The Best of...

the

BEST of...

An “out of this world” collection of staff writing of The Sailors’ Log from the 2019-20 school year

Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales. Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales. Scary Stories. Personal

Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspiratio

atives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales. Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales.

Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales. Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales.

TABLE OF CONTENTS Family & Friends Gone but not forgotten – Jenna Baker Cousin No. 6 – Samantha Sewick I’ll be there for you – Holli Brus Turning pain into positivity – Desi Burns Coach dad knows best – Bailey Graham The sound of his voice – Warren Kent III

Mission Trip Make time for roses – Sydney Fetters Horror The follower – Chris Horvath The dark – Jaylene Davis 3:33 – Morgan Cathey

Sports Dreams Taking it to the mat – Robby Swanker Bears, ducks, assassins - oh my – Sarah Roman Callback? More like comeback – Gabby Lopez D&D School An untold adventure – Kye Sieffert Under pressure – Emily Kuznar Go hard or go home – Paige Judson

Each year, the newspaper staff is challenged to complete a PDFonly special edition of The Sailors’ Log. For the past three years, this special edition has been honored by the Michigan Interscholastic Press Association as the Spartan Award winner as the best special section in the state. This year’s version challenged the staff to write their best piece of work. Some wrote personal stories while other opted for short stories. We hope you enjoy.

Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales. Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales. Scary Stories. Personal

Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspiratio

atives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales. Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales.

Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales. Scary Stories. Personal Narratives. Adventure Articles. Inspirational Tales.

GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

Stories of grandfather influences granddaughter

I

t’s difficult to miss someone I have never met. However, my mom often reminds me that I have mannerisms like her father.

And I often wonder what it would be like to have known my grandfather, whom I only know through stories.

While he died before I was born, it is his death that is the reason I am here and the reason I am thinking of following in his footsteps (kinda), career-wise.

Deputy Donald E. Rice’s life ended on Dec. 10, 1985, when he was hit by a drunk driver as he was assisting with a flat tire on the side of the highway. My grandfather was only 35 when he was killed instantly.

As a result of the accident, he never had the chance to see my mom Shawn, 12 at the time, and my aunt Shannon, 15 at the time, grow up to the women they are today.

My mom says that my grandfather always had a knack for police work.

One story she remembers is from when she was 9 years old, and my grandfather was checking on his airplane (he had a pilot’s license) making sure it was secured.

He noticed two suspicious individuals under the plane. My grandpa then sped to the plane and apprehended the individuals, who were attempting to steal gas. He told my mom to call 9-1-1. The two were eventually found guilty of larceny.

It is stories like this that make me wish I had known him.

This story and his untimely death led to my mother entering the police force.

As my mom grew up knowing that her father had been killed while doing what he loved most, helping people in need, she began to follow her dream of being a police officer.

She knew right after high school she was going to attend Grand Valley University to get her

degree in law enforcemnt, and after her 4 years at Grand Valley she was enrolled into the Michigan State Police Academy in Lansing and graduated from there in 1996.

After this journey of becoming a law enforcement officer, she was ready to start living up to her fathers legacy.

This is where my story really starts.

In 1997, my mom, Shawn Rice at the time, was a trooper for the Michigan State Police assigned to the Grand Haven Post, was called to assist another police officer on a domestic violence call. Little did she know that is where she will meet her life long partner, my dad Jon Baker, who was also called to assist on the call.

Their story is a little more intense than others, guns drawn and everything.

It is stories like this that make me wish I had known my grandfather because he would have loved this fairy-tale romance.

Growing up alongside my hero parents, I have been exposed to some interesting and frightening stories, but through them all, I now have an interest in law enforcement.

Helping has always been a No. 1 for me, and I have been asked many times if I will follow in their footsteps.

The answer to that is as of right now I am interested in the behind-the-scenes aspect of it, but spending years of my life watching crime TV shows with my parents, like NCIS or Criminal Minds, I have interest in detective part of law enforcement and working for the government. Being a road patrol officer is not on my radar.

It is moments like these I wish I could share with grandfather.

In some way, I know this all goes back to my grandfather whose legacy still exists.

My grandfather is honored at the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial in Washington, D.C., and in eighth grade, I had the opportunity to visit the memorial and etch his name onto a piece of paper.

I wish to live up to his legacy, and I will always hold a special place in my heart for him – even though I never met him.

Yes, it’s difficult to miss someone I have never met, but I do.

“I decided to write this story to inform people about how one little decision can impact many lives. It is hard to wrap my head around that my grandpa was actually here at one point and his life was taken so thoughtlessly.” -Jenna Baker, staff writer

Donald E. Rice, a police officer killed in the line of duty, is memorialized in Washington D.C., where staff writer Jenna Baker, his granddaughter (above), etched his name on her eighth-grade field trip. Rice (below) was killed in a hit-and-run accident in 1985. (Photo taken by eighth-grade science teacher Eric Wahlberg/Photo taken by Rice’s daughter Shawn Baker)

COUSIN NO. 6

Grandpa’s advice continues to live on through memories

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as it really a day with Grandpa if you didn’t need a change of clothes? Not in my house.

Recalling being a kid, I can’t count on one hand how many water balloons or buckets of ice-cold water were dumped on my head as I hear his infamous giggle What a troublemaker.

My family has to hang onto those memories and hold them close as he watches over us in a slightly different way now.

When my grandpa Len passed away in November, it changed a lot in my family.

Thanksgiving felt irrelevant, and all we needed was each other. His absence is felt every single day, but we’re spending our time together, honoring him the best ways we know how.

Growing up, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ house. Whether it was waking up on those early summer mornings and heading over there so my mom could go to work or the countless cousin sleepovers that always involved some sort of shenanigans, one thing was for sure: my grandpa always instigated all the adventures.

His ideas of “fun” occasionally bordered on insane. I never knew what to expect when spending time with him. Once, my quality time with him consisted of wrapping Christmas presents for the family.

Our seemingly simple task turned into an all-out Christmas present wrapping war to make everyone’s as absurd as possible.

My mom’s present of a simple mug was wrapped in as big of a box as he could find and filled with coins, books, golf balls, and anything he could find to make her unwrapping as difficult as possible.

Unexpected was the understatement of the century when it came to his personality.

But everyone knew that there would be plenty

Staff writer Samantha Sewick shared a special bond with her grandfather, Len Kemp. She said his attitude, smile, and love affected all he knew and continues to live on, even after his sudden death in November 2019.

of smiles, jokes, laughter, and his signature-flavored Tootsie Rolls involved whenever he came around.

My grandpa was one of the kindest, most sincere, and loving people I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. Although he was known for his teasing attitude and the bundles of laughter that seemed to naturally follow him every“I wrote this story because I where, he needed a way to cope. This story wasn’t all fun and became my way to express how games, difficult it was for me to let go of but a really traumatic loss. It was my that’s way of keeping him with me and what

honoring him. I want to make him proud of me.” – Samantha Sewick, staff writer

made him unique.

Being a father, a grandfather, and a coach, he knew how necessary discipline, hard work, and teamwork were, and he wasted no time in instilling those beliefs in everyone he met.

Whether it was his five grandchildren he scolded for raiding his ice-bucket-turnedcandy-jar in the cupboard one too many times before dinner or one of his varsity boys’ golfers getting frustrated for missing an easy shot, he never held back what he truly thought.

The connection he was able to make with those around him was truly remarkable. He was one of those individuals people met and never forget.

Whether it was his smile and laugh lines that surrounded his eyes or his brash and, well, often colorful comments about anything and everything, he certainly made an impression.

His maturity and filter may have been

lacking, okay nonexistent, from time to time, but I loved him just the same.

My grandma used to poke fun at him for being “our sixth cousin,” but he never did mind.

He knew he was having much more fun causing the chaos of spraying water on the deck, even though Grandma insisted it was a “safe zone,” than he would’ve sitting around with the adults.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him and what he’s taught me. The legacy he left behind will never be forgotten. I’ve learned to see him in everything. Seeing his life everywhere I turn makes the grief and weight of the loss easier to bear.

Whether it be my knowledge of how to turn the sprinklers on while Grandma’s in the garden to get her soaking wet or the fact that Nerds candy in pancakes aren’t actually as bad as it sounds, his quirks still remain a huge part of my life.

And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’LL BE THERE FOR YOU

Bond of three best friends is truly unbreakable

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ome say that a group of three isn’t a good combination because someone will always be the odd man out.

But there are many thriving trios out there, such as the Three Musketeers or the Powerpuff girls.

Linden Gentzkow, Anabeth Hylland, and I also consider ourselves part of a thriving three.

We three sophomores are what many would call a dynamic trio, or in other words, it’s weird to see us three not together.

I’ve known Anabeth ever since young fives, but we didn’t start becoming best friends until fourth grade.

Linden, on the other hand, I met in seventh grade during the volleyball season, and we’ve been best friends ever since.

It wasn’t until eighth grade, though, that our unbreakable group was formed.

Everybody knows the cheesy quote, “Best friends are hard to find because the best are already mine.” And even though it is cheesy, it is also true.

With them, there is never a dull moment.

We all know each other so well that we know how to make one another die laughing or push one another’s buttons.

Linden and Anabeth are different, and although we are all best friends, I have a different relationship with each of them.

My relationship with Anabeth is more of an adventurous one. We are always trying to do something so-called “savage.”

We genuinely bring out the weirdness of each other and help embrace one another’s quirks.

