Best of the Best!

Film:

Title : You Are Here

By: Pollyanna Leung

Age: 14

Irvine University Park Library

Art:

Title : Nostalgia

By: Taylor Palumbo

Age: 14

Aliso Viejo Library

Artist Statement :

Anything Vintage inspires me. I love to photograph it because there can be so much story behind it, and it has a lot of meaning to others. When I went to a car show here in Orange County , I loved seeing everyone gather with their old cars and share nostalgia. It really moved me and made me want to know more about the past. So now I photograph vintage to make it apart of my memory. I hope to inspire other kids  to ask their older family and friends about what it was like , so we can know and carry on the memories.

Poetry:

 

Title: The Hero’s Cape

The world used to fly

On the ends of

Superman’s cape,

Humming tunelessly to

Batman’s theme song.

On certain nights,

The streets would fill up

With every superhero imaginable,

Roaming from place to place

For an open door.

And when the streets empty,

the lights would fade;

The masks would come off

And faces would start to age.

Comic books get pushed aside;

Dusty and forgotten.

Though childhood memories

Grow fonder

In prospects for the future.

They give the world

Their inspiration.

The birth of hope which grows

In the heart of all who

Witness their kindness

And pay it forward.

For not everything

Is black and white.

Real heroes wear capes

Of every hue.

By Samantha H.

Age 15

Garden Grove Regional Library

Artist Statement :

I have many people I look up to, and the topic, Heroes, is certainly one I thought about for a long time. I looked up the definition of hero; in short, it is a person who is admired for his or her deeds and is a model to others. I thought about the beginning of the idealization of the term: superhero; that is where it all began- in our childhood. "The Hero's Cape" is my reflection on the growth of the individual and how he or she is now able to discern between black and white for the purpose of understanding reality and being able to make a difference in the world- the true hero.



Prose:

Title: The Flower of Sharon

I pick up the red phone in the vice principal’s office.

“I’m coming to pick you up at school now because we’re going to go see grandpa at the hospital so ...”

“What! Mom, is something wrong with Grandpa?”

“Well . . . I’ll explain to you in the car. Wait in front of the maple tree!”

“…”

            A cold shiver goes down my spine. It’s July 20. In one week, Grandpa turns 78. He will celebrate the tenth anniversary of his diagnosis with Alzheimer’s disease. He will not recognize any of my family’s faces, not even mine, but he will celebrate it just the same. And we will hold back our tears and put on our happy faces, just the way we have done for the past nine years.

            I walk down the crimson hallway to grab my bag. I forget my habit of counting each cracked brick in the gray pathway or fingering broken locks dangling from age-worn lockers. Today, there are just too many.

“I have to go to the hospital.”

Tears swell in my eyes as I interrupt class to speak to Mr.Walton.

“I’ll be missing the rest of school because . . .”

            I blur the end of my sentence but something tells me he understands. 40 pairs of dry eyes stare at my pair of red, blurry eyes as I throw history textbooks in my bag. The silence is suffocating and I half-run out of the room, tears dropping on the threadbare carpet. Class resumes immediately.

                        *                                  *                                  *

            I run past the chipped staircase next to the theater. Two posters hanging behind the theater yell, “Come watch Alice in Wonderland at Woodbridge! A show you’ll never forget for the rest of your life!” Alice in Wonderland. The first play Grandpa ever came to watch me star in. It was only the beginning of his Alzheimer’s and he only forgot simple things like car keys and phone numbers. I remember playing the ten of Diamonds in Kindergarten and forgetting my only line “Why of course my Majesty!” and Grandpa chuckling. It wasn’t a mean laugh; it was a beautiful ho-ho-ho that made you feel better about forgetting your only line and having several hundred parents sneering at you. And he gave me ten roses after my performance-“ten beauties for the ten of diamonds, cutey.” I wonder if he will ever forget that play for the rest of his life.

            I dash in front of the science building, past the vending machine that sells Cheez-its, Goldfish, Cheetos, and apple-flavored chips. It’s the only vending machine at school that sells apple-flavored chips. A childhood temptation crosses my mind. About as chewy, sweet, and pink as temptation can get, animal cracker after animal cracker endangered my nutritious diet in second grade. When Mom forgot to pack lunch before she left, ‘guess I’ll just have some more of these’ and when Dad came home with no dinner, ‘once again, animal crackers save the day’.

            And then Grandpa started cutting green apples in the shape of animal crackers. I don’t know how he did it because it was the third year of his disease and he was starting to forget how to stop his Toyota at red lights and how to read fairy tales to my sister and me at bedtime. But he cut those apples into such thin slices of strange, exotic animals, ones he called ‘zebrelephants’ and ‘rhinostriches’, that I had to try at least two. And then three. And then twenty. And by the time I craved animal crackers again, there were too many different animals that I had to try, and strangely, they all tasted much more delicious.

