“Hija tu comida esta lista!” “I am coming, Abuela!” Instantaneously I jump off the bed and promptly grab a plate as Abuela serves me a stack of her renowned fluffy pancakes. While I pour syrup onto my pancakes, Abuela serves me a glass of milk, which she has already added ice to. Without fail before I can sink my teeth into my pancakes, one of my abuela’s siblings stops by and asks me whether my abuela is home and if she would desire some avocados. Then I get up and awkwardly open the door, replying that my abuela is here. Then they chat for a bit about their latest crochet project in the living room, and I am in the kitchen, enjoying my pancakes.
     My abuela has six siblings, which makes for a lot of nieces and nephews. Abuela is the oldest. After her is Norma, then Martin, then Carmen, then Maria, then Miriam, and finally Antonio. Among all of the siblings, there are twenty-one nieces and nephews. Her sister Norma, who had three kids, named her son Martin. Ironically, my Tia Norma married a man named Martin, and they named their son Martin Jr., but when my Tio Martin, as in my abuela’s brother, had kids, he also named his son Martin. So then there became four Martins among our family, and gatherings were baffling for a bit. As has probably been surmised, being in charge of cooking food for family get-togethers, which is a job nobody is unfamiliar with, is not the most pleasant job. Abuela has seventeen nieces and nephews, who usually all show up, plus her siblings’ wives and husbands, but it is always worth it in the end.
     My abuela, who is very creative, loves to crochet. Abuela does not limit herself to one type of craft although she mainly crochets. Inside her head she visualizes intricate crochet patterns, and through trial and error she creates masterpieces. Uniquely, Abuela uses soda can pull tabs to create earrings by meticulously crocheting thin patterns on the big loop of the pull tab. As my abuela explored YouTube, she found other people who crocheted, and felt inspired because they were doing things she had not even pictured doing. Abuela has crocheted countless things for me, but one in particular that I use often is a bag that she made look like Frida Kahlo. Once Abuela had a lot of scraps of yarn that were too short to be made into their own project but too long to throw away, so she came up with a clever, creative, and cunning solution to use up these scraps, which was to crochet them all into a beautiful, giant blanket that she gave to us. It is my dad’s favorite. Abuela’s creativity enables her to keep on creating crochet masterpieces that my family will enjoy and treasure forever.
    Abuela cherishes her siblings. She loves spending time with them. Inside her house, which is full of family, it is overflowing with crochet supplies. Most meaningfully, my abuela is my best friend. When I was around four years old, I started trying to sleep over at my abuela’s house, and sometimes I would wake up crying in the middle of the night, but she would still let me come over the next weekend, and since then we have had a really strong bond. Amusingly, Abuela and I are both atrocious at directions and geography. One time we drove around in circles for a considerable amount of time before we got it right. Abuela is my closest companion.

     As the sounds of the whooping war cries die away, only rubble remains from a formerly proud fortress. The sight is devastating. Next to armies, a fort is the most valuable part of the protection of civilization, which is very vital. It is a place of refuge, and armies can be strategically deployed for defense as villagers safely huddle inside. Obviously, before villagers even have a fortress, they must first know how to build a durable fort and must be prepared for the many problems they might face because if the procedure for the fort is not known, one can have a hard time even finding a way to build the fort.
     To know how to construct a fort, one must first recognize that the building process is complicated. The first thing one should do before building a fort is formulate a blueprint. Next, gather the supplies necessary. A wise constructor should first prudently erect the keep and wall because they are the main parts. After that, one should build the armory and study, which are not as needed as the worthy wall and crucial keep. Lastly, the final step is to fill the study with books and the armory with weapons, which should be strong and durable. The steps to building a fort are truly complicated although if the building is done flawlessly, it pays off.
     In creating a fort there can be many frustrating problems. During construction a problem one must constantly fear are raiders, who do not care if the structure is completed or not. Frustratingly, another difficulty one must face is obtaining the supplies for the fort. Finding dry ground is problematic. It is a maddening experience when one accomplishes a structure, and a subtle zephyr of wind blows the erection, and it all clumsily falls apart as a result of one not planting the materials hard enough in the ground. The last and probably most likely problem is flooding, resulting in the structure toppling apart because the ground is mushy. In creating a fort there truly can be many frustrating problems.
