The: Bong Cloud

Mr. Elara watched her go. Then he turned to the Bong Cloud, which had started making a tiny, silent rainbow that arced over a patch of weeds.

He’d found it years ago, a wisp left behind by graduating seniors. Most days, it just hung there, a silent, gentle ghost. But on certain afternoons, when the light slanted just right, the Bong Cloud would do things.

"It's a Bong Cloud," Mr. Elara said, not bothering to hide it. "Don't touch it unless you're ready." the bong cloud

"What is that?" she whispered, eyes wide.

She didn't say thank you. She just ran out, back toward the art wing, where she knew a pottery wheel sat unused in the corner of Ms. Gable's room. He’d found it years ago, a wisp left

"Show-off," Mr. Elara murmured, sweeping a pile of dead leaves. The cloud pulsed a lazy pink in response.

"That's a lie," she whispered. "I can't do that. I can barely draw a straight line." "It's a Bong Cloud," Mr

Today, it was creating a tiny thunderstorm. A miniature rain shower pattered on the cracked terracotta pots, growing a forest of moss.

"That's not a lie," Mr. Elara said, leaning on his mop. "That's a possibility . A big, scary, beautiful one. The cloud doesn't show you what will happen. It shows you what could , if you stop being afraid of the clay."