            Quarter in, chips out. I stuff apple chips into my backpack, hoping maybe he’ll remember me now, just maybe.

            The hundred year-old maple tree stands next to Greg Cops Street, named after the first principal at Woodbridge High. When Grandpa and I lived next to the “big red school that someday you’ll go to, cutey”, our childhood games often revolved around that majestic tree. There was Arirang, a Korean version of the game green-light-red-light, where a Chanter would sing a short song facing a large tree and turn around immediately to catch anyone who was not frozen still. But when the Chanter was singing, everyone else would sprint to touch the maple tree first and win. If you fell, or even twitched your pinky after each song, a mean Chanter could always call you out. Grandpa was a very mean Chanter.

            Until one day when he stood facing the maple tree and started singing “The flower of Sharon is . . . the flower of Sharon is” and kept repeating the line when five of my fifth grade friends and I stood desperate for him to finish the verse so one of us could tag the tree and win. Finally, sticky sweat dripping and stinging my eyes under the scorching sun, I ran up to him, ignoring the stifled giggling of my friends.

“I don’t remember the song, cutey. I don’t remember what comes after ‘the flower of Sharon is’. I used to know this, cutey, I used to.”

“Grandpa, why can’t you just sing the song? I just wanted to have some fun with my closest friends and you can’t remember two lines!”

“Was it ‘the flower of Sharon is withering’? No, I think it was ‘drooping’? Am I right, cutey?”

“Grandpa, why can’t you just sing the stupid song?”

            Then, I did something I regret until today. I started sobbing loudly to ‘punish’ my inconsiderate Grandpa who had damaged my preteen reputation in front of my friends. Of course I knew why he could not finish the Arirang song. He was entering his sixth year of Alzheimer’s and losing his memory so quickly like a cascade of snapshots pouring out of his mind. I could no longer expect him to remember our house number or even the lyrics his favorite song. But at least for that moment, I wanted to be a normal girl with a Grandpa who mostly remembered things, not one with a Grandpa who rarely remembered anything.

            My embarrassment escaped when my startled friends muttered good-byes and headed home but even years after, my guilt from watching Grandpa apologize too many times that day and seeing him struggle to remember the last words of the song has scarred my heart, a punishment I wholly deserve.

                        *                                  *                                  *

“Your eyes are red,” is the first thing my sister says to me when I ride my mom’s car in front of the maple tree. “Did you cry? What a crybaby.”

Her words only bounce off my ears and I hastily wipe off some tears.

“Mom, what’s wrong with Grandpa? Is he having problems with medication? Is he getting surgery today? Is he all cured now and . . .”

“Grandpa’s lung is faltering and the doctors are worrying he’ll be gone in a day or two.”

She spits out the sentence like a cobra stabbing venom into its prey. Dark red poison penetrates my skin and strangles my heart.

“Does that mean . . . will grandpa . . . but it’s only been ten years . . . that’s not really going to happen, right Mom?”

“I don’t know but I hope not, honey. I’m praying and praying.”

            Mom drops us off in front of the hospital to go park and my sister and I run across the scarlet-colored corridor to a room sporting a sign that reads Grandpa’s name: Kim Ki-Yong. Grandpa is tucked under a soft white blanket my relatives have brought and his bewildered eyes are blood shot and lifeless as they stare into open space. Aunts and uncles dressed in traditional, black hanbok crowd his bed holding hands and praying. Grandma is clutching tissues soaked with mascara-stained tears but more tears run down her wrinkled peach-color skin, dropping on to Grandpa’s snowy blanket.

            I tiptoe into the silent room. My hands are quivering as I approach the bed, a bag of apple-flavored chips clenched in my left fist. An inconsistent beep-beep-beep is coming from the stethograph connected to Grandpa’s emaciated wrist. I squirm between my relatives to the front of the bed and the rustle of my bag of chips attracts Grandpa’s weary eyes.

“You are here,” Grandpa murmurs. “You are here to play with me.”

“Yes, I am. Grandpa, can you tell who I am?” I wave the rose-colored bag of chips in front of his face. The nostalgic scent of apple hovers in the air. “Do you remember when you cut apples into animal shapes for me when I was in second grade and when you sang the ‘flower of Sharon’ song and I got so mad at you and I’m so sorry for yelling at you when it wasn’t your fault. Please don’t die, Grandpa, please don’t die.”

“You are here,” Grandpa repeats.

He’s not looking at me and I realize he doesn’t recognize who I am. He doesn’t recognize any of us. The bag of apple chips falls to the floor and bursts.

The stethograph starts blinking uncontrollably as the beep-beep-beep sound slows.

“No, Grandpa, you were wrong.” His blurry eyes meet mine but I am no longer crying. “The flower of Sharon is not withering. It’s blooming.”

Trying to ignore the darkening stethograph and Grandpa’s heavy eyes, I start to sing.

