End of the Year!

As another school draws to a close, so does the publishing period. Also, with some other sad news, I Stephen Lyons (Stephano) will be leaving Pyle this year to continue education in high school. I have had a great three years working in the Pyle Inside and at Pyle Middle School. I cannot foresee what next year will be like, but it will be great! Thank you all from Pyle as you gave me a great experience. However, publishing will resume next year and I will pitch in whenever I can to help out. With this, have a great summer!

-Stephen Lyons (Website Publisher)

“The Pylrue Inside Rebellion” by Brooke McLeod and Sydney Miller

Emperor Prunicus looked around his kingdom’s court. His eyes were focused on the ragged group of outlaws that used to be part of his humble court. There was Leopolean, the petition-loving tyrant who used to advise him on treaties with other kingdoms; Floo-Floo, who was only known as “The Cello Murderer” and usually questioned the suspects in the court, even though he sometimes forgot who he was actually questioning; Briella, who was his most trusted assassin; George, his gloomy war strategist who thought that every soldier killed meant that he was a failure; and Shiloh, who the peanut-butter loving fiend who accompanied Briella, even though she wasn’t very quiet (she was always munching on something, so you could always hear her coming).

Emperor Prunicus narrowed his eyes and thought, Well, who should ask the questions now? The Emperor’s eyes surveyed the jury, but nobody seemed reliable enough to even consider to be the Asker of the Questions. It was such an important job, that nobody except Sir Floo-Floo could possibly ask the questions. Emperor Prunicus sighed, he lifted one pale finger and pointed quite randomly at a person who had just came into the room. An attendant girl who was known to the Court of the Pylrue as Camilleon. She was a simple girl with an appearance that seemed to blend in with the surroundings.

As Camilleon came up to be the Asker of the Questions, the audience seemed to be confused for a moment, as they never seen somebody who simply put blended with the surroundings. In a way, it was easier for the Questionees to just face the Emperor himself so it was mostly up to him to decide.

Camilleon called the first person up to the stands, “First up, Former Sir Leopolean, please recount your tale.”

Former Sir Leopolean walked up with the grace of the former advisor. He cleared his throat and then begun, “Ladies and gentlemen of the Empire of Pylrue,’ He addressed, “I am Leopolean, the former Advisor to the Emperor of Pylrue. It may have been clear to you all, but this isn’t what our glorious Emperor, Lord Prunicus, had promised us that would rule over us, government-wise. He promised us Democracy! But this is an Empire! I’m confessing to the petition that I set up, just to change the government so we can elect our new Emperor every seventeen years. As our own Emperor came into the throne at the simple age of fifteen! Now, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury, and the Empire of Pylrue, ask yourselves whether or not this isn’t true! And, SIGN MY PETITION!”  With the last word hanging in the air, Sir Leopolean cleared his throat and smiled, walking from the stand quite pleased with himself.

The people of the Empire of Pylrue all blinked and thought about seventeen years ago, when Emperor Prunicus had been welcomed into the dynasty of the Writoni. They all knew that Former Sir Leopolean did have a point and he was quite the genius. So much, in fact, he rubbed it in people’s face. He corrected everyone’s grammar when they spoke or wrote. The people of the Empire of Pylrue found themselves nodding at the Former Sir’s words. “So intelligent,” They all muttered to themselves and to their family.

Camilleon then called up a witness incredibly loyal and biased to Emperor Prunicus, Steffan, the technology expert. Technologist Steffan stepped up to the stand, Camilleon asked the question, “Technologist Steffan, would you please explain why you disagree with Former Sir Leopolean’s comment?”

 

The Technologist Steffan spoke, his voice boomed through the room, “What you people of the jury and the good people of the Empire of Pylrue don’t see is that Former Sir Leopolean is a traitor to us! He only wishes that once you succumb to his words of persuasion, only then will you see the truth. He wants you to feel pity for those who are at the stand and that they will once again be permitted into the higher Court of the Pylrue.”

Steffan gave a nod to Camilleon and walked away. The people on the jury nodded at the technologist’s endearing words. Camilleon said, “Is there anyone willing to talk?”

The defendants eyed each other, daring one to step up to the plate and talk. “George!” They all eyed the gloomy man. George shrugged and walked up to face the jury and Emperor Prunicus, he coughed before beginning his speech, “To the jury of the Court! I address thee to think about our Emperor, as glorious as he is. There are flaws in the system. We need change! We need someone to take our country by the arm, and lead us to prosperity.” He turned around to his company of rebels, “Shiloh, bring me the chart.”

The little fiend waltzed up to the stand holding a chart. “What’s this?” George asked, looking at a smudge of a caramel color that stained the white board. “Peanut butter.” Shiloh told him as she licked her fingers. “There is nothing so terrible as your tyrant-esque rule,” she declared to the Emperor. “You, sir, have no soul, none at all. In fact, I suspect that you do not even eat peanut butter!”

