aisle once we pass the frozen peasand are met with an array of frozen breakfast items.The waffles are not there. I miss them. My grandmahas no idea how much I miss those waffles. I grabthe Homestyle Eggo waffles. They’re great, I knowthis. But they are not fantastic.

Next aisle. This trip is not over. The refrigeratedbutter substitutes and cheese aisle is also where thePillsbury rolls are. This reminds me of orange rolls.They’re cinnamon rolls Pillsbury used to make and ithad a tube of orange glaze to frost them with. Mygrandma knows I love these and that I was under theimpression they were discontinued. She zooms overand picks up a tube of Pillsbury orange rolls. I chokeback tears. Holy s***. These rolls are so bomb. Obvi-ously we get them.

On the way home the Christian pop station playson, but I am less salty about it because now the car isfilled with the conversation I’m having with mygrandma. Yes, we are talking s*** on other membersof the family. No I don’t have anything against thesepeople, but my grandma loves gossip so I engagebecause we had a great time at the commissary.

By Irene Richards

Age 17, Grade 12

Mountain View High School

Pretty, Pretty PeopleI see pretty women in pretty houses in pretty lands

with all pretty people.They are embraced with warm fabric and vibrant

strands of silk.Engrossed by the eyes of the unfair and unfit, capti-

vated by the way their hair coruscates with the morningsunlight.

The way their voices are synthetically smooth andsubtle, the grace of their movements, the enchantingabilities that they yield with ease.

But what renders them perplexed, is that I’m pretty.Rasp, hoarse, yet the voice is humble and wise. A

concoction of a spontaneous combustion that spillswords before imploding.

Audacious, courageous, and kind. Thousands ofthese chemicals mix inside me.

It bends their ankles backwards, on how an uglycould be pretty.

Now, ugly has become the new pretty.By Georgia Gary

9th grade


By Lola Mcgavely, 9th grade


Business DirectoryTo Advertise Your Business, Call Karen at 703-778-9422

WWW.CONNECTIONNEWSPAPERS.COM

ELECTRICAL ELECTRICAL

GUTTER GUTTER

IMPROVEMENTS IMPROVEMENTS

LANDSCAPING

LANDSCAPING LANDSCAPING

LANDSCAPING LANDSCAPING

TILE / MARBLE TILE / MARBLE

TILE / MARBLE TILE / MARBLE

Good is not good, where

better is expected.

-Thomas Fuller

Kenny Lourie is an Advertising Representative forThe Potomac Almanac & The Connection Newspapers.

By KENNETH B. LOURIE

Though I want to treat the disease – andmy having been diagnosed with the disease,with respect, I don’t want to treat it with theutmost reverence. I mean, it’s not the Pope.

It’s an affliction, not an affection. Certainlynot one worth embracing anyway. But defi-nitely one which needs engaging.

Treating and living with lung cancershouldn’t be a vertical-type, up or down,either-or set of options. There should be moreintegration with non-Western, holistic andalternative approaches rather than, as hasbeen my experience: you’re on your own;and your oncologist, generally speaking – orpotentially legally-liable from speaking,knows/say less about it than you the patient.

I’ve tried to straddle this line going onnearly nine years now. Adhering to the con-ventional wisdom/treatment didn’t seem likeenough. Perhaps hearing the extremely grimprognosis that I received on Feb. 27, 2009 :“13 months to two years,” affected my think-ing. Perhaps hearing the equally grim likeli-hood – statistically referencing, of livingbeyond five years (low single digit percent-age); heck, even living beyond two years,might have given me pause as to what courseof treatment: chemotherapy, I was starting andwhy. But what did I know? I had just beenblindsided and then bewildered as to why andhow I was going to live the rest of my life.

Yet here I sit, nine-years old, so to speak.Some days I believe my amazing good fortunehas to do with the treatment and care I’vereceived from my oncologist and staff at theInfusion Center. Other days, I think it has todo with some of the alternatives I’ve assimi-lated into my life. Though I can’t honestlyinclude exercise in that life, I have modifiedmy diet somewhat and most definitely canmention vitamins, supplements, alkaline waterand apple cider vinegar, among a few others;along with a positive attitude with mostly goodhumor, as important elements. It hasn’t beeneasy, but it has been me. Meaning, I amproud of how I’ve managed a bad situationand so far, not made it worse.