“The flower of Sharon is in full bloom.” Grandma, with one hand resting on my shoulder, joins in. “Summer is here and the lilacs and lilies are flowering at last! What a beautiful sunny day!”

The song ends in a high note. And with a final shrill ‘BEEP’, Grandpa succumbs to the forces of nature on a sunny day, his five fingers tightly wrapped around mine.

‘Good bye, Grandpa. You are always here in my heart.’

By: Hoyeon Lee

Age : 15

Irvine Heritage Park Library

Artist Statement :

Anyone who has lost a loved one knows how difficult it is to cope with the loss, even after time has passes. The last week of July marked one year since my grandfather passed away in 2010. I will never forget how much he loved me, and he will always be here in my heart.

 

August 2011 Winners

Theme: Uncharted Territories

The Winners:

Poetry:

Title: Here There Be Monsters

To every sailor that braved the seven seas

There was a warning amidst in fear.

The storms and waters that is to be

Discovered- Here There Be Monster.

From the dragons of the Greeks,

To the Kraken that seeks,

Astray ships to be engulfed…

Deep down into Davy Jones Locker.

There were tales of Poseidon

His wrath far and wide.

That sucked ships that had went beside

The uncharted waters of his kingdom.

Hurricanes are stirred by each breath,

Fierce storms form by their clashes.

And death was for all who sails

In the wake of their fury.

They dwell in dreams…

In the power of imagination…

In the fear of each sailor…

Uncharted, enchanted, territorial…

They hide, whisper distill

They are there-

In those uncharted territories…

Here There Be Monsters.

By: Billy Huang
Age: 13
Tustin Library

Prose:

