Adult Author Poetry
First Place
Boys and Bands and Broken Hearts by Elizabeth Kennedy
They were days, mostly nights, of cider and whisky, and long walks home in the cold.
Bummed cigarettes, smoky pubs and loud guitars.
Scruffy boys in scruffy bands,
and white-faced girls with long dyed hair and darkened eyes.
Long train rides through low green fields thick with sheep,
of army check points and distant bombs.
Soldiers tromping through garden patches on the front lawn during Christmas teas,
rattling the china with their boot falls.
Cold and damp and stone and brick, moss and turf and coal.
White toast, margarine and tinned beans, heavy chips and greasy curry,
and veggie burgers thick with mayonnaise, at 2am on icy streets after the pubs closed.
Sweet dark tea with milk, imbibed at least once an hour.
Firelight dancing soft through stained glass windows,
onto the cold stone walls of abbeys and cathedrals.
Broken grey headstones planted by receding tides,
and castles thick with ghosts.
Damp and smoke and piss and vomit on the city streets after a hard weekend,
and chilly earth with knotted black trees in iron-gated parks.
More bands, more music, more melancholy.
More drink, more lone solitary train rides through the country.
Nights laughing over clinking glasses in the pub,
and daylight hours spent dead to the world and dreaming.
Rainy schooldays in the cold stone library reading dusty books
on monks and princes, crusaders and mystics.
Sunrise over the River Liffey shrouded in the smoky leather jacket
of the tall pretty Liverpool boy with the beautiful hands,
who would later be the first kiss – one cold July midnight,
under the open moon in the heart of the oldest part of town.
Statues of the Virgin Mary and all the saints looking down on us,
from churches and cathedrals above.
Spontaneous visceral crushes on sullen bass guitarists and brooding lead singers,
while collecting glasses at the Baggot Inn.
More bands, more music, more drink.
More visits up North, more tea and toast and travel.
Bent nosed old men in patchy woolen sweaters
nursing cloudy pints of Guinness in a whitewashed Donegal pub.
Trucks bearing the Kennedy name barreling through small town streets,
carrying loads of heavy timber.
Kind gentle friends with soft words and open hearts.
That was Northern Ireland and Dublin as I remember them.
Boys and bands and broken hearts, cold and damp and rain.
Warm bright colors under the dancing light of center stage,
life heavy with anticipation.
Boys and Bands and Broken Hearts by Elizabeth Kennedy
They were days, mostly nights, of cider and whisky, and long walks home in the cold.
Bummed cigarettes, smoky pubs and loud guitars.
Scruffy boys in scruffy bands,
and white-faced girls with long dyed hair and darkened eyes.
Long train rides through low green fields thick with sheep,
of army check points and distant bombs.
Soldiers tromping through garden patches on the front lawn during Christmas teas,
rattling the china with their boot falls.
Cold and damp and stone and brick, moss and turf and coal.
White toast, margarine and tinned beans, heavy chips and greasy curry,
and veggie burgers thick with mayonnaise, at 2am on icy streets after the pubs closed.
Sweet dark tea with milk, imbibed at least once an hour.
Firelight dancing soft through stained glass windows,
onto the cold stone walls of abbeys and cathedrals.
Broken grey headstones planted by receding tides,
and castles thick with ghosts.
Damp and smoke and piss and vomit on the city streets after a hard weekend,
and chilly earth with knotted black trees in iron-gated parks.
More bands, more music, more melancholy.
More drink, more lone solitary train rides through the country.
Nights laughing over clinking glasses in the pub,
and daylight hours spent dead to the world and dreaming.
Rainy schooldays in the cold stone library reading dusty books
on monks and princes, crusaders and mystics.
Sunrise over the River Liffey shrouded in the smoky leather jacket
of the tall pretty Liverpool boy with the beautiful hands,
who would later be the first kiss – one cold July midnight,
under the open moon in the heart of the oldest part of town.
Statues of the Virgin Mary and all the saints looking down on us,
from churches and cathedrals above.
Spontaneous visceral crushes on sullen bass guitarists and brooding lead singers,
while collecting glasses at the Baggot Inn.
More bands, more music, more drink.
More visits up North, more tea and toast and travel.
Bent nosed old men in patchy woolen sweaters
nursing cloudy pints of Guinness in a whitewashed Donegal pub.
Trucks bearing the Kennedy name barreling through small town streets,
carrying loads of heavy timber.
Kind gentle friends with soft words and open hearts.
That was Northern Ireland and Dublin as I remember them.
Boys and bands and broken hearts, cold and damp and rain.
Warm bright colors under the dancing light of center stage,
life heavy with anticipation.
Second Place
Seder by Alison Ersfeld
Twelve bodies, one table
three bottles of Manischewitz
a lonely cup for Elijah outside the door
inviting spirit's entrance.
Bitter herbs dipped in salt water
revisiting acrimonious tears.
Unleavened bread,
a mouth full of desert sand.
Plagues
symbolized and materialized in ten miserable red drops
invoked by the elder
summoning to this assembly all manner of wretchedness.
The great pyramids of Egypt were erected
through the sweat and abuse of my bloodline.
My ancestor's ancestors took lovers between their solid thighs,
birthed a new generation of slaves
washed the laundry of the elite pharaohs,
toiled on the banks of an abundant river
made bricks under an oppressive sun.
Stayed alive, hoped, believed, planted,
prayed and danced.
Each subsequent generation
nurtures the seed of emancipation,
plants that beacon on tomorrow's horizon,
nourishes endurance with whispers of
Exodus.
Carrying story and ritual in flesh,
across seas and desert, earth-worn and ragged
story-givers bequeath elders' echoes.
Plagues and parched wandering brought to table
sacrificial wine poured in ears.
Is it an elixir for survival, or
should desert dust stories remain outside to dissolve in Elijah's cup?
The Angel of Death will soon pass over
claim what is his, feed his black fog.
Knowing the bodies and bones will disappear
the story-giver chooses her words
pours the Manischewitz
dips the bitter herbs
and hands her children Elijah's cup to place outside the door.
Seder by Alison Ersfeld
Twelve bodies, one table
three bottles of Manischewitz
a lonely cup for Elijah outside the door
inviting spirit's entrance.
Bitter herbs dipped in salt water
revisiting acrimonious tears.
Unleavened bread,
a mouth full of desert sand.
Plagues
symbolized and materialized in ten miserable red drops
invoked by the elder
summoning to this assembly all manner of wretchedness.
The great pyramids of Egypt were erected
through the sweat and abuse of my bloodline.
My ancestor's ancestors took lovers between their solid thighs,
birthed a new generation of slaves
washed the laundry of the elite pharaohs,
toiled on the banks of an abundant river
made bricks under an oppressive sun.
Stayed alive, hoped, believed, planted,
prayed and danced.
Each subsequent generation
nurtures the seed of emancipation,
plants that beacon on tomorrow's horizon,
nourishes endurance with whispers of
Exodus.
Carrying story and ritual in flesh,
across seas and desert, earth-worn and ragged
story-givers bequeath elders' echoes.
Plagues and parched wandering brought to table
sacrificial wine poured in ears.
Is it an elixir for survival, or
should desert dust stories remain outside to dissolve in Elijah's cup?
The Angel of Death will soon pass over
claim what is his, feed his black fog.
Knowing the bodies and bones will disappear
the story-giver chooses her words
pours the Manischewitz
dips the bitter herbs
and hands her children Elijah's cup to place outside the door.
Adult Author Prose
First Place
Jasper the Stump Killer by Maureen Rogers
“There are only two kinds of powder monkeys – careful and dead.” My Great Uncle Jasper’s words have stuck with me since the day he came to visit in the summer of ‘55. He knew all about those monkey men who handled dynamite because he was one of them, blasting rock to make way for Washington State highways and the Bonneville Dam on the mighty Columbia.
This was all ancient history for my eleven-year old brain to ponder as I awaited Jasper’s arrival to help with the final step in clearing land on our farm. Our forest of old growth fir and cedar had been logged off and turned into a graveyard of stumps, some nearly four feet across.
More amazing than Jasper’s career in explosives, were the stories of the man himself. “Your great uncle was nearly immortal – he lived more lives than Mouser, son,” Pop would say, referring to our legendary twenty-two-year-old barn cat who ate the bodies of his victims and lined the heads up next to the horse stall. “Of course,” Pop always added, “Jasper had lots of close calls in the dynamite business, but there was more. When he was nineteen, he drank bad moonshine and lay in his bed unconscious for nearly a week. Then all of a sudden, witnesses claimed, it was as if he rose from the dead.”
At the age of fifty-three, Jasper was found stroked-out in the hay when he didn’t return from milking the cows. He was totally paralyzed for a month and everyone said this time for sure he was a goner. But he got up one day and went to work – fooled them all again.
Pop did what little talking there was at the dinner table that first night. “You go with Jasper tomorrow. I’d like to help, but there’s a big logging job in South Forks.” Pop passed Ma a look that was likely more concern than envy. “Just wait in the truck while he gets supplies.”
I peppered Jasper with questions about our project the next morning on our way to town. “Wait and see,” was his answer to my every inquiry as he puffed away on his hand-rolled cigarette. The door of his rusty old Dodge pickup creaked when he opened it and climbed out. I watched through the cracked windshield as he entered Wayburn’s Seed and Farm Supply.
Minutes later he was back outside with Mr. Wayburn, heading for the building at the back of the lot. “They store dynamite away from everything. The wood walls of the shed are extra thick and the roof is lightweight so any accidental explosion would go straight up,” Pop had explained once. “Around here, fire is as common as flies on cow manure. A simple spark on nitro could wipe out an entire city block.”