     In comparison, weak, feebly built forts that are quickly constructed are inferior to the forts whose builders assemble the structure correctly and are prepared for the many problems that face them. The flimsy forts are more vulnerable to collapsing, raiding, and more, while strong forts will flourish. Following instructions is wise. Lastly, the most significant thing about a fort is that if it is built right, it can be a place of refuge for people hiding from the desolation of war because the fort, which can hold up to attacks, is very durable.

     “Warning, no wading or swimming!” read the bright orange signs. That did not stop us! My family, who rents the cabin on a private, peaceful, placid lake in the sandhills of northern Nebraska, had invited my friends Zach and Gabe and their family to join us to savor our slice of paradise. As the cabin lacks internet access much to the delight of my parents, we spent two weeks unplugged. Despite this we occupied our time with fishing, canoeing, hiking, kayaking, paddleboarding, and board games, not to mention the ingenious games we created while we were there. Because my friends, my brother Ben, and I had been unable to catch any fish, we cleverly elected to catch minnows to use for live bait. Wading into the middle of the crystal clear shallows, we became ensnared in many pockets of quicksand, which reside on the bottom. Funnily, in another pursuit to capture fish, Gabe and I became caught in the rain while in the middle of the lake.
     Dislodging myself from the quicksand, I dropped into the lake in a comical and ungainly fashion. “Guys, why am I sinking?” inquired Ben, who had wandered away and became stuck in quicksand at the bottom of the lake. We were searching for minnows. Zach, Gabe, and I rushed over to assist the rapidly sinking Ben, and as we pulled, Ben lost his water shoe in the quagmire. Within moments Gabe and I frantically began to search for the lost shoe; however, we soon became trapped as well. Because I was now nearly waist-deep in water and up to my thighs in quicksand, Zach held me from behind. Unexpectedly, Gabe grabbed my foot, yanked it out of the water, which forced Zach to release me, and I dropped. Ridiculously, I plunged backwards into the lake, ultimately freeing myself from the quicksand.
     Because of the rain I was drenched from head to toe when I eventually exited the vast lake. Believing Atkinson’s weather forecast of zero percent chance of rain, Gabe and I took the shallow metal Jon boat onto the lake when it was just beginning to sprinkle. As we reached the middle of the lake, it began to drizzle more consistently, which is when I suggested we leave. “It’s just a little rain!” protested the obstinate Gabe, who had already cast his line. Ominously, a little black cloud parked itself above the lake, and the rain came down unchecked. Concerned we would sink in the rapidly filling boat, we headed for shore. We were greeted by Mom. We beat a path back to the cabin away from the lake but were completely soaked from the downpour.
     As Eagle Springs Lake is located in the middle of the sandhills of Nebraska, it is not uncommon to encounter quicksand in bodies of water, which likely accounts for the warning signs. Ignoring the posted guidance along the edge of the water, we waded through the water, becoming repeatedly trapped in the pockets of mire. Foolishly, because there was a lack of fish along the shore, Gabe and I ventured into the middle of the lake while it was raining. Gabe refused to leave until we either had begun bailing the boat or had captured a fish. Our vacation was delightful! Of most importance are the incredible memories we made together. We excelled at creating our own amusement, games, and mischief, and the time I spent with my friends and my brother was invaluable.

     “Nova Scotia is open!” This was uttered with much joy into the phone after an extended lunch break spent reading the fine print of the Nova Scotia public health website. Once COVID cases began to skyrocket across the country, Nova Scotia closed its borders from the rest of Canada and the world to prevent the marauding virus from piercing its COVID-free “bubble.” After over a year of these somewhat draconian measures, the border was suddenly opened to the fully vaccinated and their children, making a vacation viable. Having only a month to prepare, we booked rooms at the Keltic Lodge in Cape Breton. Finally, with the trip set in stone, we began selecting activities for our stint on the island. Primary among those was a trip to the Irons, which are in the middle of a rolling, rocky river. The most notable of these Irons is the sixth since it has a natural rock slide that spits its riders into a stone-ringed swimming hole and a ledge that protrudes over the same swimming hole, ready to be jumped off. Of course, there was never any question that Skyline Trail would be a part of the trip since its trailhead is less than a hundred meters off the Cabot Trail, and, though it goes without mentioning, the views are stunning.