She is also my therapist, the one I go to for advice and hurry to tell everything to.

Now, Linden is slightly different. We are basically sisters. We rip on each other so much,

Staff Writer Holli Brus (middle) found her best friends in fellow sophomores Anabeth Hylland (left) and Linden Gentzkow (right).

The trio continues to be inseparable with their unbreakable bond.

but there is never a time where we are not laughing. We bicker constantly, but deep down, we don’t know what we would do without one another.

I also call her my mom since she is always making sure I’m okay, happy, prepared, and most importantly -- fed (since I am always raiding her cabinet).

She keeps Anabeth and I stable and makes sure we don’t go crazy.

Together, we create a perfect combination of friendship that I wouldn’t trade for the “I wrote this story because world.

We also I wanted a chance to have so share my appreciation and many experiences with the most great important people in my life. memWithout them, I don’t know ories that how I would survive my high it’s school experience.” – Holli im-

Brus, staff writer

possible to keep track.

Whether it’s staying up until 4 a.m making dances, having random laugh attacks, hyping each other up, having the best ranting sessions, getting coffee, going shopping, binge-watching TV shows, or jamming to music in our cars, thinking of fun memories comes so naturally.

Linden said her favorite memory was during the winter apocalypse last year.

“We stayed with each other for five days straight, going from one house to another,” Linden said. “I’ve never stayed up so late and made so many dances in my life.”

Anabeth’s favorite memory is something simpler.

“My favorite memory is definitely just when we blast the music in one of our cars and sing at the top of our lungs while making up stupid motions to go with it,” Anabeth said.

My favorite memory of the three of us is probably when we all go up to my cottage in Elk Rapids.

From the endless days swimming off of my boat, to the numerous trips to the ice

cream shop, and the sneaking out late to go late night swimming at the beach, being up north with them makes memories I will never forget.

I love being in my favorite place with my favorite people.

I don’t know how I got so lucky to find these two amazing friends.

They are both so caring, loving, kind, funny, gorgeous, and just perfect. I feel so blessed that these are my best friends whom I get to share my high school experience with them.

They help make me a better person. They always help boost my confidence, and they help me step out of my shell.

The thought of us all splitting up and going our separate ways in college makes me want to cry, so for now, I am going to focus on these last two years with each other and making sure they are years that we will never forget.

My life wouldn’t be the same without these crazy girls. And although we might be odd, we make sure no one is the odd man out.

TURNING PAIN INTO POSITIVITY

Divorce of parents makes sophomore stronger

I

lie awake at night and wonder.

I wonder why my parents couldn’t work out their problems and stick together.

My parents’ divorce has caused me more problems than I have ever had before. A series of battles against my own mind have arisen. My anxiety that was once little has expanded and grown into something new.

Everyone has something they prefer to keep to themselves.

One secret that I don’t like to speak of is my battle against anxiety and depression.

I have always had a small form of anxiety that came along with trying to be a perfectionist; however, this new form of anxiety has become something that strongly affects my everyday life.

Only those who battle these mental disorders can truly understand how difficult it is. One of the most difficult parts is trying to constantly explain how I feel.

Nobody can truly comprehend how it feels for me to walk down a hallway with my head down because I fear what people are thinking about me. It is exhausting trying to constantly prove that I am good enough, but learning how to work through adversity can only make me stronger.

Telling people about my depression and anxiety has never been easy for me. I prefer to make it seem as if I have it all together.

I don’t want people to worry about me, and I struggle with verbally expressing my feelings and emotions.

Part of me always thought that holding in these feelings would help me get over them. Little did I know, this just makes the problem worse.

Going to sleep at night is not easy when my mind won’t stop running. The amount of exhaustion that I experience wears down on my

body. I just want to rest, but I can’t stop thinking about my flaws and imperfections.

Anxiety and depression have not always been this big of a problem for me.

But after New Year’s last year, my dad broke the news to me that my parents were getting a divorce. I truly was uncertain about how to feel about the situation. Everything I ever had was being torn apart.

My dad told me this: “It will be better for everyone. You just need to be positive.

I have been thinking about this for a long time, and I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t think it would benefit the family.”

This whole time I thought my parents were in love, but they were hurting and broken, and I still feel dumb for not realizing what my parents were going through.

I always wish that I was good enough to hold them together, and I constantly hope that my parents’ love for each other can be resuscitated, even though I know not to get my hopes up.

My parents breaking apart only made my self-esteem lower. I don’t blame them for this happening, but sometimes, I imagine how well I could hold it together when my parents were together.

Both of my parents have moved on with other people. Seeing my parents love other people as they had once loved each other causes me some jealousy. My dad tries to mitigate the situation, but I don’t want to accept these new people into my life.

I can’t stop thinking about the life I used to have.

Now, things are different. My dad has started eating healthier and has become stricter on my friend choices and experiences. My mom puts on the impression that she has got it all together, but I know she is hurting. My parents sometimes have a hard time getting along.

These new versions of my parents scare me. My dad becoming healthier is amazing and makes me happy for him, but his goals turned into his goals for me.

Sometimes, I feel like I am not good enough for him; although, he tries to constantly remind me that I am.

“I wrote this story because He tells me it is easy for me to lie about that I am beautiful how I am feeling. This piece and showed my true emotions. will Even though it has been alextremely difficult, my ways parents have done whatever be

they can to support me.”

– Desi Burns, staff writer

Tina and Seth Burns, parents of staff writer Desi Burns, ended their marriage in 2019.

Desi, who said she has always had anxiety, saw her anxiety increase because of her parents divorce. enough for him, but I still don’t feel like I am.

Thoughts constantly go through my mind about how I need to get skinnier or be prettier. His goals for me turned into my biggest insecurities.

My mother’s emotions have a large impact on mine. I constantly worry about if my mother is happy. Sometimes I feel like it is my job to make sure she is happy.

She tries to hide how she is feeling, but I always try to look out for her like she does for me. Seeing her upset causes me to be angry with my dad.

I can’t look at my dad without being upset. However, I was always so close to him; feeling like I can’t talk to him makes me feel broken and alone. I love my dad with my whole heart, and I don’t like feeling angry with him.

Depression and anxiety have a huge impact on my sports and academics as well.

With me being a perfectionist, school is already stressful.

I constantly try to get good grades since I hope to be accepted into the University of Michigan. Having these goals for myself pushes me, but it also creates more stress as

I hold myself to high standards that I feel like I am not good enough to maintain.

I sit awake at night wondering if I am good enough to accomplish my dreams in life. If I struggle so much with high school now, how can I ever be successful?

I have gotten better at finding more positive outlets for my anxiety and depression.

I see a counselor once a week to talk about my feelings.

Sometimes, it is difficult to open up to someone who barely knows me. I have to tell her personal information, and sometimes, that alone gives me more anxiety.

One thing I have learned is that I can’t change my situation; I can only use the challenges to make me stronger.

Constantly being angry doesn’t make me feel any better about what is going on in my life.

With two younger siblings, I know that I need to be a good example. I tell them of my battle against my own mind, but I remind them that everything happens for a reason.

Although I don’t like battling these negative feelings every day, I know that I will forever be stronger because of them.

COACH DAD KNOWS BEST...

Athlete opens up about being a coach’s kid

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ear Dad, I can’t thank you enough for all that you have done for me, especially when it comes to my bowling career. My form and game gets stronger everyday due to your aggressive push to success for me.

You have given me the drive to be as good as I can be. In the past couple of months, I’ve gained some success, but I’m still a work in progress. I wouldn’t be half the bowler I am today if it weren’t for you.

As a little girl, I participated in an expansive amount of athletics, including soccer, gymnastics, competitive dance, softball, basketball, and volleyball. I’ve been a dedicated athlete from a young age.

I played on numerous teams and experienced a lot of what athletes have to offer.

The whole time, you came to every game you could, and you supported me through every win and loss.

While I was off throwing a softball and kicking a ball around, you were out on the lanes pursuing your own passion. You’ve been bowling since the age of 5 and have a great amount of achievements through the sport.

These achievements include 45 perfect games, time spent on top college teams, and even earning a Gold Medal during your time on Team USA. I’ve always been envious of your success in the sport and how you turned your love for the game into a career that supports your family.

Every day, you go to work at Brunswick with a smile on your face because you get to spend all day talking about your passion: rolling a ball down a lane.

Since I can remember, I’ve been in and out of bowling centers watching you bowl, but I had no interest in following in your footsteps.

Even through your protests and arguments, I was adamant that I was not going to bowl. The sport wasn’t something that interested me. I was convinced that bowling was for middle-aged men on Thursday night leagues who spend most of the time drinking beer and eating a basket of fries rather than actually bowling.

I’ll admit, I didn’t believe bowling to be a sport, just more of a pastime. You soon changed my opinion in my freshman year of high school.

With bowling season rolling up in the winter of 2018, I still had no interest in joining the school team.

But at the last second, I gave into your begging to go to tryouts just to appease your requests. Starting off, I couldn’t even throw a 100 game, but I made the team anyway.

I remember one day after school I came home after school, and you had all new equipment waiting for me. You were so excited just to watch me throw a shot, and watching your face light up when I did something good gave me enough motivation to keep practicing to get better. I had no experience, but I did have an excited dad and three brand new bowling balls in my bag.

Soon after practices began, you joined the coaching staff. I’ll admit at first I was ecstatic for you to be my coach because I thought it would make bowling a lot more enjoyable, but it didn’t really end up being that way.