Title

     I was the first to notice the problems. It didn’t take long for everyone else to notice too, as a slight beeping elevated into a continuous whine, and the cabin plunged into darkness. With everyone wide-eyed and statue-still with shock, the SPIRO spacecraft burst into flames and plummeted toward the red rocks below.
I jolted awake as Jonathan, our commander and pilot, jammed a helmet on my head. My face, a vivid violet from the lack of oxygen, resumed its normal color as cool, sweet air flowed from my tank into my face with the force of a welcome gale. My suit’s bulkiness was countered by the weightlessness of… wherever we were. Then recognition flooded my brain as I stared out the window. The red rocks, towering cliffs, sinking craters—this was Mars. My fellow astronauts bustled around me, their faces tight with urgent purpose.
"Nathaniel!" Jonathan’s tinny voice blasted through my helmet’s speaker. "Stop groaning—you’re not hurt. Start salvaging whatever you can. If you haven’t noticed, the ship is still burning!"
I sprang up and whirled around. My startled eyes reflected the inferno that engulfed the front of the ship, which melted like a wax candle. Through the gaping holes, the fire tried to escape, but was snuffed out by lack of oxygen.
I noticed a bundle of Martian constellation maps, and hurriedly lobbed them out a fire-warped window. Our connecting giant, the 500-foot long Invincible, true to her name had crashed and was happily burning nearby. I abandoned our tiny control ship, the Indestructible, and bounded across the landscape to help save our colony equipment. Three five gallon water tanks slid out of the titanic supply ship. Yet another two burst open in the blaze, quenching part of the flames. Computerized food containers, glass and solar panels, exotic looking plants, pneumatic doors, bags of soil, pistols, nylon ropes—only a few of each were saved. All the rest went up in flames as the inferno crackled through the entire ship, melting it into a drooping frame. All six of us astronauts stared in disbelief. NASA was always so precise and thorough planning, preparing, and testing for every spacecraft and mission. What had gone wrong? I blinked back tears and tried not to despair. Shutting my eyes from the cold, unforgiving landscape sprawled in front of me, I took a deep breath. Jonathan took control as I struggled to suppress my instincts to run far, far away.
"We will be alright. Our laboratory module is already on Mars and will sustain us for the entire operation. Though we have no way of travelling back, we can contact NASA, and they will surely send help. I’ll do that. Everyone else must set up additional life support."
I took one last look at the endless, barren landscape. It didn’t look like it could sustain us, let alone a colony. Each of my companions had already bound over to a foil covered box, and I hurriedly did the same. After entering a code on a keypad, the boxes, with a whirring, opened and grew into multi-paned domes with black, strong bottoms and legs. These five domes, each a greenhouse, formed a pentagon.
Once open, we rushed inside and placed exotic plants on revolving racks, and planted hundreds of seeds after rich bags of soil were set in containers. These plants, our bio-regenerative life support, would provide food, produce oxygen, and cleanse water and air.
When finished, we moved on to the next task—setting up hydrogen reaction machines. These were foil covered tanks that held compressed hydrogen. By utilizing simple reactions between them and the carbon dioxide rich Martian atmosphere, they would produce methane, water, and oxygen, which were essential to power and survival. These tanks were then pushed by their big wheels and connected to the laboratory module. Once this was done, we would be able to, with the life support systems already landed on Mars, sustain ourselves for at least a couple hundred days. Everything would be fine. Now, we only had to check on how Jonathan was doing.
"Ok." Jonathan’s relieved voice breathed through my speaker. We all bounded over. Jonathan had typed a message on a round metal disk covered in solar panels, and sent it to the satellite orbiting Mars, which beamed it to Mission Control. He had now received their response, and sent it to each of us.
Mission Control is sending a VASIMR rocket immediately, which will contain five tanks of hydrogen, ten tanks of oxygen…I closed my eyes and breathed a slow sigh. Everything was almost back to normal. We were as safe as we could be for the moment.
"NASA decided we are to begin our first assignment, now that we are prepared," Jonathan announced. Oliver and I, the mission specialists, were to investigate the geology and mineralogy of the Olympus Mons region.
"Mars… So unknown. Aren’t you eager to explore the landscape? It awes me just to imagine the sheer size of Olympus Mons," I said as Oliver and I headed for the pressurized rover.
Once the doors sealed, I took off my suit and strapped myself in the pilot’s seat. Oliver, after hanging up his suit, went through our equipment.
"Everything accounted and in working order," he announced from the body of the rover.
He then climbed into the co-pilot’s seat. During the three-hour drive, we both sat tensely in our seats. We didn’t trust anything after the SPIRO accident.
Even from our landing site, we could see Olympus Mons, blurred in the distance. Now it loomed in front of us, though still miles away. Red rocks extended forever in all 360 degrees. Nothing looked like Earth, though Mars was more similar to Earth than any other planet. The landscape was just as diverse—dipping craters and valleys, and rising mountains; but nothing was recognizable. Mars was a new frontier, as the Americas had been in the 1600s. We had hardly any knowledge of the land beyond. We were explorers discovering the unknown.
We had heard Olympus Mons was three times the height of Mount Everest and the size of Arizona, but were not prepared for its immensity. The gentle five degree slope now began, and we craned our necks, trying to see the summit, but of course, it was too far away. The slope of this shield volcano seemed to stretch forever. Olympus Mons was clad in red rock, but below, churning magma and layers of igneous rocks filled its body. We felt like bacteria moving across a giant Petri dish. The volcano, like any other, had thousands of dips and steeper slopes, and progress was slow and jarring. The landscape grew monotonous, and I tried to imagine what kind of geology we would find. This was a volcano composed of basalt. There was nothing different in the place we were going.
Just then, our rover veered sharply to the left and skid down a slope. We slammed into the doors and Oliver stomped on the brakes. This was unexpected. The rover dragged to a stop, throwing up red dust and dirt. When the dust cleared, we looked apprehensively out the window, and found we were at the bottom of a banana-shaped crater. What could be in this empty, barren place? I consulted the map. We had not yet reached our destination; that was still twelve miles ahead. Then our coordinates right now should be… I stared at the map in consternation. Where our coordinates were, the map showed a flat surface. This was not anticipated.
I showed this discovery to my partner. "Oliver, look…
"We’re stuck in the wrong place. The slopes are too steep for the rover. And NASA, nor our base, knows about this crater."
We needed the rover to survive, so the area for our assignments was too far away. After contacting base, we could either wait, or explore. I quickly decided.
"The rover can sustain us for several weeks. We’ll surely find a way out. Besides, we have contact with our base. I think we shouldn’t fret about this and go explore. If we’re correct, then we’ve discovered a new crater!"
Oliver was not one to make rash decisions. He seemed to ponder this for a long time. Finally, he decided.
"I think we’re safe. But we’d better contact our base first. Then we can explore the area."
"Fine. Oliver, you do that. I’ll use radar and map the area."
Oliver put on his suit and clambered out to radio. I used the rover’s radar to check the surrounding area. Yes, we were in a banana shaped crater. I scanned this onto a map. Then I noticed something. At the top of the crater’s far right slope was a cave. A potato-shaped bubble in the cave was colored money-green. Gold deposits! I tumbled out of the rover even as I jammed on my helmet, and taking the map, bound over to Oliver as quick as I could.
"Oliver!" I blasted over the speakers.
"What? No need to shout."
I showed him the map. He stared.
"That is worth exploring," he said.
Once he sent the message for help, we took the rover three miles, keeping our suits on, to the far side of the crater, where our map showed the cave. The crater was long and deep, but very narrow, so the slopes seemed to close in and tower over us. The sun was not yet high enough to shine down into the crater, so the red rocks were shadowed in the dim light. A silhouetted cave soon grew in sight. It was giant, perhaps as large as the Niagara Falls. But it was also high up, and difficult to reach. We would have to use our propulsion systems and nylon ropes, a risky undertaking. Only the adventurous would dare. But I planned to chart that cave and uncover the valuable minerals—no matter what could happen to me.
Once up close, the slope looked a lot more immense. It seemed perilous, if not impossible to get up if it weren’t for Mars’ lesser gravity.
"I’ll go first," I announced, and clambering out, strapped on my propulsion system. Oliver did the same. I grit my teeth, powered up the system, and blasted upward. I looked down anxiously a second later and found Oliver shooting up directly below me.
A minute later, we reached the ledge. I tilted forward and shot straight into the gaping cave before us. Momentum carried me in a long arc, and I shut down my propulsion system while switching on two powerful headlights, my eyes darting as I searched for incoming obstacles. There were none, and gravity brought me down.
"Oliver?" I called through my radio as I hurried towards his sweeping headlights, equipment bouncing on my belt. He grunted a reply.
"I’ll follow you," he whispered when I reached him. I followed his gaze into the vast and forbidding darkness beyond.
Taking ginger steps, I ventured forward. A radar tracker on my belt began to map the area. The cave, which began as drab red and dusty rock, soon filled with sparkling crystals of granite. This looked more promising, and my steps became a cheerful bounce. For two hours we progressed, searching every nook and cranny. Not a glint of gold. We were fully aware that our tanks only contained six hours of air. My limbs grew limp and tired. In the silence, a steady rhythm rang clear as a bell in my head. One, two, one, two… Determination and patience were the keys here. The radar map clearly showed gold in this area—we would find it. All of a sudden, I skid to a stop. Oliver came up behind me.
"What--"
We stared down into a gaping hole that filled the rest of the cave. The cave’s end was visible ahead. But down the hole was more to explore. The bottom was just visible, and looked promising—our lights caught golden glints on jutting rocks. The sides were granite but had no handholds big enough for our giant gloved hands. The operation here had to be precise—or we could be dashed onto the rocks below. Sweat dribbled down my neck, but I steeled myself and volunteered to go first. We would be using our propulsion systems again.
We descended slowly and smoothly, and as we grew closer to the floor, the rocks looked more promising. Though largely hidden by granite, brilliant flashes of gold caught us in the eyes when we glanced down. I couldn’t wait to get down. With a surge of energy and adrenaline, I sped up the system and rocketed downward. A mistake. My perfect parallel with the ground was skewed, and I crashed into a jagged edge of granite, knocking all breath out of me. I sprawled out onto the rocks. Oliver gave a shocked cry and scrambled over once he descended.
"You alright? You were so careful up till now. It isn’t best to ruin an operation by being rash during the last, most dangerous moments."
I breathed a ragged sigh of regret and pushed myself up. When there were risks, I had to always be cautious, no matter what lay ahead.
We were now at the heart of our exciting discovery. It was time to get to work. Ignoring the temptation to touch the precious metal, we investigated the area first. The chamber was quite vast, and twisted off into seemingly endless tunnels and mazes which we had no time to explore. We created radar maps of the entire area, which we could examine later, and began the slow chipping and gentle drilling to get the samples. An hour later, everything was done, and the path ahead, though tread only once, already seemed well-worn and expected. The excitement was now over, and a slight weariness seemed to replace it. All we had left to do was analyze our discoveries in the laboratory module. After that, we did not know. Perhaps help would come, or more days of exploring!

