What does man say of his eminent death, when he follows his fate with a quavering breath? Does he mutter a truth to his comrade beside? Or swallow his fate as he grapples with pride? -Amy Struthers Image by: James Kovin

Mr. Why

There once lived a boy by the last name of Why who never asked questions or thought. Without man’s permission to guide his ambition, he only retorted with ‘ought’. When sitting in class, he would look to the board to see what the teacher would draw. But in holding his pencil, Why happened to stencil…