My practices went from being a breeze to a boot camp. You pushed me harder than any of the other girls. I even had to stay after practice and keep throwing shots. Shot after shot after shot.

I didn’t think I could work out a sweat while bowling, but after throwing 20 shots in a row, you soon proved wrong. I’d come home sore and tired but still no rest.

You would force me to read books about bowling or watch clips of professionals’ forms and ball rolls.

Daddy boot camp practices were miserable and went above “I wrote this piece in honor of and beyond my experience with my dad what was out on the lanes. My dad and necessary, I do not always get across our but in appreciation for each other, the end, it’s so this is my way of letting

him know I love him and appreciate the time he puts in for me and my team.” – Bailey Graham, staff writer

Staff writer Bailey Graham doesn’t have to look far for bowling guidance as her father, Brian Graham, is one of the assistant coaches. shaped me into a pretty good bowler. Two years later, you are still my coach, and we have had our fair share of arguments and even some screaming matches over a 10 pin.

Bowling with you as a coach wasn’t always the easiest thing, but I definitely became a lot better all because of you.

Thank you for pushing me to bowl and pushing me during practice. Through my hours of practicing and competition after competition, I found a love for a sport I once disdained. I’ve gained a new appreciation of it.

Bowling is a sport; it has a more difficult mental aspect than many other sports I play, but I love it. I love how my competitors can also cheer me on and have become some of my closest friends. The best thing about bowling is being close to you and always having an excuse for us to talk or hang out and practice.

You have brought me closer to bowling, but bowling has brought me closer to you.

All of my achievements and smooth form are all because of you. Being the coach’s kid for me was a different story than others.

You are my toughest critic, but you are pushing me to greatness. I know that somewhere deep in your heart the tough words are out of love and wanting to see me do the best I can.

I love you Coach Dad, and I wouldn’t trade you for anyone else to coach me out on the lanes, and if I get judgment about being the coach’s kid, they can move aside because I wouldn’t want anyone else to show me the ways of the lanes.

Our bowling journey isn’t over yet; we still have lots of practice and success to come. I can’t wait to start my senior season with you next year.

Love, Bailey

THE SOUND OF HIS VOICE

Father’s guidance needed even after he’s gone

I

can’t hear his voice.

It’s been three years since my hero, my idol, my father passed away, and recently, I have been trying to remember his voice. And I can’t. And it scares me.

I don’t have a voicemail. I don’t have a recording. I don’t have a video.

I’m not sure why hearing his voice is so important to me. Maybe it’s because we spent the final 14 years of his life coaching baseball together every spring at North Muskegon High School, where I, Warren Kent III, was the head coach and he, Warren Kent Jr., was my assistant. Maybe it’s because he had such a calming sound, rarely raising his voice – always nurturing.

Maybe it’s because I regret not having that final conversation that could resonate for the rest of my life.

Before he passed away from cancer on Feb. 6, 2017, I spent the final two weeks of his life with him. I took work off to be there to help my mom but really to be with him.

We would talk about inane things like the weather, the Detroit Tigers and whether he was in any pain (he wasn’t). But we never talked about the important things, whatever those may have been. Was I a good son?

What did he remember most about being a father to me, my brother and my sister?

What advice does he have for me when raising my two children?

I think a little of that was denial on my part. I did not want to believe that he was truly dying. I think I expected him to one day just get better. I think I was holding out that he would always be there.

At the end, he only slept and couldn’t speak or eat; I knew then that it was too late to have that final conversation.

But now, I need to hear his voice. And I can’t. And it

scares me.

My mother and my wife say that my father and I are similar, specifically in our demeanors, much like my father was with his father. My father once said his father was “laid back – do what needs to be done – when I get around to it. He was always looking for ways to help give us extra things. He didn’t let things bother him.”

That definitely describes my father and me too.

In the past three years, there have been times when I needed my father (yes, my father – never dad or daddy). I was let go of my coaching job at North Muskegon a year after he died. I definitely needed him then.

I have a 6-year-old son and an 8-year-old daughter whom I am raising with my wife.

I need him to help when difficult situations arise because I am sure he experienced many of them – most likely with my brother and sister (obviously, never with me.)

Don’t get me wrong. I have memories of him. Some from before I was born that he shared with me and some during our lifetime together.

I know he loved his childhood even though his family didn’t have much – “We didn’t have a lot of ‘stuff,’” he said. “But, we didn’t lack for things… Not having a lot of money made us appreciate what we did have.”

I know he regretted the way he treated his younger brother who died at a young age. He once said, “It affected me in how I treat others. I didn’t treat my brother very well. When he was gone, I felt bad about not being a friend to him.”

I know he ended up with the family he always wanted – “I always wanted three kids, two boys and a girl,” he said. “The boys close enough together to play together and be friends. Then have a daughter to spoil.”

Additionally, I know he loved fishing (drowning worms is what we called it). He loved the Tigers. He loved his family. He loved God (My father said, “When I was young, I thought of God as someone who controlled everything we “I wrote this story because did. Now, even though every day gets I think of God as a little easier, there are somemoments when I wish I could one speak to my father. Although who

it has been three years since he died, it still seems like yesterday.” – Warren Kent III, adviser

Adviser Warren Kent III spent the final weeks with his father Warren Jr. before he passed away in February of 2017. The two Warrens spent the final 14 years of Warren Jr.’s life coaching baseball together. guides us and lets us make choices.”).

I know a lot about my dad, factual things, that I will never forget. He was born and raised in Saginaw, graduating from Saginaw High; he played football at Olivet College; he taught special education at the high school level for 38 years.

One thing I never knew until he died was that he was accepted into Michigan State University, my alma mater. For some reason, he never told me that while he was alive.

From 1965 until he passed away, my father coached football, baseball, and softball at various levels at various schools. He led Greenville to its first-ever football playoff appearance in 2000; he was Baseball Assistant Coach of the Year in the state of Michigan in 2011.

His favorite book was the 1939 children’s book called Mike Mulligan and his Steamshovel, which is a story about loyalty and love.

My dad’s advice to couples? “Share the good and bad things. Talk over things.

Don’t let things build up to a point they cause problems. Learn to do things each

partner likes to do. Be able to give in to each other.”

He believed in the Golden Rule: do unto others as you would have them do unto you, which he modified to “treat people as you would like to be treated. Always remember, you are working with them.”

He had four other ideals that he also lived by, but this one sums him up best: “Somewhere, I learned to have fun.”

Finally, I once asked my father to pick the word that described his life. His word?

Fulfilling. “I’ve been lucky in that I got to do the things I always wanted to do: teach, coach and have a family.”

When he was dying, I said that if I have a choice that would be the way I would want to go, meaning I would want to have time.

Time to maybe knock off one more bucket list item. Time to reflect on my life.

More importantly, time to say goodbye – and get it recorded.

I want my children and those who love me to never forget my voice.

I wish I could hear my father’s voice one more time.

But I can’t. And it scares me.

TAKING IT TO THE MAT

Wrestling provides lifelong lessons for senior

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restling is not what it may seem.

Wrestling has been misunderstood for as long as it has been around.

There’s always that lurking stigma about “rolling around with sweating guys,” but that is not the case.

There is so much effort and hard work that goes on behind the scenes that some people just don’t understand.

Wrestling is a grind.

It’s not just the matches or tournaments that I compete in, but the off-season work that is unseen.

Many sacrifices have to be made during the season. I don’t get as much free time as I would like, and my body goes through strenuous work day in and day out. Weight has to be managed, so pigging out is off the table. In order to be successful in this sport, I must be 100 percent committed.

It’s a long season.

All of my pre-season work, like summer workouts, conditioning, and camps lead to just competing twice a week. Staying focused and determined to make my goals is challenging.

Around mid-season, my body starts to ache, and I have to push through all the pains and hard work. I have to put my mind and body to the max every day, but at the end of the day, it’s worth it.

Wrestling is a mental game.

One of the most difficult parts of wrestling is weight management. I started my senior season wrestling at the 171-pound weight class, and I am finishing at 152.

To stay on weight, I have to have a healthy lifestyle and diet. There’s no greasy fast food or getting my third plate at Christmas or Thanksgiving dinner.

In order to perform at my peak, I have to eat right and stay healthy. This is not the easiest

thing to do, especially at school and the night before weigh-ins. I go out to lunch every day, so seeing my friends get takeout while I’m eating a salad is one of the hardest things to push through.

If I’m too close to being overweight, I eat a small salad again for dinner just to be safe. Four months of this can get tiring.

In wrestling, there are two types of weigh-ins. For most of the season, we are allowed to weigh in the day before a competition, but for the postseason, we have to weigh in on the day of the tournament or meet.

In order to make weight, we usually have fast-paced practices the day before weighins to make sure that we will be able to make it.

This does not mean that we starve ourselves constantly and cannot eat, but we do have to be considerate of what we put in our bodies.

This part of wrestling can be challenging because it takes a lot out of me. It is mentally challenging because all I can think about after practices is eating a big steak, but I just have to keep myself on track and be smart about what I put into my body.

Wrestling is a battle.

We all have the same goal in mind; going to the state championships at Ford Field.

But before we get there, we must make it past the two months of practices and competition. I had a successful regular season, finishing with a 27-6 record, compared to a 17-14 record last year.

Spending my extra time on wrestling has clearly made a difference. I feel better mentally as well. My grades have gone up, along with my success on the mat.