     The quest to find the Cape Breton Irons was long anticipated and somewhat uncertain given their obscurity and non-existence on the all-revealing internet. The search began by driving along the highway, scouring the woods for anything that even vaguely resembled a path. There was no such apparition. Finally, a swimsuit-clad family emerged from the woods, carrying towels, and after a swift bout of questioning, they indicated a dirt parking lot next to the road with a gap in a patch of bushes that quickly morphed into a rough, undefined trail, which constantly wove between the mossy trees and slippery rocks of the Irons. After about thirty minutes of trekking, the leader of the group heard a piercing shriek from one of the slower members of the party and wondering what terrible creature he would have to fend off barehanded, tore back up the trail to investigate. When he arrived at the scene, he was informed by the teary-eyed duo that their assailant was a swarm of wicked yellow jacket wasps, which had exploded out of the ground in a whirr of fury when their nest was trodden on. Hurrying to escape the impending swarm of wasps, the group followed the ever weaving, barely existent trail to the safety of the stone of the lower Irons. After the encounter with the flying demons, the battered group marched along the rocks until they found a well-beaten trail that led to the penultimate Iron with the rock slide. The return trip from the Irons was infinitely easier than the entry since the new and, in retrospect, correct trail was far less obscure and, perhaps more importantly, wasp free.
     Skyline Trail is the quintessential Cape Breton hike with its stunning views of forested mountains and frothing sea, plentiful moose, and near-endless supply of fog. Driving through the empty parking lot, the bleary-eyed occupants of the black Toyota realized that the trail was completely empty since it was 5:45, and the sun had only just started peering over the horizon. Once bear-batting weapons were distributed among the senior hikers, the group set off into the woods and scrubby grass of the trail. Shortly they arrived at the first of the Jurassic Park-esque, moose-proof enclosures, which are designed to demonstrate the effect moose have on the environment by displaying a plot of land free from the four-legged terrors. After walking in and out of several of these, they arrived at the main lookout area, which has spectacular 360º views of the vast ocean and rolling mountains that are split by a boardwalk, running along the top of the ridge. After taking in the views and sharing a small can of sparkling water, which was selected over a thirty-two ounce bottle of water to sustain seven people over eight kilometers, they headed back with eyes peeled for the notoriously elusive moose that are plentiful in the region. Then, the fog set in. This created a mystic setting for the walk back, which wound through fields of long brown grass that looked as though they were the standard biome of an extraterrestrial terra-sphere. The view from Skyline Trail has graced the cover of countless magazines and is probably the most widely distributed and iconic image of Cape Breton Island.
     Other than a brief walk to a quarry-turned-lake, the Skyline Trail expedition was the last substantial hike of the trip. This fact, however, failed to bitter the hike, for no amount of melancholy can strike down the views and overall serenity of the trail in the early hours of the morning. Conversely peace and serenity are not likely to summit the list of words that might be used to describe the trek into the Irons. The destination negates this discomfort. After the ordeal with the wasps, the natural waterslide bound in stone and the infinitely deep swimming hole made for a relaxing afternoon of sliding or, depending on your affinity for heights, jumping into the water and scaling the rock wall adjacent to the slide, which contrasted the hectic hour of bushwhacking and wasp-stinging that preceded it. The factor that prevails most throughout these escapades is the spirit of adventure coursing through every moment of the experience. Driving across the Canso Causeway from the mainland to Cape Breton Island, one can practically feel the adventures to come, straining against their harnesses, ready to break free. When one ventures onto the wild-berry-bush-dotted trails, the presence of moose is almost tangible as the trail winds through endless black spruce and marshy groves to whatever natural treasures lay ahead. Even the famous Keltic Lodge, with its nightly maritime music and world-class breakfast buffet, resides on a peninsula, ringed by sheer cliffs with waves crashing in a shower of white spray below.

     Among other roads in a certain countryside, which for various reasons I will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I have assigned no fictitious name, there is a specific road in the countryside which is well known as a stage where animals of all shapes and sizes would meet together to settle matters of the world.