Artist Statement
Uncharted territory is something only the most courageous dare to explore. It often leads to nothing at all except a sense of accomplishment, but only those who take risks can receive the rare treasures it sometimes yields.
By: Tony Zeng
Age: 12
Irvine


Honorable Mention:

Poetry:

Title: The Parthenon Palace

Every morning

I wear a jet black suit and grab the earliest bus to L.A.

Tolerating

Trudging

Tiring

I am my Parthenon’s five dozen pillars

Every morning

I heat up frozen lunches and dust the furniture

Supporting

Straining

Scolding

I am my Parthenon’s statue of Athena

Every morning

I put on mascara and review my iPhone scheduler

Worrying

Whining

Wishing

I am my Parthenon’s fickle fortress

Every morning

I rush through homework and miss the first bell

Regretting

Running

Rushing

I am my Parthenon’s ivory mosque

Every evening

We no longer fear uncharted territory

Laughing

Learning

Loving

For we are one of the strongest monuments in the world: family

Artist Statement
Family is the motivation that helps me navigate my path through uncharted territory. Though we tire throughout the day, family is the safe haven that guides us through mysterious waters. I connected this theme to the Parthenon Palace because it is a vacation spot my family hopes to visit in the future and because my parents enjoy its architecture.
By: Hoyeon Lee
Age: 15
Irvine Heritage Park Library

: : : The Red Planet’s Secrets

Winners July 2011

The Theme: You Are Here

The Winners:

Film:

Title : You Are Here

By: Pollyanna Leung

Age: 14

Irvine University Park Library

Art:

Title : One of the Many Beautiful Flowers in La Habra

By: Ofelia Sanchez

Age: 14

La Habra Library

Poetry:

In Lovely Rain

We march down the tunnel

Overrun with joy

Our team flies down the field like hawks

Talons curled

We jump to our feet

There is a sudden silence

My heart is in a coil

First down

We explode like happy cannons

Silence

#21 fumbles the ball.  Again.