Back at the farm, Jasper pulled his old pickup next to the barn, and passed me the sealed wooden box filled with the makings for dynamite. “Over there,” he said, pointing to the front porch a hundred feet away.
I grabbed the handles and took off running, holding it as far away from me as I could. The whole time I imagined a blast so strong I could see my body parts flying through the air, tumbling to the ground – smack – smack – smack – forming a pathway of arms and legs all the way to the house.
Jasper headed inside the barn while I waited, wondering what would happen next. When he reappeared, he was carrying a large burlap sack and a stick longer than he was tall. He strolled past the house, heading for the field, calling after me to follow with the box.
By the time I caught up to him, Jasper was on his knees measuring the width of the closest stump with the stick. It looked like a handmade tool, eight feet long with notches carved in one-foot increments. “Measurin’s important to calculate how deep to dig,” he said then handed me a hammer to pry out the nails on the lid of the box. The next thing he pulled out was an iron rod with a large spoon shape at one end. He began loosening the soil, digging at an angle until the center of the stump was exposed.
My nose tingled from the tang of sawdust packed around the rows of red waxy dynamite tubes. “There’s nitro in each one of these,” Jasper explained as he wire-bundled several tubes together. Inside the final stick, he pushed a small brass blasting cap and the end of a 100-foot roll of thin rope that served as a fuse. I watched as he packed it tight with another homemade tool he called an awl. “Made from ash,” he told me, “Tapered and sharp, perfect for this job.” Then the final step came, burying the bundle deep under the stump and covering it with dirt.
From one stump to the next I followed Jasper, hauling the box of dynamite as he measured, dug, bundled, packed and buried the explosives. He used up the entire roll of rope to make one continuous fuse that formed a sort of zig-zag across the field. By noon he’d buried dynamite under a dozen stumps. “Day’s work nearly done,” he announced and stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands when Ma waved us in for lunch.
We headed back out to the field that afternoon and for the first time I heard a chuckle in his words, “Now – for the fun.” He stopped at the stump farthest from the house, at the end of the long fuse line, then knelt down and pulled out a matchbook. I stood back as he lit the tail end of the fuse poking out of that last pile of dirt. My chest pounded in anticipation. When the rope fibers began to sputter and spark, I took off running, remembering the images of flying body parts.
From the safety of our front porch, I watched Jasper saunter toward the house. Finally he dropped into the old rocking chair next to me. “Fuses burn slow,” he said as he pulled out a pencil and small tablet and handed it to me. “You do the tally.”
Pow! The first stump exploded. I hollered and jumped up and down as gigantic chunks of wood and roots spun and sailed across the sky over fifty yards away. My ears rang. The windows rattled and Ma came running to watch. A giant cloud of dust cleared just in time to see the next eruption. Several minutes apart, each blast grew closer and louder. I marked down every explosion in the tablet and continued to whoop and holler while Jasper just nodded, and smoked another hand-rolled cigarette.
When the final stump exploded, I counted eleven hash marks on the page. I was sure I hadn’t missed one, but still, we knew he had loaded dynamite under twelve stumps. Jasper recounted the marks and shook his head. “We’ll wait this one out.”
But time did nothing and our wood-strewn field was silent for the rest of the day. According to Jasper, waiting out the last explosion meant staying clear ‘til tomorrow. That night I dreamt of flying tree stumps and more body parts and woke with a start. Had I heard another blast? I jumped out of bed and ran to the porch. A light moved toward me in the dark from the field of debris. It was Jasper, a flashlight in hand, strolling back to the house. “That was number twelve, son. Just needed a nudge,” he called out to me. “Better get back to bed.”
My parents said they slept through the blast when Jasper explained the next morning how he’d gone out and reloaded the dynamite bundle overnight. But I was glad I woke up to witness the amazing powder monkey in action again.
The long days that followed weren’t so exciting. Pop and Jasper used the tractor with a hook and chain to drag the big chunks of wood while I gathered the remains. Pitch worked its way into everything. The summer sun soon burned out the intense evergreen smell and dried the wood. My big reward for the miserable work came after all the roots and scraps were heaped into three mountains of debris. It was my job to light the fires and keep everything stirred as it all went up in blazes.
“Reckon you might be ready for me again next year,” Jasper said the morning he was leaving. My father had negotiated two more acres of forest to be logged off the following spring.
“I’ll be counting on you again,” Pop said then turned to me and grinned. “It looks like you’ll have plenty of good help.”
That was the last time I saw my Great Uncle Jasper. He died peacefully in his sleep that winter without moonshine, strokes or explosives. His dynamite days were over but I will be forever grateful that I was there for his last blast.
Jasper the Stump Killer by Maureen Rogers
“There are only two kinds of powder monkeys – careful and dead.” My Great Uncle Jasper’s words have stuck with me since the day he came to visit in the summer of ‘55. He knew all about those monkey men who handled dynamite because he was one of them, blasting rock to make way for Washington State highways and the Bonneville Dam on the mighty Columbia.
This was all ancient history for my eleven-year old brain to ponder as I awaited Jasper’s arrival to help with the final step in clearing land on our farm. Our forest of old growth fir and cedar had been logged off and turned into a graveyard of stumps, some nearly four feet across.
More amazing than Jasper’s career in explosives, were the stories of the man himself. “Your great uncle was nearly immortal – he lived more lives than Mouser, son,” Pop would say, referring to our legendary twenty-two-year-old barn cat who ate the bodies of his victims and lined the heads up next to the horse stall. “Of course,” Pop always added, “Jasper had lots of close calls in the dynamite business, but there was more. When he was nineteen, he drank bad moonshine and lay in his bed unconscious for nearly a week. Then all of a sudden, witnesses claimed, it was as if he rose from the dead.”
At the age of fifty-three, Jasper was found stroked-out in the hay when he didn’t return from milking the cows. He was totally paralyzed for a month and everyone said this time for sure he was a goner. But he got up one day and went to work – fooled them all again.
Pop did what little talking there was at the dinner table that first night. “You go with Jasper tomorrow. I’d like to help, but there’s a big logging job in South Forks.” Pop passed Ma a look that was likely more concern than envy. “Just wait in the truck while he gets supplies.”
I peppered Jasper with questions about our project the next morning on our way to town. “Wait and see,” was his answer to my every inquiry as he puffed away on his hand-rolled cigarette. The door of his rusty old Dodge pickup creaked when he opened it and climbed out. I watched through the cracked windshield as he entered Wayburn’s Seed and Farm Supply.
Minutes later he was back outside with Mr. Wayburn, heading for the building at the back of the lot. “They store dynamite away from everything. The wood walls of the shed are extra thick and the roof is lightweight so any accidental explosion would go straight up,” Pop had explained once. “Around here, fire is as common as flies on cow manure. A simple spark on nitro could wipe out an entire city block.”
Back at the farm, Jasper pulled his old pickup next to the barn, and passed me the sealed wooden box filled with the makings for dynamite. “Over there,” he said, pointing to the front porch a hundred feet away.
I grabbed the handles and took off running, holding it as far away from me as I could. The whole time I imagined a blast so strong I could see my body parts flying through the air, tumbling to the ground – smack – smack – smack – forming a pathway of arms and legs all the way to the house.
Jasper headed inside the barn while I waited, wondering what would happen next. When he reappeared, he was carrying a large burlap sack and a stick longer than he was tall. He strolled past the house, heading for the field, calling after me to follow with the box.
By the time I caught up to him, Jasper was on his knees measuring the width of the closest stump with the stick. It looked like a handmade tool, eight feet long with notches carved in one-foot increments. “Measurin’s important to calculate how deep to dig,” he said then handed me a hammer to pry out the nails on the lid of the box. The next thing he pulled out was an iron rod with a large spoon shape at one end. He began loosening the soil, digging at an angle until the center of the stump was exposed.
My nose tingled from the tang of sawdust packed around the rows of red waxy dynamite tubes. “There’s nitro in each one of these,” Jasper explained as he wire-bundled several tubes together. Inside the final stick, he pushed a small brass blasting cap and the end of a 100-foot roll of thin rope that served as a fuse. I watched as he packed it tight with another homemade tool he called an awl. “Made from ash,” he told me, “Tapered and sharp, perfect for this job.” Then the final step came, burying the bundle deep under the stump and covering it with dirt.
From one stump to the next I followed Jasper, hauling the box of dynamite as he measured, dug, bundled, packed and buried the explosives. He used up the entire roll of rope to make one continuous fuse that formed a sort of zig-zag across the field. By noon he’d buried dynamite under a dozen stumps. “Day’s work nearly done,” he announced and stood up, brushing the dirt from his hands when Ma waved us in for lunch.
We headed back out to the field that afternoon and for the first time I heard a chuckle in his words, “Now – for the fun.” He stopped at the stump farthest from the house, at the end of the long fuse line, then knelt down and pulled out a matchbook. I stood back as he lit the tail end of the fuse poking out of that last pile of dirt. My chest pounded in anticipation. When the rope fibers began to sputter and spark, I took off running, remembering the images of flying body parts.
From the safety of our front porch, I watched Jasper saunter toward the house. Finally he dropped into the old rocking chair next to me. “Fuses burn slow,” he said as he pulled out a pencil and small tablet and handed it to me. “You do the tally.”
Pow! The first stump exploded. I hollered and jumped up and down as gigantic chunks of wood and roots spun and sailed across the sky over fifty yards away. My ears rang. The windows rattled and Ma came running to watch. A giant cloud of dust cleared just in time to see the next eruption. Several minutes apart, each blast grew closer and louder. I marked down every explosion in the tablet and continued to whoop and holler while Jasper just nodded, and smoked another hand-rolled cigarette.