Shiloh dropped the chart and walked off, then returned awkwardly to retrieve the chart, glaring at Emperor Prunicus all the while. George cleared his throat and then said, “Our Emperor has misused his spies to carry out unforgiven sins. Now, I call my first witness, Briella vi Assassin!”

Briella vi Assassin walked to the stand to be questioned. “Hey! That’s my job!” Camilleon exclaimed. George paid no attention, after all–she was quite invisible.

George asked, “Miss Assassin, could you tell us what the Emperor made you do?”

“He made me stand by idly as a murderous chicken wreaked havoc on the Empire,” Briella declared dramatically. Everyone gasped, and Shiloh dropped her toast on which she had been munching.

That’s when the impossible happened, the jury–without casting a vote, said, “The Emperor is guilty and the one who takes his place is… Sir Leopolean!”

“Noo!” Emperor Prunicus howled, banging his fists on the table and crying like a baby that had its candy taken away from it.

And the people of Pylrue lived happily ever after…or did they? And the question remains…who was who?

 

 

“The Ghost’s Beginning” by Connor J. Aaserud

 

It was May 1926, when Rayon’s daughter, Naina, and her husband, Roco, told Rayon that in nine months Rayon would be a grandfather. Naina, Roco, and Rayon lived in a small hut on the island of Bora Bora. It would be only one hour until Roco and Rayon would leave for their two-day fishing trip around Bora Bora. Rayon packed his fishing boots, an extra rain coat, a long twelve-inch knife, a harpoon, his lucky socks, and the most important thing to him: the golden necklaces with a picture of Naina, his wife, and Rayon. Naina’s mother, Asoka, had died last year from a snake bite in the woods.

When it was time to go, Rayon and Roco said goodbye to Naina, then the two men who were about to become a father and grandfather started for their canoes.  There were five canoes and three fishermen per boat. They weren’t in the same canoe. Rayon was stuck with two drunk fisherman that smelled like one-hundred rotten fish.

The first day went well. The fishermen gathered all different types of fish: salmon, trout, cod, tuna, and more.

The next day went well, but not as well as the day before. At 10:00 pm, the only light was from the torches of the fishermen’s canoes and their village, which was just up ahead. In minutes, Rayon would see his lovely daughter and sleep in his warm, soft bed.

Rayon was so caught up in his head that he didn’t notice the fin of a shark creeping up towards the side of his canoe. When he did notice the shark, he tried to throw his harpoon at it, but instead of it being his harpoon, it was an oar he was using to row the canoe. Just as Rayon thought that his life would end, Roco shot a harpoon into the belly of the shark. But instead of killing the beast, he just made it madder. Before Roco could pull the harpoon out of the shark’s body and strike again, the beast turned around and charged at Roco’s canoe.

The canoe didn’t stand a chance against the shark. The shark easily snapped the canoe in half, like a twig in a party of angry snapping turtles.

Rayon never saw Roco or the two other fishermen in the canoe again.

When Rayon arrived at the village, tears were dripping down his face, and he still didn’t know what to tell Naina.

Nine months later

Rayon was nervous, very nervous, extremely nervous. It was 2:37 a.m. It was raining outside. He was sitting in the living room of his hut thinking of the grandson that he would soon have.

At 2:39 a.m. Doctor Ruiz came into the room.

“Rayon, you are a grandfather.”

Rayon sprang up from his stool and sprinted past the doctor and into Naina’s room.  Naina was sitting in her bed, holding a baby. A baby that looked exactly like his father.

Both of them stared and smiled at the child for a while.  Then Naina said, “Mako, his name is Mako.”

 

“Search” by Leopold Bertholet

Though I search, I search in vain.

To look once more, to look again,

To see with hope what isn’t there

I try, then try to seek some more.

 

As rain the tears of my defeat

I find my efforts obsolete,

As splatter ink drops from my pen

I find that I am lost again.

 

My paper’s blank, a whitened field

An icy plain that nothing yields,

A barren story, frigid night

That grows no words, no words I write…

 

“Tiny Tune” by Leopold Bertholet

Tonight is my nocturnal walk;

Of valleys dark and quiet I speak.

As I sing I follow paths

That lead to daunting mountain peaks.

 

As I tread on muddy trails

My ship through windy verses sails;

Of the stars in the sky

I rhyme and with my words I fly.

 

As soon as all the day is gone,

I fear the approaching dawn.

And yet in the celestial light

I dance and twirl in delight.

 

I come from lands lit by the day

But I have been led far astray.

In my shadowy rebirth

I whistle of a quiet mirth.

 

And so I hum my tiny tune

In the depths of night so black;

I smile at the crescent moon

And the crescent smiles back.

 

“Through the Forest” by Leopold Bertholet

Tonight is my nocturnal walk;

Of valleys dark and quiet I speak.