Feb. 15 was our individual district tournament, where I placed third and punched my ticket to regionals. I finished the day going 4-1, beating my opponent, who had beaten me during my second match of the day, 9-1 to place third.

This has been my second time placing for regionals, which I had previously done in my sophomore season.

A week later would be the last time I “I wrote this story would ever because wrestling step on a wresseems to be tling misunderstood. mat as I just wanted to my welcome people into seathe reality of it.” son end– Robby Swanker, ed staff writer

Staff writer Robby Swanker, who ended his wrestling career this past February, said the sport has given more to him than he could have imagined. tat the regional tournament.

Although my season did not go as long as I had hoped for, the memories and life lessons this sport has taught me will last forever.

I am so thankful for all the coaches, mentors, and supporters I have had in the past nine years. It has taught me a great work ethic, determination, and resilience that I would not have today if I never

stepped on a wrestling mat. I don’t know what kind of person I would be today if it wasn’t for the sport of wrestling.

I advise anyone to try wrestling. It is not only a fun and exciting sport, but it teaches you things that you never would have learned about yourself. It pushes you and drives you to make you the best self you could possibly be.

Wrestling is my life.

TIME TO HANG UP THE CLEATS

Taking a break isn’t always as bad as it seems

O

verwhelmed. Exhausted. Burned out. Tired. All are words that described my lack of motivation to continue a sport that I had grown up playing.

Soccer had been my livelihood since I was 3, and all I could think about was giving it up. And I did give it up.

But it wasn’t always that way.

I loved the game.

I loved the people.

I loved the memories.

And I especially loved the victories.

But something happened when I got to high school.

During both my freshman and sophomore years, I played on the JV team, and both years, I was brought up to the varsity for the state’s district tournament.

I knew why I was there – to back-up the starting goalie if anything should happen.

Both times made sense because of seniority.

Until it didn’t make sense anymore.

A week or so before the district tournament at the end of my sophomore season, the varsity goalie broke her nose, essentially meaning she couldn’t play.

This would be my chance. I was expecting to step up to the plate.

I pushed myself. I added one-on-one training with the varsity boys’ team’s head/ goalkeeping coach. The work that I put in was nothing like I had done before. There were scrapes all over my body from landing a dive wrong, and my muscles were sore from having to continuously throw to the half field for hours on end.

There was a time when I even got hit in the face during a drill because it was so fast-paced. I was confident, strong, and ready to take on whoever we were playing in the first

Staff writer Gabby Lopez took a break from soccer after her junior year in hopes of returning for her senior season; however, she has decided it was time to retire the cleats for her senior year as well. (Courtesy photo)

round of districts.

Then, I got replaced by a player who had never played goalie.

I’ll admit that the girl who replaced me was a better athlete than me. I wasn’t angry with her. She was a three-sport athlete and an all-around great person.

And, I guess, that was enough for the coaches to see that she was more capable of being the varsity goalkeeper than I was.

I felt, needless to say, defeated. It was supposed to be my turn to shine. My turn to prove myself. My turn to show everyone that the 5 foot, 3-inch sophomore could hold her own.

I have never blamed the reasons why I decided to stop playing on this one “I wrote this story because situation, throughout high school, this on the topic was something that new goalie has been one of the most or the troubling experiences I have

gone through. But it turned out to be a decently rewarding experience.” – Gabby Lopez, executive editor

coaching staff.

Although it did feel like a blow to the gut, they were doing what was best for the team. I probably would have done the same thing.

But after that year, I lost my love for the game, mainly from that experience, but there were underlying factors that I never wanted to express to the coaches when I told them that I wasn’t coming back for my junior year.

I simply told them that I had lost the love, and I had too much on my plate during my junior year of high school.

This was primarily true. I was extremely overwhelmed with SAT preparations, final exams, excessive homework, and juggling social life into it all.

Taking the break from something that I had surrounded my whole life around was a shock at first. I didn’t really know what to do with myself.

I had been so busy and consumed that when I wasn’t at practice until 8 at night or waking up early for Saturday games, I ended up lost and confused.

But since I had all of this time on my hands, I tried out new things and re-explored old hobbies that I once left behind. I was able to surround myself with long-distance running and yoga; things that I had

previously put on the back burner.

On the other hand, there was a part of me that missed it. I missed those late nights and early wake-ups. I missed being all dirty from practice and singing on the bus after a victory.

But the thing is, I didn’t miss it that much.

As my senior year progressed, I tried continuously to reignite the spark inside of me to love the game again, but I simply could not find the passion that I once had.

I went to the pre-season conditioning sessions and joined an indoor soccer team to see if this was something that I wanted to pick it up again.

I soon realized that this wasn’t something that I wanted to pursue. Looking at the big picture, I would have been miserable for the next three months of my senior year doing something that I didn’t enjoy that much.

I knew I was letting my parents and some close friends down when I told them that I was thinking about trying out but then decided against it. Then again, it isn’t their life. It’s mine.

I’ve known for a long time that it was time to hang up the cleats.

And I know that was the best decision, and I’m OK with that.

UNDER PRESSURE

School system causes anxiety among students

I

t’s hours before the big test; a test that was going to determine my grade in the class. It was 3 a.m., and I had already been awake studying for hours, attempting to cram as much information in my head as I could.

But finally, I gave up and went to sleep, not feeling confident in my abilities. And the next day, I went, took the test, and immediately forgot everything I had spent hours memorizing the following night. I may have gotten an “A,” but it didn’t really feel worth all the effort I had put in.

High school throws all sorts of challenges at us, and as students, we must try our best to balance school work, sports, and jobs, all while still maintaining some sort of social life.

Even under stress, we know that school is about learning and gaining knowledge that will help us one day when we enter into adulthood.

However, that’s not exactly the case anymore.

Rather than learning, the school system has become one giant competition; a competition of intelligence and success.

I’m now more focused on getting an “A” instead of learning skills that will help me one day in the real world.

This competitive learning environment that has been created for us is toxic, both for the physical and mental health of students. Some of this stress is self-imposed, but some of it is also brought on by the fear of disappointing others.

I’ve always cared about school, and I’ve always gotten good grades because of it.

But ever since entering high school, the competition of grades has made me more anxious and stressed than I ever thought I would be.

The fear of

Artwork by Emily Kuznar

failure is constantly looming in the air. I can’t even begin to count the number of tears I’ve witnessed in the hallways.

I used to have confidence in my abilities, but now my confidence has been deflated because I’ve gotten so concerned with maintaining “A’s.” The stress at times has become overwhelming.

The constant pressure to get so-called “perfect” grades has become overwhelming. I set these unrealistically high standards, and when I didn’t reach them, I felt like a failure.

These high standards come from the fear of being imperfect. I don’t want people to see that I’m flawed when really I have my imperfections, just like everyone else.

Being in the competitive environment of school stresses many students, including myself, out; this all leads to drastic measures to get an “A.” But is it really worth sacrificing “I wrote this story in my mental attempt to shed light on a health topic that isn’t really talked just for about. I hope people realize the satthat this feeling of being isfaction overwhelmed is normal and of an that they’re not alone in “A”?

this.” – Emily Kuznar, staff writer

The answer is no; it’s not worth it. An “A” isn’t worth sleepless nights, panic attacks, and nervous breakdowns. It’s not worth feeling like a failure. One small moment of achievement doesn’t compare to hours of misery.

For many people, including me, the pressure to get good grades and balance everything else outside of school can be difficult. Keeping up my grades requires loads of dedication and sacrifices. Late nights studying, hours of homework, and exhaustion are constant battles that students face on the daily.

Now, I’m not saying it’s a bad thing to worry about grades. After all, it’s important to care about school and try my best in hopes of preparing myself for the future.

I want to put in the effort and try my best to succeed. But are my grades really more important than my sanity?

In today’s world, I’ve placed more value of grades, class ranks, and GPAs than I have on really comprehending and learning the content I’m being taught. Nowadays, I’m focused on drilling the information over and over again, hoping that I can memorize the information for a short period of time, just to receive an “A’’ on a test.

What have I gained from memorizing facts and then pouring that information back onto a piece of paper, only to forget what I’ve spent hours memorizing minutes later?

Even more overwhelming than my

grades is getting into college. Standardized tests, such as the SAT, determine what college I’ll go to. The burden of standardized tests and college applications weigh on my shoulders at all times. One “bad” grade doesn’t define somebody’s intelligence and that’s taken me time to learn.

For years, I’ve put pressure on myself to always have A’s. But I didn’t really know why. Rather than doing it for myself, I was comparing myself to others, and I felt pressured to keep up with the people around me who were all getting A’s as well.

Stressing about grades has both boosted and deteriorated my confidence. I know I’m capable of getting good grades, but I stress out on the journey to get there. I freak out over little thing sometimes, and it’s a habit that I’m trying to break.

The fear of failure is a common worry I have. The fear of disappointing family, teachers, and even myself drives me to do better and push to achieve excellence. I’m always striving to do better, but sometimes, that can become too much.

At times, it feels like the weight of the world is resting on my shoulders. I’m trying to be better, but it’s not always an easy task. It didn’t come to this overnight, and it’s not going to be an overnight fix.

But, I’m hopeful for the future; not just for myself, but for this whole generation of anxious students.

I’m hopeful that someday, somehow, I’ll start to believe in myself again.