When the final stump exploded, I counted eleven hash marks on the page. I was sure I hadn’t missed one, but still, we knew he had loaded dynamite under twelve stumps. Jasper recounted the marks and shook his head. “We’ll wait this one out.”
But time did nothing and our wood-strewn field was silent for the rest of the day. According to Jasper, waiting out the last explosion meant staying clear ‘til tomorrow. That night I dreamt of flying tree stumps and more body parts and woke with a start. Had I heard another blast? I jumped out of bed and ran to the porch. A light moved toward me in the dark from the field of debris. It was Jasper, a flashlight in hand, strolling back to the house. “That was number twelve, son. Just needed a nudge,” he called out to me. “Better get back to bed.”
My parents said they slept through the blast when Jasper explained the next morning how he’d gone out and reloaded the dynamite bundle overnight. But I was glad I woke up to witness the amazing powder monkey in action again.
The long days that followed weren’t so exciting. Pop and Jasper used the tractor with a hook and chain to drag the big chunks of wood while I gathered the remains. Pitch worked its way into everything. The summer sun soon burned out the intense evergreen smell and dried the wood. My big reward for the miserable work came after all the roots and scraps were heaped into three mountains of debris. It was my job to light the fires and keep everything stirred as it all went up in blazes.
“Reckon you might be ready for me again next year,” Jasper said the morning he was leaving. My father had negotiated two more acres of forest to be logged off the following spring.
“I’ll be counting on you again,” Pop said then turned to me and grinned. “It looks like you’ll have plenty of good help.”
That was the last time I saw my Great Uncle Jasper. He died peacefully in his sleep that winter without moonshine, strokes or explosives. His dynamite days were over but I will be forever grateful that I was there for his last blast.
Second Place (tie)
Out of the Dark by Laura Kemp
She raised her chin to look through the basement window. The blank, weathered wood of the neighbor’s fence wasn’t enough to stop the sound. Even through her basement walls Al would recognize a gunshot. There was nothing she could do about that.
She imagined him in his yard on the other side, frayed white tee stretched over his substantial paunch. She could see him stopping in mid weed-pull when he heard the gun, his forearms still strong and corded under the Marine Corps tattoos. He would know the sound - even muffled by the rock and mortar. His thick fingers would drop the doomed weed, and maybe the black crescents of his nails would dig into his palms while he calculated where the sound had come from. She knew him as well as she needed to after seventeen years as his neighbor.
Al had seen the fights before Mark left for good. He must have heard the door slams and the yelling. And there was that time Mark punched holes in the wall of the bedroom before he peeled out of their driveway. That was the first time Al had come over to check on her, his hands fisting up restlessly while they chatted through the screen door.
She didn’t have to look much past the faded NRA sticker on his pickup to know their interests hardly overlapped, and she suspected their votes cancelled each other’s out. But when she decided to get a gun as a deterrent against her volatile ex, she knew who to ask.
She looked down at the sturdy Ruger .380 warming in her hand. Al had recommended it because of its customizable nylon grip. Good for smaller hands, he said. A grim smile tugged at her mouth. All that target practice with him and this is what she ends up using it for.
She shifted in the chair and turned the pistol over in her hands. The bluing on the barrel was pretty. Al said it would make it tougher. Maybe he wasn’t talking about the gun. Maybe he’d be disappointed she hadn’t been made tougher. But he’d get over it. She didn’t owe him anything. They were just neighbors — the right wing wacko marine and the tree-hugging accountant.
What she could never share with Al was that the burden of noticing every particle of real life had become too much for her. She not only noticed everything, she felt it. On good days it was like brushing against a cactus in the dark. At its worst, negativity penetrated her like some relentless coring machine drilling into bedrock. And it’s not like she could ever go back and face her mother for what she did to her only daughter.
When her dark side changed into her dark world, Mark had long stopped trying to understand. At least enduring his abuse distracted her. But now that she was alone, she had no buffer between her and the shrill torment of daily existence. It whined in her head like a dentist’s drill. One sharp bang and she could stop the pain.
The gun was body-temperature now in the cool basement. Was she stalling? She had all the time in the world, really. She looked over to the rock wall to her left. Cracks showed through the chalky whitewash, but she could picture Al’s blunt hands placing the stones and checking for straightness before the mortar hardened. He had built this place, and the one next door where he lived. They must have worked hard together, he and Earlene. He told her she had built most of the interior walls. She remembered seeing a faded photo of Earlene wearing a carpenter belt, her bleached hair tied up in a scarf, cigarette between lips pursed in concentration as she measured a stud.
She wished she could have met Earlene, but she died right before they finished this house. Who knew all those years of smoking might cause an aneurysm?
That’s when Al started the house next door – the one he held on to. To keep him busy after Earlene passed, he said.
She took one hand off the Ruger to stroke the rough stone in remembrance of an Earlene she never knew. She would have liked meeting the woman who could rock a tool belt like that.
Something moved beneath her fingers. A fist-sized stone was loose and rattled in place with her touch. It was a slightly different color from the rest, like the whitewash had been worn off. She tugged at it, surprised at how easily it came out. The old chair creaked as she leaned to peer into the cavity it left behind. In the murky light she could see a glint of metal, a lid of some sort. After determined fumbling, she pulled a small jelly jar out of the hole. Placing the Ruger in her lap, she unscrewed the rusty lid and reached in for the note she saw folded up inside.
With the small thrill of discovery goosing her pulse, she smoothed the note open against her thigh. It was the upper half of a page of stationery. At the top was an eagle sitting assertively atop a globe and anchor. “USMC” circled the familiar insignia. Handwritten words came into focus - masculine letters jabbed onto the paper.
“When I can’t look on the bright side, I’ll sit in the dark with you and wait for the dawn.”
She turned the note over.
“Sadness flies on the wings of the morning and out of the heart of darkness comes the light.”
There was a date. She peered closer. September 18, 1999. That’s the year this house was finished. She and Mark had bought it in 2000. She rubbed the note absently with her thumb, thinking about those dates. Hadn’t Earlene died in ’99, the week before? Yes, she was sure, because Al had told her September 11th was already the worst day of his existence, and two years later the whole country knew how he felt.
Had Al written this and hidden it away in the wall he and Earlene had built together? Maybe he had come down here to be alone with his pain in the dark, just as she did now. Maybe he even sat with his Government Issue weapon in his lap. And at some point he tucked that note away. That note for a wife who would never read it. That note for himself. That note for her to find this morning, eighteen years later.
She folded the paper, careful to follow the original creases, and dropped it into the jar. The metallic rasp of the lid tightening rang off the cold walls.
Rising from the chair, she set the safety on the pistol with one hand and held the treasure from the dark in the other. It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the sunlight streaming from the kitchen as she walked up the basement stairs.
A sharp clang echoed through the closed kitchen window – Al’s shovel hitting rock as he worked in his garden next door. She placed the Ruger on the dinette table and rubbed her gun hand on her jeans to remove the pungent film of sweat and gun oil.
Maybe she didn’t know Al as well as she thought. She fingered the cool glass of the jelly jar. Maybe she did owe him something after all.
Out of the Dark by Laura Kemp
She raised her chin to look through the basement window. The blank, weathered wood of the neighbor’s fence wasn’t enough to stop the sound. Even through her basement walls Al would recognize a gunshot. There was nothing she could do about that.
She imagined him in his yard on the other side, frayed white tee stretched over his substantial paunch. She could see him stopping in mid weed-pull when he heard the gun, his forearms still strong and corded under the Marine Corps tattoos. He would know the sound - even muffled by the rock and mortar. His thick fingers would drop the doomed weed, and maybe the black crescents of his nails would dig into his palms while he calculated where the sound had come from. She knew him as well as she needed to after seventeen years as his neighbor.
Al had seen the fights before Mark left for good. He must have heard the door slams and the yelling. And there was that time Mark punched holes in the wall of the bedroom before he peeled out of their driveway. That was the first time Al had come over to check on her, his hands fisting up restlessly while they chatted through the screen door.
She didn’t have to look much past the faded NRA sticker on his pickup to know their interests hardly overlapped, and she suspected their votes cancelled each other’s out. But when she decided to get a gun as a deterrent against her volatile ex, she knew who to ask.
She looked down at the sturdy Ruger .380 warming in her hand. Al had recommended it because of its customizable nylon grip. Good for smaller hands, he said. A grim smile tugged at her mouth. All that target practice with him and this is what she ends up using it for.
She shifted in the chair and turned the pistol over in her hands. The bluing on the barrel was pretty. Al said it would make it tougher. Maybe he wasn’t talking about the gun. Maybe he’d be disappointed she hadn’t been made tougher. But he’d get over it. She didn’t owe him anything. They were just neighbors — the right wing wacko marine and the tree-hugging accountant.
What she could never share with Al was that the burden of noticing every particle of real life had become too much for her. She not only noticed everything, she felt it. On good days it was like brushing against a cactus in the dark. At its worst, negativity penetrated her like some relentless coring machine drilling into bedrock. And it’s not like she could ever go back and face her mother for what she did to her only daughter.
When her dark side changed into her dark world, Mark had long stopped trying to understand. At least enduring his abuse distracted her. But now that she was alone, she had no buffer between her and the shrill torment of daily existence. It whined in her head like a dentist’s drill. One sharp bang and she could stop the pain.
The gun was body-temperature now in the cool basement. Was she stalling? She had all the time in the world, really. She looked over to the rock wall to her left. Cracks showed through the chalky whitewash, but she could picture Al’s blunt hands placing the stones and checking for straightness before the mortar hardened. He had built this place, and the one next door where he lived. They must have worked hard together, he and Earlene. He told her she had built most of the interior walls. She remembered seeing a faded photo of Earlene wearing a carpenter belt, her bleached hair tied up in a scarf, cigarette between lips pursed in concentration as she measured a stud.