Our adversaries behind us erupt

We bury our faces in our hands

It starts to rain

The churro man comes

He knows he is our hero

And now we have

Hot cinnamon churro in cold wet hands

I am drenched

In lovely rain

Artist Statement :

This poem is about time spent with my dad at USC Football games.  The stadium, during a game, is one of my favorite places.  It is a place to bond, laugh and enjoy a perfect day...even in lovely rain!

By: Carter Jenkins

Age: 14

San Juan Capistrano

Prose:

Title: The Flower of Sharon

I pick up the red phone in the vice principal’s office.

“I’m coming to pick you up at school now because we’re going to go see grandpa at the hospital so ...”

“What! Mom, is something wrong with Grandpa?”

“Well . . . I’ll explain to you in the car. Wait in front of the maple tree!”

“…”

            A cold shiver goes down my spine. It’s July 20. In one week, Grandpa turns 78. He will celebrate the tenth anniversary of his diagnosis with Alzheimer’s disease. He will not recognize any of my family’s faces, not even mine, but he will celebrate it just the same. And we will hold back our tears and put on our happy faces, just the way we have done for the past nine years.

            I walk down the crimson hallway to grab my bag. I forget my habit of counting each cracked brick in the gray pathway or fingering broken locks dangling from age-worn lockers. Today, there are just too many.

“I have to go to the hospital.”

Tears swell in my eyes as I interrupt class to speak to Mr.Walton.

“I’ll be missing the rest of school because . . .”

            I blur the end of my sentence but something tells me he understands. 40 pairs of dry eyes stare at my pair of red, blurry eyes as I throw history textbooks in my bag. The silence is suffocating and I half-run out of the room, tears dropping on the threadbare carpet. Class resumes immediately.

                        *                                  *                                  *

            I run past the chipped staircase next to the theater. Two posters hanging behind the theater yell, “Come watch Alice in Wonderland at Woodbridge! A show you’ll never forget for the rest of your life!” Alice in Wonderland. The first play Grandpa ever came to watch me star in. It was only the beginning of his Alzheimer’s and he only forgot simple things like car keys and phone numbers. I remember playing the ten of Diamonds in Kindergarten and forgetting my only line “Why of course my Majesty!” and Grandpa chuckling. It wasn’t a mean laugh; it was a beautiful ho-ho-ho that made you feel better about forgetting your only line and having several hundred parents sneering at you. And he gave me ten roses after my performance-“ten beauties for the ten of diamonds, cutey.” I wonder if he will ever forget that play for the rest of his life.

            I dash in front of the science building, past the vending machine that sells Cheez-its, Goldfish, Cheetos, and apple-flavored chips. It’s the only vending machine at school that sells apple-flavored chips. A childhood temptation crosses my mind. About as chewy, sweet, and pink as temptation can get, animal cracker after animal cracker endangered my nutritious diet in second grade. When Mom forgot to pack lunch before she left, ‘guess I’ll just have some more of these’ and when Dad came home with no dinner, ‘once again, animal crackers save the day’.

            And then Grandpa started cutting green apples in the shape of animal crackers. I don’t know how he did it because it was the third year of his disease and he was starting to forget how to stop his Toyota at red lights and how to read fairy tales to my sister and me at bedtime. But he cut those apples into such thin slices of strange, exotic animals, ones he called ‘zebrelephants’ and ‘rhinostriches’, that I had to try at least two. And then three. And then twenty. And by the time I craved animal crackers again, there were too many different animals that I had to try, and strangely, they all tasted much more delicious.

            Quarter in, chips out. I stuff apple chips into my backpack, hoping maybe he’ll remember me now, just maybe.

            The hundred year-old maple tree stands next to Greg Cops Street, named after the first principal at Woodbridge High. When Grandpa and I lived next to the “big red school that someday you’ll go to, cutey”, our childhood games often revolved around that majestic tree. There was Arirang, a Korean version of the game green-light-red-light, where a Chanter would sing a short song facing a large tree and turn around immediately to catch anyone who was not frozen still. But when the Chanter was singing, everyone else would sprint to touch the maple tree first and win. If you fell, or even twitched your pinky after each song, a mean Chanter could always call you out. Grandpa was a very mean Chanter.

            Until one day when he stood facing the maple tree and started singing “The flower of Sharon is . . . the flower of Sharon is” and kept repeating the line when five of my fifth grade friends and I stood desperate for him to finish the verse so one of us could tag the tree and win. Finally, sticky sweat dripping and stinging my eyes under the scorching sun, I ran up to him, ignoring the stifled giggling of my friends.