GO HARD OR GO HOME

Switch to AP class proves to be better decision

I

used to think that taking the easy way out was what was best for me as a student. I believed that being lazy and taking all of the more basic and unchallenging classes was going to make me a more “successful” student by helping my GPA. Thinking all of this, last year as a junior, I made the decision to drop the Honors English track at school and refuse the AP Language and Composition class; I instead opted to take the regular English 11 class for juniors.

I made the decision based on all of the complaints from seniors who had taken the class the year before.

They all talked about how much work it was and how difficult the teacher was, and I had just decided that I did not want to put in the time or effort that it was going to take for me to take the more difficult class.

However, after just a short time in the lower English class, I realized that the easy way was not the best decision for me as a student.

After days of talking with my parents, my teacher, my counselor, and waiting for the English department to approve an exception to their policy, I was finally able to transfer into the AP class halfway through the first trimester, so I had to drop everthing that I was doing in my English 11 class and switch gears to AP. I was months behind and had a lot of catching up to do, but I had never felt freer to allow myself to grow as a person in an environment that would allow me to flourish beyond what I thought was possible.

I felt as though I could finally be myself while around people who would challenge me to be an intentional reader, a refined writer, and a comprehensive thinker.

I was ready to allow myself to blossom in my writing

Executive editor Paige Judson once thought about taking easier classes; however, she said she learned that the easy way can end up causing one to have regret and that the hard way can make for great stories and a life without regret. (Photo by Gabby Lopez)

ability and to learn at a more sophisticated level than the regular class could have ever provided; I finally realized what real success was, and how I could not reach it without challenge.

Although seemingly small, this experience allowed me to grow exponentially.

Not only did I dramatically increase my writing ability, but I cultivated all of my abilities as just a student in general.

I learned “I don’t necessarily think that I that this is my best should not be taking writing, but I think that things this piece has the best at face message. This was a value, lesson that I had to learn b u t the hard way in my life.” rather, I – Paige Judson, executive

editor

should do my own research and form my own educated opinion.

I learned to ask questions about everything so as to grasp a deeper understanding and challenge my own thinking.

I learned how to think more critically and how to better understand a written piece by exploring various perspectives.

Most of all, though, I learned that taking the easy way out would never have allowed me to flourish in such a manner as the AP class allowed me to do.

Although this was just a small moment in my life, it was one of the most critical for me. It taught me a lot of things about myself as a student and as deep thinker that I never thought were true.

I found that to feel more engaged in my learning I needed to be challenged, and I needed to be questioned. I found that the advanced class genuinely made me a more productive and well-rounded student.

However, contradictory to my original thought, I have realized that even in the “easier” class, I may have had opportuni-

ties to be challenged and that mindset is the most important thing; this is due to the fact that more can be gained only if one is willing to seek it and allow oneself to thrive in different environments.

After learning this, nothing is more important to me than being focused on learning something, asking thought-provoking questions, and analyzing everything no matter the situation, and I now want to challenge others to avoid taking the easy way out of a situation.

Although taking the easy way out might feel like a shorter, more direct route, the growth that could be gained from that experience would be almost none. It is crucial for humans to grow from mistakes and learn from challenges.

If we never grow we are never going to be able to move from where we are and propel forward in life. If we are not willing to take risks life will always feel boring and mundane. We will end up walking away with boring stories and a soul full of regret.

Challenges make life worth living.

MAKE TIME FOR ROSES

Service trip redefines importance of others The date Saturday, March 31, 2018 The destination San Salvador, El Salvador The estimated arrival time 7:14 (Central Standard)

like the roads that they are built on.

When I stepped off the bus in Talnique for the first time, it was surreal to me because I had never experienced such a poverty-stricken place before.

The family that my workgroup was building for was extremely grateful and rior to landing, El Salvador was just greeted us with open arms. some place I’d be going with an Moments after meeting them, the mother, Interact Rotary Club to get away from Ruth, brought out a large bowl of papaya demanding schoolwork, a place I could flee for us to eat. the United States to escape the battleI remember feeling awfully guilty, for we ground I live in and the ruthless place I call were told, by our director, not to eat it. The my school. water and cleanliness of the knife that cut it Warnings and dangers regarding the had high potential to make us sick. country can be seen scattered across the Although tempting, the kind gesture sat Internet, but in a way I felt it would be a untouched by us workers. safer space than what I had been living in Helping those less fortunate has always day to day. been a part of who I am as a person, so As the plane began to lift up off the when it came time to work, that part of me ground, I could feel a sense of relief fall was quick to appear. upon me.

The blocks that were to be placed Little did I know, the lives I would be between pillars that kissed the sky were impacting would have an even greater nowhere near light, but my work group and impact on me.

I were determined to complete as much The village that our work site was of our house as possible, so we pushed located in, Talnique, was an hour’s drive through. through mountains from our hotel in the Seeing the physical progress of the house city. at the end of each work day was really Every mile that we drove there was motivating and excited me to come back something new to see, whether that was each next day. viewing the city below become foggy with Reflecting on the many small scars on distance or a mother and daughter sit on the my hands and legs, I feel it was worth it. side of the street selling mangoes.

This house would provide a family An important thing to know about El previously living in ruins to get a stalwart Salvador is that there is practically no cement house that won’t wither away come middle class. People are either rich and live hurricane season. in gated neighborhoods or are like famiWith hard work comes much-needed lies in Talnique: very poor, many living in breaks. bamboo houses held together by rusty nails I remember I was about to take one when and mud.

I heard “Ch Ch.” Often pieces of trash are used for patchI later understood that this was a way for work much parents to get their children’s attention in this culture, much like snapping would.

Now disconcerted, I turned and looked around the wall I was mortaring and saw a small girl hiding behind bushes that were pressed against a house.

I slipped off my work gloves and went to say hi.

She had short curly hair “I decided to write about pulled up this experience because I into pigtails and feel that I, among others, get beautoo caught up in the wrong tiful things. I feel that in life, it’s olive truly the little things that skin.

P

matter, and we should help others whenever possible.” – Sydney Fetters, staff writer

Staff writer Sydney Fetters spent time in El Salvador in the spring of 2018 where she befriended Paula. Fetters said the trip opened her eyes to the need to help others. “¡Hola!”

“Hola,” she responded softly. “¿Cómo estás? ¿Cuál es su nombre?”

“Paula, ¿y tú?”

“Mi nombre es Sydney.”

I think Paula could tell my Spanish wasn’t the best, so she began to use hand signals and gestures.

She held up one finger, then dashed off behind her house. I wasn’t sure if she was going to return or not, but several minutes later, I felt a tap on my back.

I spun around, and there she was giggling, holding two baby chickens wrapped in a blanket. On the long list of things we were told not to do for safety, touching animals was definitely one of them.

She held them up for me, and without hesitation, I couldn’t help but to pick one up.

Looking back, that was probably a bad idea because of the many diseases it could have carried, but Paula’s smile was reassuring.

She became my best friend for the remainder of the trip and even gave me a hand on most workdays.

Another best friend I made happened during lunch.

The song “Scooby Doo Ba Ba” was playing through a speaker clipped to my backpack.

As soon as the chorus played, a door swung open from a nearby mud house, and a girl ran out. She started dancing, singing every word.

I placed my peanut butter and Nutella sandwich down and began dancing with her. Later, I learned that her name was Abi. She too followed and helped me.

Our long week was coming to a close, and the last day we were to travel to Talnique had arrived.

Not much work would be done, for the sole purpose of today rested in goodbyes.

The two young girls I had befriended, Abi and Paula, stood waiting for me where our bus had parked all week.

When I stepped off of the bus, both girls grasped my hand like a young child would handlebars during her first bike ride and led me up the hill to our worksite. “¿A dónde vamos?” I asked the girls.

Please see ROSES, back page

THE FOLLOWER

Sometimes, unfortunately, evil wins

A

ugust 19, 1994.

It was a beautiful, sunny day, not a cloud in the sky, in Webster Springs, West Virginia. 15-year-old Adam Engers just arrived home from school. He was especially excited because it was Friday, and his parents would be leaving for the weekend to visit some relatives a few hours away.

Being a responsible and mature 15-yearold, he was allowed by his parents to stay home with his friend. With Adam’s excitement growing and the hot West Virginia sun beating down, this was truly the calm before the storm. Tonight would change Adam’s life forever.

Adam’s friend Jacob arrived shortly after school ended. Neither of them had ever been left home alone for a weekend before, and both were eager for their weekend of freedom to begin. Adam’s parents arrived home around 5 o’clock. They gave Adam some money for pizza or snacks and reminded the boys to have no parties and to keep the house tidy.

His mom said, “You know where the phone number is if you need it and always remember your grandparents live just on the other side of the woods behind the Engers’ house.”

Adam would always walk through the sandy paths through the forest to go to his grandparents’ house when he was younger, but in his older age and their older age, he had spent less time with them throughout the years, but he still loved them nonetheless, and he still remembered the paths in the forest. His parents headed out the front door, looking back one last time to say goodbye.

Just like that, his parents were gone. It was 7 o’clock Friday night, and Adam and Jacob had

Artwork by Jaylene Davis

the entire house to themselves until Sunday afternoon.

Adam’s parents did say no parties, but like a typical teenager, he decided to have one anyway. Adam invited eight more friends over, and by 9 o’clock, his house was full. He was having a great time with his friends, playing video games, eating chips, cookies, and pizza, blaring loud music and having the time of his life.