She wished she could have met Earlene, but she died right before they finished this house. Who knew all those years of smoking might cause an aneurysm?
That’s when Al started the house next door – the one he held on to. To keep him busy after Earlene passed, he said.
She took one hand off the Ruger to stroke the rough stone in remembrance of an Earlene she never knew. She would have liked meeting the woman who could rock a tool belt like that.
Something moved beneath her fingers. A fist-sized stone was loose and rattled in place with her touch. It was a slightly different color from the rest, like the whitewash had been worn off. She tugged at it, surprised at how easily it came out. The old chair creaked as she leaned to peer into the cavity it left behind. In the murky light she could see a glint of metal, a lid of some sort. After determined fumbling, she pulled a small jelly jar out of the hole. Placing the Ruger in her lap, she unscrewed the rusty lid and reached in for the note she saw folded up inside.
With the small thrill of discovery goosing her pulse, she smoothed the note open against her thigh. It was the upper half of a page of stationery. At the top was an eagle sitting assertively atop a globe and anchor. “USMC” circled the familiar insignia. Handwritten words came into focus - masculine letters jabbed onto the paper.
“When I can’t look on the bright side, I’ll sit in the dark with you and wait for the dawn.”
She turned the note over.
“Sadness flies on the wings of the morning and out of the heart of darkness comes the light.”
There was a date. She peered closer. September 18, 1999. That’s the year this house was finished. She and Mark had bought it in 2000. She rubbed the note absently with her thumb, thinking about those dates. Hadn’t Earlene died in ’99, the week before? Yes, she was sure, because Al had told her September 11th was already the worst day of his existence, and two years later the whole country knew how he felt.
Had Al written this and hidden it away in the wall he and Earlene had built together? Maybe he had come down here to be alone with his pain in the dark, just as she did now. Maybe he even sat with his Government Issue weapon in his lap. And at some point he tucked that note away. That note for a wife who would never read it. That note for himself. That note for her to find this morning, eighteen years later.
She folded the paper, careful to follow the original creases, and dropped it into the jar. The metallic rasp of the lid tightening rang off the cold walls.
Rising from the chair, she set the safety on the pistol with one hand and held the treasure from the dark in the other. It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the sunlight streaming from the kitchen as she walked up the basement stairs.
A sharp clang echoed through the closed kitchen window – Al’s shovel hitting rock as he worked in his garden next door. She placed the Ruger on the dinette table and rubbed her gun hand on her jeans to remove the pungent film of sweat and gun oil.
Maybe she didn’t know Al as well as she thought. She fingered the cool glass of the jelly jar. Maybe she did owe him something after all.
Second Place (tie)
Ending by Sharman Badgett-Young
“Dear, let me hold your hand.” Mom gasped. She groped across yellow-flowered sheets. Then she convulsed, groaning as she squeezed my fingers.
“The pain’s so bad,” she said. “But I take strength from you.”
The Hospice aide, who had just helped Mom through her shower, asked, “What level is your pain, on a scale of one to ten?”
“An eight, I guess. Didn’t I take my pills? Shouldn’t it lessen?”
Cramps seized her and she gripped my hand again. “Oh-ohhhhhh.” Sweat beaded her forehead.
“Your patch should help the pain, Mom. And you took your break-through pain pill after breakfast. But there’s one more thing we can try.”
Mom arched back with a long moan. I imagined a pregnant woman delivering new life. But this was death carving into my mother’s nonagenarian body.
“Lift your tongue.” I squirted liquid morphine into Mom’s mouth.
Her plan today was to travel an hour south to her best friend’s memorial service. She was resolute.
But how could we manage? Mom walked short distances with her cane and an arm to lean on, but during her pains, she needed a seat nearby.
Mom cried out, bucked, and then gradually relaxed, panting, as the agony eased. Pulling the sheet over her emaciated shoulders she said, “I want my arms under here.”
Additional shudders shook her. But Mom gazed into my eyes. “The service starts at 2:30, and if I’m up to it, the reception is afterward. We can walk over. It’s nothing formal, just refreshments at a hotel to gather and talk. No speeches.”
Despite mild dementia enhanced by brain-fuzzing narcotic analgesics, Mom was clear about her goal. She had repeated it a dozen times the previous day. I figured we might make the service, but the reception was doubtful. It meant a drive followed by a walk, the length of which would be determined by the whimsy of the parking demons.
I nodded. “That’s what we’ll do, Mom. Rest now. It’s only 9:30 in the morning.” I imagined her convulsing in church, pulling everyone’s attention from her friend’s service. Mom’d be horrified. Protect her from embarrassment, God. Decrease her pain.
Drained, Mom snuggled her head into her pillow and curled fetus-like.
I bid the Hospice aide goodbye and made the guest bed beside Mom’s. It had been Dad’s before his death 11 years before. Then I cleaned the kitchen.
Mom slept for two hours. I napped on the couch in the TV room.
When we awoke, I fixed lunch. Mom still focused on the memorial service. “Let’s leave early in case the traffic is heavy,” she said.
Mom stared into her makeup mirror. She poked a curl from her latest hairdo into place. Helplessly, I watched her bend double. Then, sitting straight again, she checked the glass to see whether she’d drawn an appropriate curve onto each eyebrow.
We planned to leave between 1:00 and 1:15, but once Mom felt presentable, it was 1:30. As her flesh had wasted, her feet had shrunk, and she scuffle-stepped to keep her dress shoes on. At the door, she turned back to search once more for a misplaced purse that matched them, while I looked at my watch.
I backed the behemoth old-lady car out of Mom’s garage, nearly certain that she’d never last the drive south.
She squirmed in her seat. Lips pressed together, I turned onto the main highway that led to the coast and the interstate.
“Be sure and take the shortcut,” Mom said. “It cuts off five miles.”
“I don’t remember it, Mom. We’d better drive straight to the coast, then turn south.”
“Nonsense. I know the way. I’ll show you where to turn.”
Our drives together, Mom navigating, had not turned out well. We’d joked: we were doomed to get lost together. Now I asked, “You’re sure you remember the way?”
“Oh, yes. It’s much faster.”
I wished I felt reassured.
Over the next 20 minutes, my concerns ballooned. At each successive corner, Mom took more time to decide whether to turn. I’d nearly stop amid whizzing 50 miles per hour traffic while she pondered.
A car honked as I swerved into a last-minute turn lane.
“What was that?”
“Someone displeased with my driving. But he was behind me. I had the right of way.”
“You tell ‘em, dear,” Mom said.
That was the last corner Mom recognized. “Your sister always fears she’ll get lost,” Mom said. “I just tell her, ‘Turn toward the ocean.’ Can’t lose the ocean.”
All I saw were structures and hills, but I nodded.
Finally, I found a boulevard named for a coastal town. “I’m staying on this road until we find the interstate,” I said.
Realizing the shortcut was no longer etched in her brain, Mom submitted. “Good idea.”
Once on the interstate, I sped south, cruising seven miles per hour above the speed limit to make up time.
We arrived at my childhood church. Blue-shaded stained-glass swept skyward in abstraction—a nostalgic vision.
At the expected lot, a sign read, “Preschool Parking,” so I drove on by. The next driveway was marked, “Exit Only.” It was clearly the last. I pulled in.
“I don’t think you can enter here,” Mom said.
“Well, I just did. Nobody’s looking. I’ll turn around and park.”
“Okay sweetheart.” She wrinkled her eyebrows.
I set the brake and strode around to the passenger door. Using her cane and my proffered arm, she bee-lined for the sanctuary, shoes scuffing. Entering, we heard the pastor’s welcome. We hadn’t missed much.
Mom indicated the white flower arrangement we had sent. The gladiolas seemed to reach for heaven. “Beautiful,” I whispered.
Speakers described Mom’s friend, her loving nature and how she’d enjoyed a party. Mom nodded agreement. She stroked her friend’s photo on the bulletin.
Our next-door neighbor’s daughter from years ago, spoke last. I couldn’t reconcile this woman with the tow-headed child of 45 years ago. Gray streaked her hair.
Pain speared Mom, and I held her until it passed. She folded low at the waist but made no sound.
“Don’t get up until everyone leaves,” she said. She seemed afraid.
A man walked up and kissed Mom’s cheek. A woman took her hands.
I whisked the guestbook off its easel so Mom could sign it while she sat. I returned to find her with the purchasers of our old home. When they left, she asked, “Who were those people?”
Mom greeted friends, but then froze as cramps wracked her. For her sake, I hoped they’d be mistaken for grief.
“Ready to go home? You saw most of your friends,” I said.
“Just drive to the hotel,” Mom said. “When her husband died, the family held a reception down on the grass. It’s not far. We’ll see them from the car.”
We didn’t. I wound through multiple parking lots. Nobody looked familiar.
“It’s the official parking lot tour.” My jovial tone failed to mitigate our frustration. Finally, I left Mom sweating in the hot car while I visited reception for directions. Ten long minutes later, I returned. Mom’s eyes stared wide.
She grabbed my arm and took a deep breath. “Don’t leave me again.” We found the celebration of her friend’s life south of the hotel’s swimming pool, and I nabbed available seats. Mom immediately introduced us to the couple at the table—strangers—using her familiar charm.
Servers distributed hors d’oeuvres: marinated rack of lamb and bacon-wrapped scallops. Wine glass in hand, Mom nibbled as old friends visited. I’d seen her familiar gestures at numerous parties. Years dropped away from her.