“I don’t remember the song, cutey. I don’t remember what comes after ‘the flower of Sharon is’. I used to know this, cutey, I used to.”

“Grandpa, why can’t you just sing the song? I just wanted to have some fun with my closest friends and you can’t remember two lines!”

“Was it ‘the flower of Sharon is withering’? No, I think it was ‘drooping’? Am I right, cutey?”

“Grandpa, why can’t you just sing the stupid song?”

            Then, I did something I regret until today. I started sobbing loudly to ‘punish’ my inconsiderate Grandpa who had damaged my preteen reputation in front of my friends. Of course I knew why he could not finish the Arirang song. He was entering his sixth year of Alzheimer’s and losing his memory so quickly like a cascade of snapshots pouring out of his mind. I could no longer expect him to remember our house number or even the lyrics his favorite song. But at least for that moment, I wanted to be a normal girl with a Grandpa who mostly remembered things, not one with a Grandpa who rarely remembered anything.

            My embarrassment escaped when my startled friends muttered good-byes and headed home but even years after, my guilt from watching Grandpa apologize too many times that day and seeing him struggle to remember the last words of the song has scarred my heart, a punishment I wholly deserve.

                        *                                  *                                  *

“Your eyes are red,” is the first thing my sister says to me when I ride my mom’s car in front of the maple tree. “Did you cry? What a crybaby.”

Her words only bounce off my ears and I hastily wipe off some tears.

“Mom, what’s wrong with Grandpa? Is he having problems with medication? Is he getting surgery today? Is he all cured now and . . .”

“Grandpa’s lung is faltering and the doctors are worrying he’ll be gone in a day or two.”

She spits out the sentence like a cobra stabbing venom into its prey. Dark red poison penetrates my skin and strangles my heart.

“Does that mean . . . will grandpa . . . but it’s only been ten years . . . that’s not really going to happen, right Mom?”

“I don’t know but I hope not, honey. I’m praying and praying.”

            Mom drops us off in front of the hospital to go park and my sister and I run across the scarlet-colored corridor to a room sporting a sign that reads Grandpa’s name: Kim Ki-Yong. Grandpa is tucked under a soft white blanket my relatives have brought and his bewildered eyes are blood shot and lifeless as they stare into open space. Aunts and uncles dressed in traditional, black hanbok crowd his bed holding hands and praying. Grandma is clutching tissues soaked with mascara-stained tears but more tears run down her wrinkled peach-color skin, dropping on to Grandpa’s snowy blanket.

            I tiptoe into the silent room. My hands are quivering as I approach the bed, a bag of apple-flavored chips clenched in my left fist. An inconsistent beep-beep-beep is coming from the stethograph connected to Grandpa’s emaciated wrist. I squirm between my relatives to the front of the bed and the rustle of my bag of chips attracts Grandpa’s weary eyes.

“You are here,” Grandpa murmurs. “You are here to play with me.”

“Yes, I am. Grandpa, can you tell who I am?” I wave the rose-colored bag of chips in front of his face. The nostalgic scent of apple hovers in the air. “Do you remember when you cut apples into animal shapes for me when I was in second grade and when you sang the ‘flower of Sharon’ song and I got so mad at you and I’m so sorry for yelling at you when it wasn’t your fault. Please don’t die, Grandpa, please don’t die.”

“You are here,” Grandpa repeats.

He’s not looking at me and I realize he doesn’t recognize who I am. He doesn’t recognize any of us. The bag of apple chips falls to the floor and bursts.

The stethograph starts blinking uncontrollably as the beep-beep-beep sound slows.

“No, Grandpa, you were wrong.” His blurry eyes meet mine but I am no longer crying. “The flower of Sharon is not withering. It’s blooming.”

Trying to ignore the darkening stethograph and Grandpa’s heavy eyes, I start to sing.

“The flower of Sharon is in full bloom.” Grandma, with one hand resting on my shoulder, joins in. “Summer is here and the lilacs and lilies are flowering at last! What a beautiful sunny day!”

The song ends in a high note. And with a final shrill ‘BEEP’, Grandpa succumbs to the forces of nature on a sunny day, his five fingers tightly wrapped around mine.

‘Good bye, Grandpa. You are always here in my heart.’

Artist Statement :

Anyone who has lost a loved one knows how difficult it is to cope with the loss, even after time has passes. The last week of July marked one year since my grandfather passed away in 2010. I will never forget how much he loved me, and he will always be here in my heart.

By: Hoyeon Lee

Age : 15

Irvine Heritage Park Library

Honorable Mentions:

Poetry:

A Different Orange County

In Orange County, we all live together

whether black, asian, hispanic, or white

we all share California's hot weather.

However, as a community we do not ignite

harmony, understanding, compassion or love.

Let this be the time for when we can begin

the harmony, let's commence the love

Let's begin a new chapter, let's win

the world's attention by being one of

                        a kind.