The Follower I watched them all show up, one by one, analyzing them, watching them, studying them. You are probably wondering who I am, I have been called The Follower, so if that’s what you want to call me, then so be it. I can be anywhere at any time. I am a ghost. I embody evil, I embody hatred, I embody fear, and I embody mystery. I’m like the invisible man. I can walk through walls and take the souls of those that I must.

I must do what I have to do, according to the greater Gods.

I myself, am I God. My purpose is to take from those who have.

Simple people, struggling people, wealthy people, I “I wrote this horror short don’t care story because I have about always loved the horror their backgenre, and I have never

found an opportunity to write something about it for school, so I decided to now.” – Chris Horvath, staff writer

ground; I never do. I do not lie when I say I embody evil.

The Narrator It was already midnight, so it had quieted down a bit in Adam’s house. Everybody was still awake, sitting around, playing video games in Adam’s basement when Jacob muted the TV. He said, “Did anyone else hear that?”

He then gestured to the ceiling and said it sounded like someone was knocking on the front door. Nobody else seemed to have heard it, and Adam figured that in their sleepy little town of Webster Springs that there was no way anyone was knocking on his door this time of night. But Jacob, convinced he heard someone knocking on the door, went upstairs with Adam to check it out.

They went to the living room to where the front porch was visible and saw nothing, nobody. Adam shook his head and laughed as both of them started to head back downstairs, but when they arrived at the door frame to go down the stairs, they both heard it: three loud, hard knocks that obviously came from the front door.

They froze and heard the TV mute again downstairs as a few other boys walked to the base of the stairs and asked, “What was that?”

Adam turned around and walked quickly back into the living room, and that’s when he saw it. Adam didn’t know what he was looking at, but he saw some sort of floating black figure at his front door, with wide red eyes, and the figure was staring through his living room window right at him.

Adam turned around and ran back downstairs with his friends, and as they returned downstairs, they heard glass shatter upstairs

and then, slow, methodical footsteps. Adam led his friends out the back door of the basement and figured they would all have to make a run for it to his grandparents’ house.

The Follower They always run, and that’s why they call me The Follower. I have to follow them; I have to get to them.

All 10 of those boys took off into this patch of woods. I looked ahead and noticed Adam heading toward this one lone house on the other side of the woods. But they would never make it. I followed them all the way until we were about 500 yards from the house, and that’s when I said enough is enough, and I did my job.

I closed my eyes; and with the sheer snap of my fingers, they all began to disappear.

Simply vanish. Very slowly, they would almost evaporate. I always hear their screams as they try to mentally process what’s happening to them. But it happens so fast they can never figure it out until it’s too late. I can’t explain how I do it; I just do it.

I took them all away, and all 10 boys, just like that, were gone.

The Narrator All 10 boys are still missing to this day; the only pieces of evidence found in the Engers’ household was the broken living room window and a wide-open door in their basement. There was not a shred of any more evidence. Adam’s life truly did change forever.

From now on, he and his friend’s spirits belonged to The Follower, were kept in a dark, old, depressing sarcophagus, and they wouldn’t be released for the rest of eternity.

Sometimes, unfortunately, evil wins.

THE DARK

When my average life turned into a nightmare

I

live in an old factory building on the second floor with the metal roof sitting 30 feet above me. My lights in my home don’t extend their brightness to the ceiling so it is always dark up there.

I never thought too much about it though because, of course, it was just a ceiling, a harmless ceiling.

A month ago I was lying down, facing the ceiling in the dark when I started to drift off like any other night. I used to do this often since the quiet and darkness were like a comfort blanket to me. The unknown completely surrounding me gave me a sense of calm because for the longest time, I had never really felt scared, and I felt fairly snug in my life the way it was.

But that morning was not like any other morning. Disoriented, I woke up, and I remembered for the first time in months the dream I had earlier that night.

In that dream, I imagined I woke up groggy and sleepy. I remembered a strong, burning feeling on the back of my neck as if I was being watched. So I opened up my blinds as a natural instinct, something I never do at night.

To my astonishment, I looked out the window and squinted my eyes to see a small figure in the darkness across the street. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief that someone would be out there at such a time in winter and wondered if they were looking at me.

“No,” I concluded, “they couldn’t have.”

Even though I had this weird unexplainable feeling about me in the morning, I brushed off that bizarre dream since dreams don’t really mean anything. After I had gone to school and gotten back home, the feeling had disappeared probably because I had forgotten about the seemingly insignificant foggy

dream I had that night.

Well, it had disappeared until the next morning when I recalled having a similar dream where I opened the blinds and looked out at the dead quiet city and locked eyes with this mysterious child, now closer, looking back at me under a street light next to the parking lot behind the building.

This time, I could recall more about the dream: the wind blowing her thin dirty dress and her hair that seemed so unkempt was wet. I was bewildered because I don’t often remember a dream, let alone two consecutive ones, but I brushed this off too because after all, it was just another weird dream.

It wasn’t until the third night having a dream with her even closer than before when I thought to myself in the morning that my brain may have been trying to tell me something. I figured maybe there was something important in my life that I was ignoring, but after trying to figure out what, I ultimately decided it was probably just a weird coincidence.

Unfortunately, this pattern where I would wake up, remember the dream and forget about it until the next day became my new routine for about a week. Of course, I got more worried, but my friends assured me that it was probably just a metaphor for my relationship with my parents or something.

That was until Saturday when I decided to go to a party. I was on my way home at about 3 a.m. when I turned the corner and was edging closer to my apartment building. What I saw then made my body limp and cold even though the heat was blasting in my car.

There she was clearer than ever in the parking lot under a streetlight looking at the second floor of the building. Stained with brown splotches, her white thin dress was flowing along with light snow drifting in the wind. As I moved closer to her, I thought to myself, “She must be cold because it was winter and a child would have likely got hypothermia out here at that time.”

Then, I pulled my car over before turning into the park“I’ve always had a passion for all ing lot, and things scary, so I thought it was suddenly, all my only right that I scared myself dreams some more and based this started story off the apartment I live in. to Although it is not all completely make true, the high, dark ceilings in She

there were my main inspiration.”

– Jaylene Davis, staff writer

Artwork by Jaylene Davis sense. I finally understood that I was never actually dreaming about looking out my window.

My human nature turned my thoughts more sensible and made reason with what I was seeing right before my eyes. I started to feel pity for the girl for being out there during a bitter winter night.

Then, I started to question why she had been waiting out there in the cold at the same time for the past week. My speculation about the situation quickly turned into compassion for her, and I started to convince myself she could have been dropped off and waiting for someone to let her into the key code-protected building where she most likely lived with her parents.

I thought to myself, “If that was the case, I’d happily let her in.”

Slowly, her head turned from looking at the building to gazing at me, and it was at that moment that my heart felt like it had stopped beating. When she locked eyes with me, it seemed everything around me ceased the wind stopped blowing the snow seemed to stop falling.

The whole situation evoked this heavy fear pulling me down and making me want to hide. But I couldn’t. Something in me told me to keep going and pull into the parking lot. Or maybe something coerced me to.

As I drove into the parking lot, her face followed; her eyes were still locked on me.

For the first time in my life, my hands were trembling. I was too scared to think about what was going to happen when I stepped out of my car and passed the girl to walk into the building.

I knew I couldn’t just wait in my car forever, so I gained the courage to get out and head toward the entrance. Her eyes still followed me as I walked past her, and

the burning feeling on the back of my neck from her searing stare was becoming too much to bear.

I had to do something, so I turned around and hesitantly said, “I can let you in if you need to.”

She showed no response, so I turned around to put in the key code, and when I opened the door, I saw someone beside me. There, she was closer to me than ever.

I could sense something about her now, something unusual which created a heavy weight in my chest.

We walked in together, and I headed toward the elevator as she headed toward the stairs. That was the last time I saw her (that night).

Back in my apartment, I felt safe again and instantly laid on my bed and searched for that relief I usually feel in the darkness.

But this time was different; something about the darkness seemed unsafe, and the unknown gave me an eerie feeling. Instead of staring into the darkness to fall asleep, I curled myself up under my covers.

The next night, my room felt the same, and I hid to fall asleep again, only to be awakened by a loud bang on the metal roof above me accompanied by the same burning feeling I had felt for a week.

“No, I’m not doing this again,” I thought to myself.

Saying that worked for quite some time, and for a few days, I was able to dismiss the fear I felt every night as this recurred. I hid under the covers hearing the same bang and the same burning feeling on the back of my neck.

The fear from every night built up and combined with the fear from before, making every night more and more unbearable.

My days quickly went from having an Please see THE DARK, back page

3:33

What happens when she knocks three times?

I

am often considered to be a bit of an extrovert, a people-person if you will.

This has earned me multiple friends, experiences, and opportunities.

I have a strong habit of always talking to everyone even if that person isn’t nearly as talkative, and typically, this presents itself as a good thing, but I’ve begun to see it as something negative.

Living in an apartment, as I do, is a sure way to always have someone to talk to.

Walking up the stairs, I find it uncommon to not see at least one person. Also, squishing my way into the always over-packed elevator will guarantee a conversation, and doing my laundry on my floor’s shared laundry room is an excellent way to meet someone new.

Three weeks ago today, there was a bit of a scandal in my apartment building.

Some woman who lived on the floor below me in apartment 3G was found, having been dead for three days before her best friend became worried enough to have the superintendent unlock the door.