She chatted longest with two of the original foursome of young mothers from our block. Their husbands and adult children offered hugs plus occasional kisses and Mom sparkled. This woman—social, vital—still loved the center of the action. Totally engaged, her pain had vanished.
Eventually, guests drifted away. Someone collected the sea-blue gauze table-toppers. Mom lifted her glass absently, not breaking her attention to a conversation. Centerpieces were collected next, but she didn’t notice.
Finally, laughing, I gestured at the empty tables. “Mom, you closed down the party.”
A departing friend said, “I’ll come out soon and visit.”
Mom bobbed her head, smiling, and rose to leave. I told the friend, sotto voce, “It won’t be long now.”
The following day was rough for Mom, but between spasms, she reminisced about how great a send-off we’d given her friend. “She’d have loved that party,” Mom said.
Mom’s days flowed like a river thundering toward the precipice of a waterfall. Being swept over the edge was inevitable. Yet, for one day, Mom had caught hold of a rock and pulled herself briefly from the rushing current. Before her grip gave way, she felt the sun and life was rich.
Her best friend’s memorial service became Mom’s touchstone. Tightly, she held the memory of the day when men had kissed her cheek, and she had closed down the party.
Strangely comforted, so did I.
Ending by Sharman Badgett-Young
“Dear, let me hold your hand.” Mom gasped. She groped across yellow-flowered sheets. Then she convulsed, groaning as she squeezed my fingers.
“The pain’s so bad,” she said. “But I take strength from you.”
The Hospice aide, who had just helped Mom through her shower, asked, “What level is your pain, on a scale of one to ten?”
“An eight, I guess. Didn’t I take my pills? Shouldn’t it lessen?”
Cramps seized her and she gripped my hand again. “Oh-ohhhhhh.” Sweat beaded her forehead.
“Your patch should help the pain, Mom. And you took your break-through pain pill after breakfast. But there’s one more thing we can try.”
Mom arched back with a long moan. I imagined a pregnant woman delivering new life. But this was death carving into my mother’s nonagenarian body.
“Lift your tongue.” I squirted liquid morphine into Mom’s mouth.
Her plan today was to travel an hour south to her best friend’s memorial service. She was resolute.
But how could we manage? Mom walked short distances with her cane and an arm to lean on, but during her pains, she needed a seat nearby.
Mom cried out, bucked, and then gradually relaxed, panting, as the agony eased. Pulling the sheet over her emaciated shoulders she said, “I want my arms under here.”
Additional shudders shook her. But Mom gazed into my eyes. “The service starts at 2:30, and if I’m up to it, the reception is afterward. We can walk over. It’s nothing formal, just refreshments at a hotel to gather and talk. No speeches.”
Despite mild dementia enhanced by brain-fuzzing narcotic analgesics, Mom was clear about her goal. She had repeated it a dozen times the previous day. I figured we might make the service, but the reception was doubtful. It meant a drive followed by a walk, the length of which would be determined by the whimsy of the parking demons.
I nodded. “That’s what we’ll do, Mom. Rest now. It’s only 9:30 in the morning.” I imagined her convulsing in church, pulling everyone’s attention from her friend’s service. Mom’d be horrified. Protect her from embarrassment, God. Decrease her pain.
Drained, Mom snuggled her head into her pillow and curled fetus-like.
I bid the Hospice aide goodbye and made the guest bed beside Mom’s. It had been Dad’s before his death 11 years before. Then I cleaned the kitchen.
Mom slept for two hours. I napped on the couch in the TV room.
When we awoke, I fixed lunch. Mom still focused on the memorial service. “Let’s leave early in case the traffic is heavy,” she said.
Mom stared into her makeup mirror. She poked a curl from her latest hairdo into place. Helplessly, I watched her bend double. Then, sitting straight again, she checked the glass to see whether she’d drawn an appropriate curve onto each eyebrow.
We planned to leave between 1:00 and 1:15, but once Mom felt presentable, it was 1:30. As her flesh had wasted, her feet had shrunk, and she scuffle-stepped to keep her dress shoes on. At the door, she turned back to search once more for a misplaced purse that matched them, while I looked at my watch.
I backed the behemoth old-lady car out of Mom’s garage, nearly certain that she’d never last the drive south.
She squirmed in her seat. Lips pressed together, I turned onto the main highway that led to the coast and the interstate.
“Be sure and take the shortcut,” Mom said. “It cuts off five miles.”
“I don’t remember it, Mom. We’d better drive straight to the coast, then turn south.”
“Nonsense. I know the way. I’ll show you where to turn.”
Our drives together, Mom navigating, had not turned out well. We’d joked: we were doomed to get lost together. Now I asked, “You’re sure you remember the way?”
“Oh, yes. It’s much faster.”
I wished I felt reassured.
Over the next 20 minutes, my concerns ballooned. At each successive corner, Mom took more time to decide whether to turn. I’d nearly stop amid whizzing 50 miles per hour traffic while she pondered.
A car honked as I swerved into a last-minute turn lane.
“What was that?”
“Someone displeased with my driving. But he was behind me. I had the right of way.”
“You tell ‘em, dear,” Mom said.
That was the last corner Mom recognized. “Your sister always fears she’ll get lost,” Mom said. “I just tell her, ‘Turn toward the ocean.’ Can’t lose the ocean.”
All I saw were structures and hills, but I nodded.
Finally, I found a boulevard named for a coastal town. “I’m staying on this road until we find the interstate,” I said.
Realizing the shortcut was no longer etched in her brain, Mom submitted. “Good idea.”
Once on the interstate, I sped south, cruising seven miles per hour above the speed limit to make up time.
We arrived at my childhood church. Blue-shaded stained-glass swept skyward in abstraction—a nostalgic vision.
At the expected lot, a sign read, “Preschool Parking,” so I drove on by. The next driveway was marked, “Exit Only.” It was clearly the last. I pulled in.
“I don’t think you can enter here,” Mom said.
“Well, I just did. Nobody’s looking. I’ll turn around and park.”
“Okay sweetheart.” She wrinkled her eyebrows.
I set the brake and strode around to the passenger door. Using her cane and my proffered arm, she bee-lined for the sanctuary, shoes scuffing. Entering, we heard the pastor’s welcome. We hadn’t missed much.
Mom indicated the white flower arrangement we had sent. The gladiolas seemed to reach for heaven. “Beautiful,” I whispered.
Speakers described Mom’s friend, her loving nature and how she’d enjoyed a party. Mom nodded agreement. She stroked her friend’s photo on the bulletin.
Our next-door neighbor’s daughter from years ago, spoke last. I couldn’t reconcile this woman with the tow-headed child of 45 years ago. Gray streaked her hair.
Pain speared Mom, and I held her until it passed. She folded low at the waist but made no sound.
“Don’t get up until everyone leaves,” she said. She seemed afraid.
A man walked up and kissed Mom’s cheek. A woman took her hands.
I whisked the guestbook off its easel so Mom could sign it while she sat. I returned to find her with the purchasers of our old home. When they left, she asked, “Who were those people?”
Mom greeted friends, but then froze as cramps wracked her. For her sake, I hoped they’d be mistaken for grief.
“Ready to go home? You saw most of your friends,” I said.
“Just drive to the hotel,” Mom said. “When her husband died, the family held a reception down on the grass. It’s not far. We’ll see them from the car.”
We didn’t. I wound through multiple parking lots. Nobody looked familiar.
“It’s the official parking lot tour.” My jovial tone failed to mitigate our frustration. Finally, I left Mom sweating in the hot car while I visited reception for directions. Ten long minutes later, I returned. Mom’s eyes stared wide.
She grabbed my arm and took a deep breath. “Don’t leave me again.” We found the celebration of her friend’s life south of the hotel’s swimming pool, and I nabbed available seats. Mom immediately introduced us to the couple at the table—strangers—using her familiar charm.
Servers distributed hors d’oeuvres: marinated rack of lamb and bacon-wrapped scallops. Wine glass in hand, Mom nibbled as old friends visited. I’d seen her familiar gestures at numerous parties. Years dropped away from her.
She chatted longest with two of the original foursome of young mothers from our block. Their husbands and adult children offered hugs plus occasional kisses and Mom sparkled. This woman—social, vital—still loved the center of the action. Totally engaged, her pain had vanished.
Eventually, guests drifted away. Someone collected the sea-blue gauze table-toppers. Mom lifted her glass absently, not breaking her attention to a conversation. Centerpieces were collected next, but she didn’t notice.
Finally, laughing, I gestured at the empty tables. “Mom, you closed down the party.”
A departing friend said, “I’ll come out soon and visit.”
Mom bobbed her head, smiling, and rose to leave. I told the friend, sotto voce, “It won’t be long now.”
The following day was rough for Mom, but between spasms, she reminisced about how great a send-off we’d given her friend. “She’d have loved that party,” Mom said.
Mom’s days flowed like a river thundering toward the precipice of a waterfall. Being swept over the edge was inevitable. Yet, for one day, Mom had caught hold of a rock and pulled herself briefly from the rushing current. Before her grip gave way, she felt the sun and life was rich.
Her best friend’s memorial service became Mom’s touchstone. Tightly, she held the memory of the day when men had kissed her cheek, and she had closed down the party.
Strangely comforted, so did I.
Teen Author Poetry
First Place
The Duality of Light by Emma Howlett
Am I a particle?
Or am I a wave?
Do i fight for myself?
Or want to be saved?
In no way am I
A definite article
I can't be defined
By a small little particle
I am more than just matter
I have more than one mind
I am just like the light, and
I can't be confined.
I am flowing, an explosion
I am raging as the ocean
I am solid, I am shrewd
I am devoid of emotion.
But am I a particle?
Or am I a wave?
Will I grow up to be a scientist?
Or is it artistry I crave?