Though I am somewhat unique, statisticallymeasuring, in how long I’ve survived (ho-wever, I’m not exactly 108-year old PaulEdgecomb/Tom Hanks from the movie “TheGreen Mile”), I don’t know that the variedsteps I’ve taken and the humor and attitudewith which I’ve put one foot in front of theother are likewise unique.

Of the many patients/survivors I’ve metalong this way, many, if not all, have exhibitedsimilar good humor and more of a can-do atti-tude quite frankly, than I. I’ve always beenhappy to make their acquaintance and eagerto hear their stories, as they have been inter-ested in hearing mine. Although cancer is notexactly catchy, I’ve found that, in speaking/sharing with fellow cancer survivors, what goesaround comes around. And what ‘that’ is thatis going around is, to invoke The Beach Boys:“Good Vibrations,” and that is catchy andhealthy too!

When I was first diagnosed – and caughtup in my own circumstances, I was not inter-ested – too much, in interacting with otherlung cancer patients/survivors. I was moreconcerned with my own fragile emotionalstate and was afraid that exposing myself tomore bad news: other “terminal” lung cancerpatients’ stories would weaken my resolve.

I don’t recall how many months or years itwas before I realized how wrong I had been.Weaken? My involvement with fellow lungcancer patient/survivors has only strengthenedmy resolve. Has that openness and apprecia-tion for my fellow lung cancer patientextended my life? I’d like to think it has.

But if it hasn’t, I guess the jokes on cancer.And that’s a laugh with which we can all live.

“Cansir”Colin Powell

From Page 11

sical season if you don’t see it throughthe bashfully tinted lenses of a swelteringsummer lover. The way the stiff statue liketrees relinquish all worry and stray fromtheir routine lives in the calm serene wind.

The feeling of the cold icy chill in the airhaving contact with your innocent skinsending a spine tingling freeze to resonatethroughout your body. I sit and stareperched upon my grand oak tree the nextday and wonder, “what else is there?”

I gaze and gaze at the shimmering goldand maroon tinted horizon, trying to focusand think but came to no avail. I am aboutto leap off my grand oak tree and saunterwith a desolate and downcast countenancewhen a small leaf of crimson fiery hueslands in my lap.

I pause, then begin to think.Previously, my mind had simply been a

fogged up windshield doused by patteringdroplets of water, but that leaf, in the lightof the rain, became the windshield wiperto make everything crystal clear. As if mymind was the track and my thoughts therunners, ideas began whirring past the fin-ish line.

This little leaf, although so small, re-minded me of the days my mom and I wouldbake crisp sweet apple pie. I could practi-cally smell the warm enlightening scent ofcinnamon saturated apple wafting throughthe backyard.

The hearty and flakey crust, each layeranother experience of joy and warmth. Imarveled at how this little leaf opened thedoor to such fond memories, evoke suchemotion.

As another soft breeze brushes by my face,it makes the hairs lying delicately on thefront of my forehead bob up and down likeballerinas but that fall nutcracker is shortlived. I turn my head slightly and notice theruby red cranberries shine regally throughtheir entrapment of dark tangled branchesand curled up leaves of mystery. The breathof life echoes from everything in the back-yard. The rugged bark of the trees, the lus-ter of the royal cranberries, even the whistleof the breeze that produces yet another per-formance in the rustling silky and emeraldleaves.

Everything has a life, a purpose, and theyare all anticipating the harsh winter tocome.

They are all ready to silence their song oflife and lay dormant while dreaming of thecycle of seasons yet again. All waiting forfall to return to their resting souls. Themajesty of fall is unlike no other and neverceases to amaze me.

The consistent flow of warmth coursingthrough my veins. The flood of jubilantmemories crashing in my brain like a twin-kling shore at high tide.

Most of all, I love my grand oak tree. Thegrand oak tree that I perch on like a motherbird on her nest.

The grand oak tree that I gaze, focus, andthink from. The grand oak tree that hasmade me love fall most of all.

By Ritha M. Igout

Age 11, 6th

grade, Mrs. Carlson

december 27 - january 2, 2018 25 cents newsstand...

Documents