It’s not too unusual for people in big cities to die; the higher population at least makes it seem more common. Everyone in the apartment assumed it could’ve been drugs, suicide, or even a lover’s revenge murder, but that’s the thing, it was clear that none of these things were what happened.

Obviously, I didn’t see the body, but it was practically common knowledge around the building that she hadn’t overdosed, harmed herself in any way, and certainly hadn’t been murdered.

When they found her, she was in her bed, almost in a perfect sleeping position except for her mouth and her eyes were stretched to their limits. Her eyes were not her eyes anymore

either; they had rotted, becoming blackened.

The super said he was uncertain if it was because they had been left open and exposed for three days after she had died or if something else was to blame. According to gossip around the apartment, she had died at exactly 3:33 a.m. as if things couldn’t get any crazier. Regardless, she was dead, and everyone knew something just wasn’t right about it.

About a week after her body was found, people were doing as they do and talking about it. All the time. Everywhere.

So, as I went to my floor’s laundry room and found a few people discussing it, I readily joined in. There was a young mom, maybe about 25, who was there with her young daughter and an old man whom I recall being named Jefferey.

I noticed in the corner of the room there was another woman, and while the other neighbors and I were discussing the death, they would glance at her, but they always hurriedly returned their eyes to mine, careful not to linger too long.

The daughter stared once; her eyes remained on the woman for maybe 30 seconds before the mom told her it wasn’t polite to stare. I didn’t think of this as strange; the woman seemed to be a bit of a loner, and excluding loners was something people had always done.

I didn’t want to be the person to exclude her, but something about the way my neighbors would always look away so quickly... I decided to wait until I was alone with the woman to approach her, not wanting to give the neighbors something to talk about.

So after about 25 minutes or so, the sweet mom and her little daughter went back to 4C, and then, the crotchety old man said he’d rather wait in his apartment for his clothes to dry and cast one last hasty look at the woman before disappearing off to 4J. I smiled at them as they left and then turned myself to face the woman. She was turned away from me so I could only see her back, “I wrote this story but I saw because I really love that she had long creative writing, blonde, and I wanted to use almost this opportunity to white, explore my abilities in hair, that area.” – Morgan and she Cathey, executive was editor

wearing a long-sleeve black dress. Her neck was bent as if she were looking down at her hands in an almost timid gesture.

I decided I would talk to her to make her feel more welcome.

“Hello!” I made my way around a line of dryers and walked toward her. “My name is James.”

As I reached her, I extended a hand, but she didn’t take it and didn’t say anything in return. I laughed a bit awkwardly, shoving my hand in my pocket and trying to move forward.

“Did you hear about all the drama? Apparently the girl in 3G died.”

She said nothing again though her head turned toward me slightly. I decided to take this as an invitation to continue. I shouldn’t have.

“It was something crazy. I guess she was found pretty messed up.”

The woman looked up at me, and I stepped back immediately trying to avoid having the most shocked expression. Her eyes were black and empty as if they weren’t just black, but there was nothing that was ever really there. Her face was pale and covered in veins as if she were seriously ill. She looked up at me fully as I stepped away.

“Crazy?” she whispered, her mouth curling into a soft smile.

I managed to halfway compose myself, muttering a soft “uh-huh” as I walked back around the line of dryers, going back to my basket.

“I think I’m going to wait in my apartment!”

I managed a pained smile at nothing as I grabbed my things and left the room,

sparing one last glance at the woman. To my comfort at the time, she hadn’t been watching me; she had returned to her bentnecked position.

I sighed with relief and hurried back down to 4A. I did not go back to check on my laundry that night. I settled into the couch and tried my best to forget that it ever happened.

I must’ve fallen asleep in the middle of my TV show marathon, finding myself with a hand in a spilled bowl of popcorn and the TV still on. Though I thought it definitely would be best to head to my actual bed, I wondered why I had woken up, but as I switched off the TV, I didn’t have to wonder.

Standing in the dark in my living room, I heard three distinct knocks coming from my front door. I froze. What time was it?

I glanced into the kitchen at the clock on the stove. 3:33 a.m.

An overwhelming sense of dread filled my body. I heard three more knocks. I didn’t move; something about the scenario was wrong to me, so I decided not to answer the door.

The knocking came again. I simply stared at the clock, tense.

The knocking came again. Everything was silent.

I saw the clock flicker to 3:34, and then a loud sigh was emitted from outside my door, followed by loud stomping footsteps.

I did not sleep that night.

This continued for a week, every night, always at 3:33, always a repetition of three knocks, and always followed by loud stomping footsteps away at 3:34.

Please see 3:33, back page

BEARS, DUCKS, ASSASSINS – OH MY A collection of short summaries of my dreams Among my friends, I am known to have extremely weird and vivid dreams. I always make sure to entertain at least one person with my wacky, funny, crazy, hilarious, and disturbing dreams, so here’s a collection of stories about my dreams.

The Revenant 2.0 It was the middle of winter when I decided it was an amazing idea to take a walk in the woods.

I was with my dad, and we were walking along a trail that magically appeared. Snow was piled high around us, and tall trees stood beside us.

The next thing I knew, a big, brown bear came running toward us. My dad pushed me out of the way and started fighting this enormous bear.

He covered me up with snow, and I was just laying there in a hole, covered in snow, as he was fighting this bear. When he finally defeated that bear, well, here came another one.

My dad was fighting with everything he had, which was only a knife and his fists.

Miraculously, he beat the second bear, but here came the third bear. Meanwhile, I was still under the snow.

Suddenly, everything went quiet. I dug my way out of the snow and saw that the bear had defeated my dad.

I quickly picked up the knife and started fighting the bear to avenge my dad. Since I was superior, I, of course, won the fight and ultimately avenged my father.

After this brutal battle, I walked toward the trail, where we were initially taking our walk. The snow slowly began to turn into sand, and now, I’m standing on a beach looking into the sun.

The End.

The Murderous Duck It was a quiet evening at my grandmother’s house with the whole family. We were sitting in her basement, watching TV when suddenly my family became serious.

They warned my brother, my cousin and me that a creature was coming tonight and that we had to keep each other safe. We had to hide right now if we wanted to survive.

We quickly rushed to the back room and hid in a cabinet.

We were waiting for what felt like hours in dreamland. Suddenly, something was coming. It was a duck. A murderous, dangerous duck. I knew I had to protect my family, so I leaped into action.

I started fighting that duck with everything I had. I’ll spare the gory details, but let’s just say the duck was no longer considered a duck.

My brother and my cousin were amazed and a little shocked at what occurred. My dad came walking up to us and explained that this was all a prank and the duck was one they found on the lake.

Instead of the duck being the murderer…

It was I who was the murderer.

The End.

Sword-Fighting Disney Characters It was a big day. It was the day of the sword-fighting battle.

There were only a few rules for this battle. Rule 1: everyone has to dress up as a Disney character. Rule 2: everyone must make two lines facing each other for the battle. Finally, Rule 3: any sword of any kind is acceptable.

The battle was in the basement of this huge castle. Everyone made their way down the stairs, swords in hand and costumes on, and made two lines facing each other. I was in the back in one line, awaiting my turn.

The battle began. The first two were dueling and swinging their swords. The winner was someone dressed as Mickey Mouse. Battle after battle, people began to fall.

Finally, it was my turn. I was dressed as Cinderella, and “I wrote this story my oppobecause I thought it would nent was dressed be fun and give someone as a a reason to laugh. It charended up giving me acter insight to potentially what that

my dreams mean and represent in my life. ” – Sarah Roman, staff writer

looked like they should be from Alice in Wonderland… on stilts. I was at a disadvantage. I had a short, small sword while my opponent was extremely tall with an extra long sword. I wasn’t about to give up.

We began to fight, and I tried to swing at his stilts to get him back on the same level.

It worked, and I broke both his stilts. He came crashing down, and now, we were on an even level.

Swords were swung, swords were clashed, and my princess dress was ripped.

I put all my effort into the final swing, and I poked him, which meant I won.

I was so excited, and I knew I had to celebrate. The battle was done, and I was hungry. I got some of the other fellow winners and some friends, and we went to Buffalo Wild Wings in our princess dresses and Disney character costumes. We ate boneless wings and lived happily ever after.

The End.

in command, my friend Ava trained to be a sniper with NASCAR driving skills for our getaway cars. Finally, we hadhe hacker, my friend Gabby. She found out everything we needed to know about our mission and sat in the car on her computer while Ava and I did the dirty work.

This was the dream team. We always completed our missions, but this particular mission was proving to be difficult. Our target was a wealthy businessman whose business was a front for illegal activities.

Our job was to take him out.

We were in New York City, and Gabby had eyes on our target. Ava set up on a roof with her sniper training handy, Gabby sat in the car and talked us through the plan, and I made my way to the target to make sure he wouldn’t get away. The target started running, and Ava had her eyes on the prize, and she pulled the trigger.

The End.

The Teenage Assassins Working for the CIA and being a spy seems pretty cool. This was my reality.

I was a leader of a team of teenage assassins who worked for the CIA. We would execute missions the agency assigned to us while living in a California mansion and not having to go to school.

My team consisted of three people.

First, there was me, the team leader who was trained in hand-to-hand combat, knife throwing, and archery. Next was the second

As I reflect on my past dreams, and as funny as they are, I have conjured up a couple theories as to why they are so violent. All these different bears, ducks, battles, and targets represent all the obstacles I’ve gone through in life, but each “villain” in my dream, I’ve beaten.