You see, I'm like nothing
The world's ever seen
Except maybe in Space
Or someplace in between
Streaming from cores of bright Hydrogen stars,
Dimly perceptible like Earth seen from Mars
Surging as two things,
Both one in the same
Pulsing and powerful,
Yet I still don't know my name.
After a billion year journey,
I finally reached the Earth
And I was asked a question,
Which I answered with great mirth:
"Emma, who are you?
You must tell us, knave!"
"Now are you a particle?
Or are you a wave?"
I smiled and held out a shimmering hand,
The duality of light, they could not understand.
I am two things in one,
Both particle and wave
I am art, I am science
I am meek, I am brave.
The Duality of Light by Emma Howlett
Am I a particle?
Or am I a wave?
Do i fight for myself?
Or want to be saved?
In no way am I
A definite article
I can't be defined
By a small little particle
I am more than just matter
I have more than one mind
I am just like the light, and
I can't be confined.
I am flowing, an explosion
I am raging as the ocean
I am solid, I am shrewd
I am devoid of emotion.
But am I a particle?
Or am I a wave?
Will I grow up to be a scientist?
Or is it artistry I crave?
You see, I'm like nothing
The world's ever seen
Except maybe in Space
Or someplace in between
Streaming from cores of bright Hydrogen stars,
Dimly perceptible like Earth seen from Mars
Surging as two things,
Both one in the same
Pulsing and powerful,
Yet I still don't know my name.
After a billion year journey,
I finally reached the Earth
And I was asked a question,
Which I answered with great mirth:
"Emma, who are you?
You must tell us, knave!"
"Now are you a particle?
Or are you a wave?"
I smiled and held out a shimmering hand,
The duality of light, they could not understand.
I am two things in one,
Both particle and wave
I am art, I am science
I am meek, I am brave.
Second Place
C'est La Vie by Riley Beck
I am a wooden sign
That’s sat for too long
In the shade of an (old) pine tree.
Overcome with (dried) moss
And filled with (hungry) termites.
The words that defined me,
That made me,
Have faded.
C'est La Vie by Riley Beck
I am a wooden sign
That’s sat for too long
In the shade of an (old) pine tree.
Overcome with (dried) moss
And filled with (hungry) termites.
The words that defined me,
That made me,
Have faded.
Honorable Mention
Trampled Garden by Madeline Taylor
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
and smiled at me on my way home from school
she was rose blushed bright in the shine of the sun
as i bounced by with pigtails and sneakers
her flowers were her pride, her joy, her passion
spilling over with blooming beauty, petals swaying in breezes
her smile is what made me stop and wave
her smile that blanketed meadows and banished sadness
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
i can’t fathom why she was smiling at all
i lived two doors down in a fading blue house
far enough not to see the lights of her bedroom
but close enough to feel, to hear, to see
purple-yellow bruises and screaming down halls
her jeans were never clean because she hated going inside
preferred the serenity of the rectangular yard
open to where her neighbors could see, but not witness
the slamming of fists against paper thin skin
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
she stopped smiling at me on my way home from school
i can’t pinpoint the exact day, the moment
when smiles fell and distant glances replaced
the lopsided, goofy grins of our past
but i remember the sinking, gut-twisting feeling
of seeing her disappear almost altogether
sometimes i could hear her weeping two doors down
in the somber hours of silent moonlight
i imagined her covering the blankets over her head
like a bloomed carnation retreating back to a bud
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
she doesn’t water them anymore
i don’t see her outside, i don’t see her at school
i don’t see her weeding her clean flower beds
for the garden now is overgrown and shriveling
vines and thorns grasping for forbidden sunlight
i could trim her bushes and weed her beds
to try to make her smile at me once more
but i’m afraid if i take away her passion for gardening
she’ll never come outside again
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
her garden is dying with her
police cars lined down our block
men stepping into her yard and trampling over
years of hard work into the dry, dusty dirt
i wanted to scream at them to watch their step
but crunching over dead flowers and leaves
is hardly noticeable to the passerby
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
and smiled at me on my way home from school
she lay mangled, broken down in her own home
i can’t stop them from stepping on her garden
Trampled Garden by Madeline Taylor
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
and smiled at me on my way home from school
she was rose blushed bright in the shine of the sun
as i bounced by with pigtails and sneakers
her flowers were her pride, her joy, her passion
spilling over with blooming beauty, petals swaying in breezes
her smile is what made me stop and wave
her smile that blanketed meadows and banished sadness
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
i can’t fathom why she was smiling at all
i lived two doors down in a fading blue house
far enough not to see the lights of her bedroom
but close enough to feel, to hear, to see
purple-yellow bruises and screaming down halls
her jeans were never clean because she hated going inside
preferred the serenity of the rectangular yard
open to where her neighbors could see, but not witness
the slamming of fists against paper thin skin
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
she stopped smiling at me on my way home from school
i can’t pinpoint the exact day, the moment
when smiles fell and distant glances replaced
the lopsided, goofy grins of our past
but i remember the sinking, gut-twisting feeling
of seeing her disappear almost altogether
sometimes i could hear her weeping two doors down
in the somber hours of silent moonlight
i imagined her covering the blankets over her head
like a bloomed carnation retreating back to a bud
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
she doesn’t water them anymore
i don’t see her outside, i don’t see her at school
i don’t see her weeding her clean flower beds
for the garden now is overgrown and shriveling
vines and thorns grasping for forbidden sunlight
i could trim her bushes and weed her beds
to try to make her smile at me once more
but i’m afraid if i take away her passion for gardening
she’ll never come outside again
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
her garden is dying with her
police cars lined down our block
men stepping into her yard and trampling over
years of hard work into the dry, dusty dirt
i wanted to scream at them to watch their step
but crunching over dead flowers and leaves
is hardly noticeable to the passerby
i knew a girl that planted flowers in her yard
and smiled at me on my way home from school
she lay mangled, broken down in her own home
i can’t stop them from stepping on her garden
Honorable Mention
Our America by Carli Bates
I am from hate
From guns and fast food
I am from the dark history we hold
Harsh, violent, cold.
I am from green lands,
Torn apart by buildings and roads
I am from mass shootings and anger
From natives and colonials
I am from the left and right
From we can't do anything about it and another tragedy
I am from catholicism and christianity and if I'm not I might as well be a terrorist
I am from the down fall of others
From undrinkable water but its not a big deal
From we can drink our tap water but mmm i'd prefer a plastic bottle
I am from chemicals and chemicals
From the doping up our elderly to "increase" the length of their life
I am from the media frenzies
From the heaviness we hold in our hearts
I am from the inability to change
From the bound to repeat the past
I am our America
Our America by Carli Bates
I am from hate
From guns and fast food
I am from the dark history we hold
Harsh, violent, cold.
I am from green lands,
Torn apart by buildings and roads
I am from mass shootings and anger
From natives and colonials
I am from the left and right
From we can't do anything about it and another tragedy
I am from catholicism and christianity and if I'm not I might as well be a terrorist
I am from the down fall of others
From undrinkable water but its not a big deal
From we can drink our tap water but mmm i'd prefer a plastic bottle
I am from chemicals and chemicals
From the doping up our elderly to "increase" the length of their life
I am from the media frenzies
From the heaviness we hold in our hearts
I am from the inability to change
From the bound to repeat the past
I am our America
Youth Author Prose
First Place
The Artist by Emma Howlett
The girl ran down the subway stairs, descending underneath the steel buildings and out of the cold rain that stung her cheeks like the poking of a relentless child.
Into the stale and uncomfortably humid air of the tunnel she went, the grey stormy light of the sky giving way to old sputtering yellow bulbs.
Squinting as her eyes adjusted, the girl did not pause, her long coat a whirl of motion as she swiped her subway pass and entered the musty maze of train stations and nameless, stoney-eyed commuters.
As she turned the corner, she could faintly hear the throaty bellow of a lone trumpet.
A subconscious smile playing on her lips, she adjusted her grip on the book she was carrying, and reached her station just as the train screeched to a stop.
Winded and thoroughly relieved, she left behind the grimy walls, dank air, and old mosaics of the station and stepped into the car.
The seats all being taken, she grabbed an oily pole to steady herself as the subway jerked forward.
The girl's long hair flew into the person next to her and she muttered a quick apology to the annoyed man.
She clutched her book closer to her chest.
The girl looked out at the people hunched in the seats, covered in rain jackets, their mouths set in grim lines, grey as the sky outside and as tired as a child on New Year's Eve.
Just looking at their faces made the girl tired too, and she closed her eyes, swaying to the movement of the train.
After several stops, a seat opened up and she quickly moved to take it.
The girl found herself next to an old man, his eyes hidden behind a pair of thickly lensed glasses, desperately gripping his stained wooden cane and a middle aged businesswoman wearing a tight blazer and holding a steaming cup of coffee.
Quietly trying not to disturb her neighbours, the girl opened her book and brought out a pencil.
She was a writer.
She wrote about the people she met, the things she saw, but mostly what happened in her head.
The pencil sat elegantly in her hand, and she touched it to the paper of her book, artful cursive issuing in a steady stream.
She tapped her foot as if hearing music, and soon she was lost in a beautiful world.
The old man frowned at her, wondering why this strange girl was silently smiling and tapping her foot as if she could hear something he couldn't.
Was he going deaf?
He would have to get his hearing checked the next time he saw the do tor.
Not that he could afford it.
The train stopped particularly roughly, and the businesswoman's coffee flew from the lid to splash onto the girl's notebook.
The scalding liquid burned the girl's hands, and she cried out, surprised from the pain.
Then she cringed again, as she saw that the coffee had spilled all over her precious world, her writing.
No, no, no . . .