Let’s ignite a change in Orange County.

Artist Statement :

I was born in Anaheim and moved to Mexico for four years. When I came back, learning English was tough and on the road to my success, I was discriminated many times. Now, as a senior in High School, I still encounter discrimination on a daily bases, and I know it is time for Orange County to change. 

By: Christopher Jimenez

Age: 12

Anaheim

You are here

You are here,

A leaf in the endless tree of time

An atom borrowed from the dinosaurs,

Another borrowed from the wind.

We live and die in a season

Like a leaf that buds in spring and shrivels in winter

Like a candle lit for a birthday cake

Alive only for a breath of time

Most leaves fall and are forgotten

Only a few preserved in the history book of time

How is it that these people were remembered?

They stood up while others sat down

They charged the sky with swords

They devoured discomfort

For it is only when we are challenged that we grow

And so you are here.

What will you do about it?

Artist Statement :

"You are here." We are always here, part of the earth, but only for a breath of time do the elements conglomerate to form us, then are scattered again. So while we are alive, we should make the most out of our lives.

By: Tony Zeng

Age: 12

Irvine

Prose:

Title: Tomato Days

The leaves of the oak tree rustled as my mother pushed aside a branch and surveyed the tomato fields. They lay about one hundred paces away, at the bottom of the hill. The hot summer had turned the long grass on the hill yellow, forcing my mother and her friends to strip down to collared t-shirts and shorts, and pushing the boys from other towns far away to come all the way to the shallow river and deep reservoir into which it flowed.  A few minutes ago, those boys had been splashing in the reservoir, their voices echoing off the tiny dam. Now, they were on their way home; walking past the acres of vegetable fields, climbing the craggy mountains that girdled my mother’s little village of ten families, so small that it didn’t even have a name.

My mother’s village rested on a hill that was cut in half by a dirt road. On either side stood several stout one-story brick houses, in the center of which was a small community garden.  As my mother sat in a willow tree bordering the vegetable fields, everyone else in the village took their afternoon nap. Everything stood still and silent in the reservoir except for the song of the swallow and the whispering of the warm breeze.

Four friends peeked out of the tree with my mother; two boys and two girls who, like my mother, were 9 years old. They giggled and smiled, delighted to disobey their parents by not taking their naps, and stealing out to solve this mystery. But what was the mystery?

Seeing nothing, they hid their heads and continued playing finger games and folding paper airplanes while one boy kept watch. It did not take long until he saw something. He whispered to everyone, and they peeked out. Something rustled in the grass. What was it? Could it be a fox?

No, it was not. As my mother peered between the branches of the willow tree, she could make out six naked boys, from wee little ones to teenagers, all sun-tanned and dripping wet from the reservoir. They crept up to my mother’s tomato fields.

At ten paces away from the field, a damp head popped out of the long, yellow grass. Not spotting any danger, the boy jumped out with glee, then threw away his stealth. Like frogs, the rest sprang up too and lumbered noisily over to the tomato fields—shouting to each other, giggling, and scaring even the crows. Eeew! My mother and her friends could not help but snort and giggle at the sight of these naked, dripping wet, sun-tanned boys.  Even though my mother tried to turn her head away, she could only gawk. She lit up like a scarlet paper lantern spying on these naked boys she did not even know!

            Oblivious, the naked boys picked the ripest and juiciest tomatoes from the fields until they each held an enormous armful. The bigger boys bickered over the largest and juiciest tomatoes, their cheeks bulging and juice running down their chins while the little ones sprawled out on a patch of grass and gobbled as many as they could. At last, after watching them thieving all their hard-earned, juicy ripe tomatoes, two of my mother’s friends leaped down the tree and charged at the naked boys.

            “Eeep!” a small naked boy cried as he noticed my mother’s friends bounding towards him, fists waving like furious farmers.

            “Ha ha, tee-hee! Come and get me!” an older boy teased as he sprinted away. He hurled a tomato at his pursuers, but it flew by and splattered on the ground.

            Soon, the other naked boys had spotted my mother’s friends and stuck their tongues out as they raced away.

            “Come back here, you thieves and rascals!” my mother’s friend shouted as he chased after the naked boys. They jumped over rocks, flew by bushes, and darted over the tiny stone bridge on the river. The naked boys took flying leaps and plopped into the reservoir, safe from their pursuers. My mother’s friends could only stand at the edge, hurling insults back and forth with the naked boys along with a few tomatoes and pebbles until they finally gave up and came trudging back. As the pursuers came in sight, my mother and her friends howled with laughter at the sight of their scratched tomato-splattered friends; now, with the mystery solved, it was time to run back, clean up, and climb into bed before their parents noticed they were gone.

Artist Statement :
“You are here.”  To me this means we must celebrate those tiny moments in our lives that make us who we are.  The story below is about a moment from my mother’s childhood in China.

By: Tony Zeng

Age: 12

Irvine