I’ve overcome a lot of hardships, and my dreams show that I fight through it with everything I have. My other theory is that my dream persona is just really violent and savage. Either one works for me.

AN UNTOLD ADVENTURE

The opening to a mystical D&D campaign Dungeons and Dragons is a creative outlet that I spend a lot of time partaking in. I spend most of my free time at school writing D&D campaigns for me to run for my friends. What you are about to read is one of the campaigns that I’m currently writing: Untold Tale.

A

tale lost to time, five heroic adventurers venture far into this story of magic and perilous adventure.

Many wonder what happened to these legendary heroes. Some think they were lost to time; others think that they died.

But in reality, they weren’t dead. The brave souls had their memories stolen from them replaced with a normal life.

The first of these great heroes is Shadus, former holder of the Blade of the Blue Blaze, a man struck with post-traumatic stress and then became irritable.

Then, there is Arua and Drake, twin Dragonborn and the former holders of the shields of protection. These two lost their tribe to a group of mercenaries. The twins are quite different with Drake becoming a Paladin and Aura becoming a wizard who’s hellbent on revenge.

Then, there is the legendary cleric and healer Regit, the current holder of The Amulet of Life. Regit had become a member of the church and spends most of her time going from place to place healing those who need it.

Then finally, there is the mystical druid Alexis, the former holder of the Phoenix staff, found in a forest by an all-powerful druid master who had decided to take in the child and train her in the ways of the druid.

With the disappearance of these heroes, the land was driven into chaos, order only being restored by the eight guilds of the land

each specializing in different things: The Mercator Guild, a guild of merchants; The Artis Guild, a guild of crafters; The Mercenarius Guild, a guild of mercenaries; The Defensionis Guild, a guild of protectors; The Rusticus Guild, a guild of peasants and labor workers; The Magus Princeps Guild, a guild filled with magical folk; The Regius Guild, a guild filled with the town’s royalty; and The Custis De Terra Guild, a guild of druids.

We open with a few places: • The Town of Simul • Guild Hall (Town Hall) • 7 Guild Houses • 49 houses (out of the forest) • A market place • A large forest • A tavern • A church • The Custos Forest: • Shadus’ land (Bradley’s land) • Druid town (Contents explained later) • Old Temple (Tower) • Terra (Druid Town): • 10 houses • 1 Well • Animal breeding cages (Rabbits) • Small Shrine house • Farm Plots • Storage house

Shadus is coming into town to sell some of his things he’s collected (3 Rabbit Skins, 2 Deerskins, 2 pairs of antlers [Deer], 2 bushels of carrots, 3 bags of potatoes, 1 bag of apples). Alexis is checking the plants around the marketplace to see if they need anything. Blake is sneaking around the Mercenary Guild house. Regit is in the Mercenary Guild house healing the wounded.

Perception check: 1-5: Loud Shrieks out in the streets 6-10: Flying flaming purple things lining the streets 11-15: They are facing “I wrote this tale to help me the center and my friends escape from of town 16-20: our every day lives. I wrote They this so we can escape into look another person’s shoes because like one’s life can be stressful, and hueveryone needs to escape manoid every now and then.” – Kye figSieffert, staff writer

Pictured are a set of things that a dungeon master may need to run a campaign of a table top role playing game whether it is Pathfinder or Dungeons and Dragons. ures as well as things in amour forcing people into the town center.

Once in the center of the town, they will be untied if they fight back and will be surrounded by armored things (Shadus makes a saving throw for PTSD attack [10 to save]).

Town Center: Then booming over the crowd you hear: “I see we have everyone here. Now, I can begin.”

You see a man covered in green flames appear in the center of the crowd of people.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Roxthane of Infernia, and I’ve come for a few of the town’s residents” (points to the bronze statue of the legendary heroes). The eight guild leaders step forward.

The Leader of Custis De Terra speaks: “No one has seen them in a millennium, and if they were here, why would they let you do this?”

Roxthane appears in the blink of an eye directly behind the leader of the guild and plunges his hand into his back. Then, Roxthane backs away and yells liar repeatedly until it’s blood-curdling.

Roxthane then looks among the crowd and points into the crowd at 12 different people. Twelve of the armored things break from the perimeter and grab each member of the group as well as the living guild leaders. The rest of the town runs away

when the 12 broke off from the perimeter.

Once all of the townsfolk have left, the gaps in the perimeter get filled in by more of the armored things.

Roxthane then speaks some sort of demonic sounding words. A blue pentagram made out of flames surrounds the group of heroes and guild leaders; then, everyone blacks out.

Encounter #1: The group wakes up in some sort of dungeon (two people per cell).

• Cell: • 2 people • 2 cots • 2 chains attached to the ground • 1 hole in the ground • 1 table • Hall Outside of Cells: • 2 Guards • Table • 2 Chairs • 2 Mirrors angled so that they can see you from the chairs This is where I would let the people playing the game decide what they’d like to do to begin their adventure. Their choices would impact what happens in this world that I have created for their characters to live in.

THE DARK

Continued from “When my average life turned into a nightmare” average happy life to worrying about going home and having to sleep.

But on the third night of this recurrence, I laid in my bed unable to sleep because of the anxiety, awaiting the bang. And when I heard it again, my anxiety formulated into adrenaline, and I reached for my phone.

The time said 3 a.m., and at that moment, I knew that I needed to prove to myself there was nothing to be afraid of. I opened the blinds to check for the girl, but to my relief, she wasn’t there – until, of course, I heard a bang on the ceiling again.

I turned to look but only saw darkness.

Apprehensively, I turned on my lamp.

Unfortunately, the light didn’t extend to the top of the high ceiling.

Still determined, I grabbed my phone, turned on the flashlight to the highest level, and slowly inched it toward the ceiling.

Inhumanely, her limbs were twisted and clutched onto the metal roof. There she was, facing me and hitting me with a stare capable of burning my soul. I could only look for a second before my adrenaline converted back into fear, and I started hiding again, wide awake, until morning.

Although I have been avoiding instances where I see her again, what I saw now is engraved into my brain forever.

I am staying at my friend’s house permanently now. I’ve been telling myself things are getting better and trying to rationalize the situation. My friends have been helping me come to the realization that I must have been hallucinating because I was scared of the dark.

I believe them; I do.

But even with the light on every night, I still feel that burning on the back of my neck.

3:33

Continued from “What happens when she knocks three times?”

At the end of the week, I was feeling less afraid and more sleep-deprived. Who was messing with me like this? I figured it had to be some sort of prank. I finally decided to stay up and wait.

When the knocks came at 3:33, I did not freeze; I rose up and walked to the door.

I heard the knocks again and looked into the peephole, confused to see nothing, just blackness. They must’ve been covering the hole, I thought. I waited still.

The knocks came again, and as I pulled out my phone to check the time, I heard the sigh, followed by the loud echoing stomping. Once the stomping ceased, I took a deep breath and opened the door, peering out into the hall.

At first, I didn’t see anything, but then, as I turned my head toward the elevator, I saw her standing in the open doors, smiling at me, with her black empty eyes locking with mine. I began to shake, remembering the blackness I saw as I looked into the peephole.

“Crazy,” she said, her smile growing as the elevator doors slid closed.

Again, I did not sleep. The next night was when things began to escalate. At 3:33 a.m., I heard my front door open despite my being certain that I had locked it, and loud footsteps could be heard stomping in my front hallway.

I did not move, and I did not make a sound.

As my bedside clock flicked to 3:34, I again heard a frustrated sigh, and my front door slammed closed.

The next night, she moved to the kitchen.

And then the living room. And then the hallway. And then she stomped her way to my bedroom door.

Last night, she went straight for the door, and I heard the ominous three repeated knocks.

Now, at 3:30, I am certain I will end up just like the woman from 3G. 3:31, and I’m contemplating hiding in the closet.

3:32, and I’m shaking.

3:33, and I hear my bedroom door open.

ROSES

Continued from “Service trip redefines importance of others” Their obvious excitement was contagious.

They looked up at me and smiled with huge grins. Paula then stopped and whispered something to Abi that I couldn’t quite make out.

Before I knew it, we were running along a dusty path located behind our work site, my hands still held tightly by theirs.

We were at the home I had viewed earlier in the week. Their grandmother sat outside the structure washing clothing. I smiled as she peered at me with bright eyes though her face was tanned, timeworn, and wrinkled.

She set aside the garment that had just been washed, stood up, and began walking toward the mountain ridge only yards away.

Concerned and intrigued, I followed her down the steep ridge. The girls followed shortly behind.

After a minute or two, she stopped and turned around to meet me. With a dazzling grin, the elderly woman gestured to a single rose bush growing out of the side of the mountain.

I could tell that the bush was something she was proud of which made sense as to why she wanted to show me.

The woman then pointed to her chest and then to mine where a rose dangled from the necklace I was wearing and had worn the entire week.

Here was this woman with next to nothing, yet so happy with what she has and so proud of something as pure as a rose bush.

This gave me a whole new meaning to the phrase “stop and smell the roses.” In the chaos of life, value the things that matter.

My time in El Salvador greatly exceeded my expectations in every possible way.

This trip was a breath of fresh air and made me feel the happiest I had felt in quite a long time.

It was truly humbling to look at the town and be able to walk away, look at the house I built and know that I genuinely impacted lives and a family for generations for the better.