The woman gave her a tight-lipped "sorry," straightened her blazer, swung her hair over her shoulder, and breezed off the train.
The girl was left in disbelief and frustration as she stared after th woman and then down at her notebook.
She wiped her hands on her pants, then tried to rid her book of the devilous liquid, but to no avail.
She let loose a soft groan of anger and banged her head against the back of the subway seat.
She closed her eyes and tried to strain out of the shrieks of the subway wheels and rattling of the walls.
The doors were opening as the train reached another stop, and suddenly there was a man in the aisle, a man and a drum, and they were large and very, very loud.
He hit the drum and yelled incomprehensibly, jolting the girl from her escape.
He struck his drum, he hit it hard.
He had everyone's attention.
"I am Manny. I am a drummer. in a bummer? If only it were summer!see what he played and she reveled in it.
Her book forgotten, the girl listened to Manny.
She wanted to pound his drum and see Listen to me drummmmmm uh drummmmm uh!"
He hit the streched canvas of his drum in time to his words.
The train was silent.
Not silent, but filled with Manny's pounding.
He brought forth the pattering of small innocent footsteps the people had forgotten, the roll of the rain outside the people knew all too well, loud and soft, hard and unforgiving, he played and most of the people just closed their eyes but the girl could see what he played and she reveled in it.
Her book forgotten, the girl listened to Manny.
She wanted to pound his drum and see if she could paint like he could.
Manny's dark skin shone in the dusty light and his eyes glittered like shards of a mirror that somehow created a face.
The train stopped again, and Manny grabbed his drum.
As a group of people made to leave, Manny held out a threadbare woolen hat.
He smiled as the people ignored him, jokingly saying, "I accept high fives too!"
But no one reached to meet his outstretched hand.
Manny sat down into the businesswoman's empty seat, next to the girl.
He held his drum between his legs and folded his arms across his chest.
Not able to sit still, he looked down at the girl's open notebook.
"Are you an artist?" Manny asked her unabashedly.
Taken unawares, the girl stuttered, "N-no."
"Then what is that?" He pointed to the coffee stain.
"A coffee stain," she replied.
"Are you sure? I think it looks more like a portrait of me!"
At that, the girl nervously laughed, unsure of whether to be amused or uncomfortable.
"Well, it is beautiful."
When the silence had stretched to a breaking point the girl murmured, "I am a writer."
"A writer!" Manny exclaimed. "Well that is the same as an artist.":
The train pulled to a stop.
I must go now," Manny said, "Try and look closer at that 'coffee stain.' You may find something to write about."
He stood, hoisting his drum in front of him.
He extended his hand for a shake.
"I am Manuel. And you are?"
The girl slid her hand into his larger, calloused one.
"I am Keesha."
Manny smiled.
"Thank you, Keesha."
Keesha wa confused. She had just met this man but he reminded her of that humid Spokane summer, the one that had such a blue sky that her eyes were too small to see all of it. Days spent lying in the tall scratchy wheatgrass and sketching the Little Spokane River, smelling in the dirt and Ponderosas. Meeting her grandfather for the first time... But she was just here in this creaky subway car, talking to a grimy drummer.
"For what?" she asked, nonplussed and slightly embarrassed.
"For sharing your art, of course."
With a smile, Manuel tipped his hat to her and left with a swoosh of sliding doors.
Keesha looked down at her notebook.
The coffee stain had seeped through the left page to well in the binding of her notebook, dark but warm and confusingly beautiful.
It almost looked like Manuel.
The Artist by Emma Howlett
The girl ran down the subway stairs, descending underneath the steel buildings and out of the cold rain that stung her cheeks like the poking of a relentless child.
Into the stale and uncomfortably humid air of the tunnel she went, the grey stormy light of the sky giving way to old sputtering yellow bulbs.
Squinting as her eyes adjusted, the girl did not pause, her long coat a whirl of motion as she swiped her subway pass and entered the musty maze of train stations and nameless, stoney-eyed commuters.
As she turned the corner, she could faintly hear the throaty bellow of a lone trumpet.
A subconscious smile playing on her lips, she adjusted her grip on the book she was carrying, and reached her station just as the train screeched to a stop.
Winded and thoroughly relieved, she left behind the grimy walls, dank air, and old mosaics of the station and stepped into the car.
The seats all being taken, she grabbed an oily pole to steady herself as the subway jerked forward.
The girl's long hair flew into the person next to her and she muttered a quick apology to the annoyed man.
She clutched her book closer to her chest.
The girl looked out at the people hunched in the seats, covered in rain jackets, their mouths set in grim lines, grey as the sky outside and as tired as a child on New Year's Eve.
Just looking at their faces made the girl tired too, and she closed her eyes, swaying to the movement of the train.
After several stops, a seat opened up and she quickly moved to take it.
The girl found herself next to an old man, his eyes hidden behind a pair of thickly lensed glasses, desperately gripping his stained wooden cane and a middle aged businesswoman wearing a tight blazer and holding a steaming cup of coffee.
Quietly trying not to disturb her neighbours, the girl opened her book and brought out a pencil.
She was a writer.
She wrote about the people she met, the things she saw, but mostly what happened in her head.
The pencil sat elegantly in her hand, and she touched it to the paper of her book, artful cursive issuing in a steady stream.
She tapped her foot as if hearing music, and soon she was lost in a beautiful world.
The old man frowned at her, wondering why this strange girl was silently smiling and tapping her foot as if she could hear something he couldn't.
Was he going deaf?
He would have to get his hearing checked the next time he saw the do tor.
Not that he could afford it.
The train stopped particularly roughly, and the businesswoman's coffee flew from the lid to splash onto the girl's notebook.
The scalding liquid burned the girl's hands, and she cried out, surprised from the pain.
Then she cringed again, as she saw that the coffee had spilled all over her precious world, her writing.
No, no, no . . .
The woman gave her a tight-lipped "sorry," straightened her blazer, swung her hair over her shoulder, and breezed off the train.
The girl was left in disbelief and frustration as she stared after th woman and then down at her notebook.
She wiped her hands on her pants, then tried to rid her book of the devilous liquid, but to no avail.
She let loose a soft groan of anger and banged her head against the back of the subway seat.
She closed her eyes and tried to strain out of the shrieks of the subway wheels and rattling of the walls.
The doors were opening as the train reached another stop, and suddenly there was a man in the aisle, a man and a drum, and they were large and very, very loud.
He hit the drum and yelled incomprehensibly, jolting the girl from her escape.
He struck his drum, he hit it hard.
He had everyone's attention.
"I am Manny. I am a drummer. in a bummer? If only it were summer!see what he played and she reveled in it.
Her book forgotten, the girl listened to Manny.
She wanted to pound his drum and see Listen to me drummmmmm uh drummmmm uh!"
He hit the streched canvas of his drum in time to his words.
The train was silent.
Not silent, but filled with Manny's pounding.
He brought forth the pattering of small innocent footsteps the people had forgotten, the roll of the rain outside the people knew all too well, loud and soft, hard and unforgiving, he played and most of the people just closed their eyes but the girl could see what he played and she reveled in it.
Her book forgotten, the girl listened to Manny.
She wanted to pound his drum and see if she could paint like he could.
Manny's dark skin shone in the dusty light and his eyes glittered like shards of a mirror that somehow created a face.
The train stopped again, and Manny grabbed his drum.
As a group of people made to leave, Manny held out a threadbare woolen hat.
He smiled as the people ignored him, jokingly saying, "I accept high fives too!"
But no one reached to meet his outstretched hand.
Manny sat down into the businesswoman's empty seat, next to the girl.
He held his drum between his legs and folded his arms across his chest.
Not able to sit still, he looked down at the girl's open notebook.
"Are you an artist?" Manny asked her unabashedly.
Taken unawares, the girl stuttered, "N-no."
"Then what is that?" He pointed to the coffee stain.
"A coffee stain," she replied.
"Are you sure? I think it looks more like a portrait of me!"
At that, the girl nervously laughed, unsure of whether to be amused or uncomfortable.
"Well, it is beautiful."
When the silence had stretched to a breaking point the girl murmured, "I am a writer."
"A writer!" Manny exclaimed. "Well that is the same as an artist.":
The train pulled to a stop.
I must go now," Manny said, "Try and look closer at that 'coffee stain.' You may find something to write about."
He stood, hoisting his drum in front of him.
He extended his hand for a shake.
"I am Manuel. And you are?"
The girl slid her hand into his larger, calloused one.
"I am Keesha."
Manny smiled.
"Thank you, Keesha."
Keesha wa confused. She had just met this man but he reminded her of that humid Spokane summer, the one that had such a blue sky that her eyes were too small to see all of it. Days spent lying in the tall scratchy wheatgrass and sketching the Little Spokane River, smelling in the dirt and Ponderosas. Meeting her grandfather for the first time... But she was just here in this creaky subway car, talking to a grimy drummer.
"For what?" she asked, nonplussed and slightly embarrassed.
"For sharing your art, of course."
With a smile, Manuel tipped his hat to her and left with a swoosh of sliding doors.
Keesha looked down at her notebook.
The coffee stain had seeped through the left page to well in the binding of her notebook, dark but warm and confusingly beautiful.
It almost looked like Manuel.
Second Place
One More Kill by Madeline Taylor
I thought that the walls would be padded more when I heard that I would be institutionalized. I thought that the cheap stuffing that insulates one cell to the next would be enough to block out the terrifying screeches of dying men, of starving men, of men wilting away in the prison of their crimes. I learned very quickly that it’s not. I learned very quickly how to tell the difference between the screams of insanity and the screams of sanity.