As I sing I follow paths

That lead to daunting mountain peaks.

 

As I tread on muddy trails

My ship through windy verses sails;

Of the stars in the sky

I rhyme and with my words I fly.

 

As soon as all the day is gone,

I fear the approaching dawn.

And yet in the celestial light

I dance and twirl in delight.

 

I come from lands lit by the day

But I have been led far astray.

In my shadowy rebirth

I whistle of a quiet mirth.

 

And so I hum my tiny tune

In the depths of night so black;

I smile at the crescent moon

And the crescent smiles back.

“The Life of a Man, Who Was A Writer: Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald” by Debkanya Mitra

I

What they call the “jazz age,”

Lone Hero lived in;

Low key livings offstage,

Memories that never left him.

 

What they call the “lost generation,”

War never recovered them,

Fighting the darkness between escalation;

Darkness claimed, and reclaimed his life.

 

The day that he lost,

From all his struggles,

Winter’s frost,

Coveted his windowsill.

 

If he ever found,

What war took from him,

If he ever forgot the battleground…

He would have died in peace, that day…

 

II

On his mother’s land,

He was born, September 1896,

St. Paul Minnesota and

His father’s Maryland name, tied him here.

 

Second cousin, three times removed,

Francis Scott Key,

Saw the flag as it stood,

And wrote a verse of Baltimore Harbor.

 

He grew up without a hometown,

Back and forth, Syracuse to Buffalo,

Then went to college, New Jersey, Princeton,

1917, dropped out of school.

 

III

World War 1,

Before reporting to duty,

Before picking up his gun;

He wrote his first novel.

 

The Romantic Egoist,

Finished just weeks before the call;

The publisher rejected that young artist,

And the artist headed for war.

 

IV

Finished war,

For his Alabama girl,

Married Zelda, in New York;

This Side of Paradise.

 

Born 1921,

Frances, their only child,

New future begun,

But the grey will still cloud him.

 

V

Renaissance,

Out the dark,

Out of the trance,

Stories emerge.

 

1920’s,

The Beautiful and the Damned

A Novel, and so many short stories,

So many opportunities; A blue sky…

 

The last rise came before the fall,

A last novel; The Great Gatsby,

This the Jazz Age; All,

And then the world changes…

 

VI

Zelda’s mental illness,

With his alcoholism;

Life in his literary senses

Become, Tender is the Night.

 

In the midst of all these struggles,

His novel doesn’t sell,

World becomes trouble,

He lives, anyway…

 

VII

Half a script,

By heart attack.

 

VIII

Maryland was his father’s land,

  1. Scott remembered its Rolling Hills.

 

IX

Rockville Union Cemetery,

 

Long journey; Long road of words and colors,

Brought him originally to this place without hurry,

And away from his deceased family; though not too far away.

 

His funeral was in Bethesda,

Denied a Catholic Burial,

25 people in the rain; clouds and umbrellas,

The minister didn’t know who he was.

 

Seven years late,

A fire led Zelda to the same grounds,

She was buried too, above her fate,

And our soil held them there.

 

XI

After 35 revolutions,

Their graves were moved; to Saint Mary’s Catholic Church,

Fitzgerald family plot, their locations,

And Fitzgerald’s daughter chose the headstone.

 

XII

“So we beat on,

boats against the current,

borne back ceaselessly

into the past.”

-The Great Gatsby

 

XIII

This man,

Was a writer,

We can read his thoughts, and

Remember his struggles.

 

He is inspiration,

As he lies, unfinished,

 

And there could be hope…

 

Because there is rain.

 

Montgomery County’s literary community admires his life and works.

 

Bibliography:

http://www.npr.org/

http://www.biography.com/

http://www.online-literature.com/

http://www.pbs.org/

A Collection of Photographs

58. The Park by Weronika Strozyk

“The Park” by Weronika Strozyk

59. Unblossomed by Jeffrey Zhang

“Unblossomed” by Jeffrey Zhang

60. Endless Twisting Into the Deep by Naren Roy

“Endless Twisting Into the Deep” by Naren Roy

61. A Stupa's Whispering Wind by Naren Roy-Color

“A Stupa’s Whispering Wind” by Naren Roy

62. Into the Canyon by Naren Roy-Color

“Into the Canyon” by Naren Roy

63. Crisp and Sharp by Naren Roy-Color

“Crisp and Sharp” by Naren Roy

64. Scampering Up the Side by Naren Roy-Color

“Scampering Up the Side” by Naren Roy

65. Shadowing the Water by Naren Roy-Color

“Shadowing the Water” by Naren Roy

66. Colorful Reflections by Naren Roy-Color

“Colorful Reflections” by Naren Roy

67. Flowering by Forever by Naren Roy--Color

“Flowering by Forever” by Naren Roy