     Today the issue at hand was that a certain rabbit: which I have not given a name to for the reason that rabbits would not have human names unless they had been given them by individuals of the utmost mental stability: had spread the rumor around the animal kingdom, for he had meditated on the subject for some time: that tortoises were slow because of their lesser intellect. As can be expected, the tortoises were understandably upset. So to rectify this gross mischaracterization, they chose the fastest among them to go forth and race the rabbit. The rabbit and his opponent: which I have not given a name to for the same reason as before: toed the line before starting their race; when the race started: the tortoise took a single step; the rabbit: in the same amount of time: took countless bounding hops which transported him out of his opponent’s sight before he had managed to take another step.
     “Just as I had declared!” the rabbit shouted with such glee that one would think that he had already won the race. “I am far enough away now, and besides tis’ a beautiful day for mediating and the like; I am resolved to just lie my head down right over there and meditate.”
     After such a time as to allow the readers to rest their eyes for a moment: go to a parlor: and eat a hearty lunch: we rejoin the rabbit while he awakes from his “meditation” and continues his journey while skipping along the road. Alas! As I’m sure my very intelligent readers perceived, rabbit had meditated for far too long, and when he reached the finish line, he found that the tortoise had crossed it mere moments before and was now being showered with praise, having proved the rabbit’s theory entirely incorrect.

     Humanity possesses an amazing gift. From the environment and the ideas of their world, the residents of Earth derive inspired, innovative creations which can spread joy, understanding, and peace. Using imagination, artists can smear color across canvas in abstract and realistic ways. They can dance. They can make music. They can act. Individualistically, creative writers have no supplemental visuals or sounds which can support their work. When they meticulously spin their sentences into tales, these storytellers are required to maintain readers’ enthusiasm while they express their meanings with the beat of the syllables and the messages in their hearts. Molding their souls like clay into recorded art, writers are boundless, introspective creators with the ability to change their universes with the strength of the written word.
    Writers are not restricted to a certain frame or box. Limitlessly anyone who can scribble letters with a pen can shape imaginative and wondrous worlds when they take initiative. Not necessarily reserved or quiet, creative writers are not all antisocially hidden in their rooms from the fearsome outside. Because they are not contained to a specific personality type, a person who craves the spotlight or loves being the life of the party can easily craft words into refined and coherent sentences. Disposition does not determine capability. In writing, better quality exists where variety flourishes, when diversity flows, and while limitations collapse. If people frequently spend their time traversing fantasy lands and associating with fictional characters, they are free to be creative writers.
    Concisely, creative writers can be distinguished by time invested in imagination. Gazing at the ceiling, a writer tilts her head to rest on the back of her chair. She subconsciously picks at the worn fabric of the seat. Although her eyes are trained on a singular spot, she does not recognize what lies in front of her. The writer is focused inside. Her mind explores the depths of a world built from the brick and mortar of creativity. With a sudden explosion of ideas, she lunges to grab her reliable and beloved, old notebook and a pencil and begins to record. Why is this scene so common in the writing community? Since there is inspiration to be gained from everywhere around them, writers must seize opportunities to pursue ideas and develop their introspective capacities. Imagination allows them to form exciting and meaningful stories.
     Uniquely, writers have the chance to use their imaginations to affect the atmosphere around them. Utilizing words, they can reflect, illustrate, and introduce truth. With fiction they can translate aspects of the world that are difficult to understand and transform them into understandable quantities. When they employ ink and graphite on paper, creative writers provide a chance for their ideas to outreach the restraints of humanity. Lives are touched by the power of the written word, and writers wield it. They can foster change. Maya Angelou stated, “I’m happy to be a writer – of prose, poetry, every kind of writing. Every person in the world who isn’t a recluse, hermit, or mute uses words. I know of no other art form that we always use.” Because writing is an experience that deeply and personally influences the human soul and easily reaches others, its effects can extend to the world.
     Imagining, creating, and recording, writers are infinitely varied, extremely thoughtful, and amazingly influential individuals who can span the world with their words. Through their abilities to captivate and move hearts, they can develop fictional people, places, and plots that resonate with others and entice them to a passionate desire for reading. While writing unquestionably requires dedication and diligence to accomplish, many dissuade themselves from discovering the art because they believe that they lack the skill, drive, or vision to succeed. Undoubtedly, persistent passion and work make a talented writer. It is not natural. It is not inbred. There is hope for everyone. The world needs people to share their beliefs and dreams. The world needs writers.