When the man two cells down screams because he can’t get his mind to be quiet, because screaming is the only way he can hear silence, he is sane. When he wails in hunger, he is insane. He knows that the slop will come through the crack in the door at some point.
I thought that the walls would be more padded, that if I threw my body against it, it wouldn’t hurt me. I learned that it only takes throwing myself against it once to feel the concrete that lies behind, to feel my ribs cracking in agony. My body aches in wonder of why there isn’t more insulation, wondering how many bodies had been thrown against the same wall, how many bones had cracked in its wake. I tell it to be quiet with the extension of my pointer finger. The choice that congress made between giving these cells more padding in the walls versus giving pink cheeked children pencils to write the alphabet with isn’t a hard one. I don’t blame them for their miscalculation.
There’s red-brown drawings on the wall, covering the vinyl material. I grew out my nails long enough to saw at the skin of my forearm, long enough to provide paint for my awaiting canvas. There’s a misshapen red sun in the center above the metal cot. I stand next to it and feel warm, feel myself basking in its nonexistent light. It’s warm there, in that space in the room. But all too soon the voices started screaming, the faces were crying, they said that the sun burned their skin, so I covered it with big red Xs so that no more light may shine through.
It’s colder now, in my little cell.
There’s a metallic squeak down the hallway, a meal is being delivered. I have ten minutes before they reach me.
Tick tock. Ten. He was a banker down the block with yellow teeth and wispy hair. He had chicken stuck in his mustache and teeth, and by all means shouldn’t have been beautiful. He wasn’t beautiful until I killed him. Until I put him out of his misery. His heart felt lovely in my hands, his blood sweet in my mouth. His eyes were glassy and dark, I see them again now. I left his eyes and his lips open in death so that his soul may fly and reach places that he didn’t in life. His body was a hindrance, so I set him free.
Tick tock. Nine. The ninth kill was impaled on a fire poker, his crisp suit ruined and torn. He looked surprised in that split second before his soul left his frame, in that split second of disbelief. He knew me as the jogger that ran in front of his house with the ponytail that swung back and forth. Back and forth. He didn’t know me as ten knew me. Didn’t know of the thrumming lust for blood in my veins.
Tick tock. Eight. She was old and senile, she had cataracts over both eyes. She couldn’t see a goddamn thing. It was a shame to look at, really. It’s a bigger shame that I have to look at her now, have to see her haunting cloudy eyes on my wall. Tick tock. Seven. He worked at a gas station and smoked more cigarettes than he stole dollars from the register. His lungs were as black as I expected them to be. Tick tock. Six. She had such pretty fingernails. I admired them when she clawed at the hands wrapped around her throat, begging, pleading with a pretty voice.
Five times spent waiting in shadows, lurking behind the light of streetlamps, waiting for the right time to pounce, to claim. Four padded walls closing in on my body. Three attacks on people who have done no harm but have wronged me in so many ways. Two X's over a bloody sun. One. More. Kill.
Tick tock. The food slid under the door.
One More Kill by Madeline Taylor
I thought that the walls would be padded more when I heard that I would be institutionalized. I thought that the cheap stuffing that insulates one cell to the next would be enough to block out the terrifying screeches of dying men, of starving men, of men wilting away in the prison of their crimes. I learned very quickly that it’s not. I learned very quickly how to tell the difference between the screams of insanity and the screams of sanity.
When the man two cells down screams because he can’t get his mind to be quiet, because screaming is the only way he can hear silence, he is sane. When he wails in hunger, he is insane. He knows that the slop will come through the crack in the door at some point.
I thought that the walls would be more padded, that if I threw my body against it, it wouldn’t hurt me. I learned that it only takes throwing myself against it once to feel the concrete that lies behind, to feel my ribs cracking in agony. My body aches in wonder of why there isn’t more insulation, wondering how many bodies had been thrown against the same wall, how many bones had cracked in its wake. I tell it to be quiet with the extension of my pointer finger. The choice that congress made between giving these cells more padding in the walls versus giving pink cheeked children pencils to write the alphabet with isn’t a hard one. I don’t blame them for their miscalculation.
There’s red-brown drawings on the wall, covering the vinyl material. I grew out my nails long enough to saw at the skin of my forearm, long enough to provide paint for my awaiting canvas. There’s a misshapen red sun in the center above the metal cot. I stand next to it and feel warm, feel myself basking in its nonexistent light. It’s warm there, in that space in the room. But all too soon the voices started screaming, the faces were crying, they said that the sun burned their skin, so I covered it with big red Xs so that no more light may shine through.
It’s colder now, in my little cell.
There’s a metallic squeak down the hallway, a meal is being delivered. I have ten minutes before they reach me.
Tick tock. Ten. He was a banker down the block with yellow teeth and wispy hair. He had chicken stuck in his mustache and teeth, and by all means shouldn’t have been beautiful. He wasn’t beautiful until I killed him. Until I put him out of his misery. His heart felt lovely in my hands, his blood sweet in my mouth. His eyes were glassy and dark, I see them again now. I left his eyes and his lips open in death so that his soul may fly and reach places that he didn’t in life. His body was a hindrance, so I set him free.
Tick tock. Nine. The ninth kill was impaled on a fire poker, his crisp suit ruined and torn. He looked surprised in that split second before his soul left his frame, in that split second of disbelief. He knew me as the jogger that ran in front of his house with the ponytail that swung back and forth. Back and forth. He didn’t know me as ten knew me. Didn’t know of the thrumming lust for blood in my veins.
Tick tock. Eight. She was old and senile, she had cataracts over both eyes. She couldn’t see a goddamn thing. It was a shame to look at, really. It’s a bigger shame that I have to look at her now, have to see her haunting cloudy eyes on my wall. Tick tock. Seven. He worked at a gas station and smoked more cigarettes than he stole dollars from the register. His lungs were as black as I expected them to be. Tick tock. Six. She had such pretty fingernails. I admired them when she clawed at the hands wrapped around her throat, begging, pleading with a pretty voice.
Five times spent waiting in shadows, lurking behind the light of streetlamps, waiting for the right time to pounce, to claim. Four padded walls closing in on my body. Three attacks on people who have done no harm but have wronged me in so many ways. Two X's over a bloody sun. One. More. Kill.
Tick tock. The food slid under the door.
Honorable Mention
I'LL KEEP BURNING THIS WAY by Ivy Anderson
*all it took was a step outside to find myself a cigarette.
i hadn't seen her in years and yet, here she was. my heart pounded; i had missed her, i was still in love with her, but i was also still in pain. she hadn't seen me yet - or maybe she had but she doesn't recognize me. the last time she had seen me my hair was cut to an ugly, choppy length just above my jawline. now it was pulled back into a straight, dark, ponytail that stopped an inch or two above my shoulders. her hair was no longer a solid, do it yourself, black dye job, either. it was a coppery red, which matched even better with her strawberry shampoo. she had gotten tattoos - something i always told her she should do back in our hazy college days. for a strange reason, a very specific moment of us inside a memory i thought i had forgotten stood starkly in my mind. it was a moment in which we were in tommy's dorm, a moment in which she took a drag from her left-handed cigarette. and through the smoky trail that loomed over the room indefinitely, i caught her sparkling, stormy blue eyes staring at me. she cracked a smile and blew me a kiss. my first impression of her. sometimes i can still see her just like i used to. but it's hard to look through the changes life has brought us over the years.
that's when i realized i was still in love with her. despite the fact that she broke her promise by leaving, i was just as in love with her new red hair as i was her black.
and that's how i got the nerve to ask:
"can i bum a cigarette?"
# # #
Author's note:
*I chose to write this short story in completely lowercase letters because the narrating character is, as a person, reserved and painfully shy. They keep all of their pain and their longing and every other emotion in between to themselves; they have no voice. That being said, I decided to format the title in capital letters because it's what the narrator is trying to say. It's what the narrator is truly feeling; truly thinking. It's what they eventually tell the other character by the end of the story, and it shows, as said by the late Stephen Hawking, that quiet people often have the loudest minds.
I'LL KEEP BURNING THIS WAY by Ivy Anderson
*all it took was a step outside to find myself a cigarette.
i hadn't seen her in years and yet, here she was. my heart pounded; i had missed her, i was still in love with her, but i was also still in pain. she hadn't seen me yet - or maybe she had but she doesn't recognize me. the last time she had seen me my hair was cut to an ugly, choppy length just above my jawline. now it was pulled back into a straight, dark, ponytail that stopped an inch or two above my shoulders. her hair was no longer a solid, do it yourself, black dye job, either. it was a coppery red, which matched even better with her strawberry shampoo. she had gotten tattoos - something i always told her she should do back in our hazy college days. for a strange reason, a very specific moment of us inside a memory i thought i had forgotten stood starkly in my mind. it was a moment in which we were in tommy's dorm, a moment in which she took a drag from her left-handed cigarette. and through the smoky trail that loomed over the room indefinitely, i caught her sparkling, stormy blue eyes staring at me. she cracked a smile and blew me a kiss. my first impression of her. sometimes i can still see her just like i used to. but it's hard to look through the changes life has brought us over the years.
that's when i realized i was still in love with her. despite the fact that she broke her promise by leaving, i was just as in love with her new red hair as i was her black.
and that's how i got the nerve to ask:
"can i bum a cigarette?"
# # #
Author's note:
*I chose to write this short story in completely lowercase letters because the narrating character is, as a person, reserved and painfully shy. They keep all of their pain and their longing and every other emotion in between to themselves; they have no voice. That being said, I decided to format the title in capital letters because it's what the narrator is trying to say. It's what the narrator is truly feeling; truly thinking. It's what they eventually tell the other character by the end of the story, and it shows, as said by the late Stephen Hawking, that quiet people often have the loudest minds.