2023 Writing Contest Winners
Student Prose
First Place: The Lake
by Alexandria Carroll
Coming soon!
Second Place: The Wind
by Roan McAuley
The wind reminds me that I am alive.
Overgrown green hills stretch out on the distant horizon as I walk along the earthen trail. Upon them are darker patches, proud pointed pine trees from afar. To my right is a lake, small enough that I can see the other side, but not so large that it wouldn’t take about half an hour to reach it. The persistent wind pushes into me as I walk, blowing my hair behind me. My feet are pulled to the ground more forcefully than usual, as if supporting the weight of the world. The wind is chilling, and my thin sweater does little to prevent my arms underneath from feeling the sharp, crisp cold. I am alone on the path.
Why did it have to end?
The sky, a brilliantly bright blue patterned by clouds that look like clumps of cotton floating in space, fills my view as I tilt my head upward. Everything above drifts at a slow, wistful mosey. The only intrusion is a bird of prey - a hawk, perhaps - circling high overhead. Its wings float on the very air that pummels me down on the ground.
The bird circles, wandering in a gliding spiral high above me. Perhaps it’s looking for something, far below its path. Perhaps it’s looking for meaning in its own grand and hectic life.
What am I supposed to do now?
I spot a bench at the far end of the path, right where the trail forms a crossroads. Making a mental note to sit down once I reach it, I push forward with a little more spirit than before. I look away from the bird for a moment and look ahead instead, towards my destination. My feet are still pulled to the ground by a force stronger than gravity, steadying and slowing me against the persistent gale.
It feels good and pleasant. Having a purpose. Even if it is simply to reach a bench by a lake.
I cross my arms to brace myself against the chill, which has suddenly resurged. The wind pushes against me once more with a strength not often felt. My eyes are wide open.
The wind reminds me that I am alive.
I reach the bench. The grainy wood looks old, yet cared for. Many others before me have chosen to rest here. I sit down.
How am I supposed to move on?
A breath of cold, fresh air, like icy water being poured in my chest, enters my lungs. As I exhale, I feel a little less tired, and a little more so, both at once. I adjust a little on the bench, sliding forward ever so slightly.
My phone buzzes in my pocket; the outside world trying to pull me back in. Normally I would check without hesitation, but instead I let the moment pass over me, like the gently swaying waters of the lake.
Why couldn’t things be like they once were?
My back leans against the back of the bench, my gaze drifting toward the distance. The clouds have moseyed on a little further than they were before, slowly shifting and churning shapes of white. How calm they seem. How liberated.
The bird overhead continues to circle, and I continue to watch. Whatever it’s searching for has yet to be discovered. Yet it continues to look.
My thoughts can’t help but wander. And their wandering can’t help but circle downward, a breeze outside my control.
I can’t stay here forever, in this temperate wild paradise of solitude. The outside world, and all its demons and dilemmas, can’t be ignored forever.
Why did it have to end?
I feel my arms tense up, my hands cold and dry where sweat should be. The soft sensation of an innocent tear runs down my cheek before being swiftly blown away by the breeze.
The wind reminds me that I am alive.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I spot the bird suddenly swooping down, almost falling toward the earth. My head turns out of pure instinct. It’s so graceful in its descent, as if the action were planned from the very start, and the bird itself doesn’t have a care in the world. It swoops so low that it almost brushes the tops of the nearby trees.
But at the last moment, the bird rises back up to the heights of the sky, and begins circling once again.
I nudge myself to follow its flight through the sky. It continues to circle, and I continue to watch. The bird’s feathers flutter in the air as it glides perpetually below the clouds, yet above me on my bench. It’s naturally confident in its solitude. Boldly independent.
How I wish it were so with me.
The breeze blows over me once more. My hair flies across my face, touched by the strong yet gentle caress of the wind.
The wind reminds me that I am alive.
I stand up, and look at the sky.
The clouds are far away now. The bird, high above, circles one last time. Then it decides to move on.
And so do I.
Overgrown green hills stretch out on the distant horizon as I walk along the earthen trail. Upon them are darker patches, proud pointed pine trees from afar. To my right is a lake, small enough that I can see the other side, but not so large that it wouldn’t take about half an hour to reach it. The persistent wind pushes into me as I walk, blowing my hair behind me. My feet are pulled to the ground more forcefully than usual, as if supporting the weight of the world. The wind is chilling, and my thin sweater does little to prevent my arms underneath from feeling the sharp, crisp cold. I am alone on the path.
Why did it have to end?
The sky, a brilliantly bright blue patterned by clouds that look like clumps of cotton floating in space, fills my view as I tilt my head upward. Everything above drifts at a slow, wistful mosey. The only intrusion is a bird of prey - a hawk, perhaps - circling high overhead. Its wings float on the very air that pummels me down on the ground.
The bird circles, wandering in a gliding spiral high above me. Perhaps it’s looking for something, far below its path. Perhaps it’s looking for meaning in its own grand and hectic life.
What am I supposed to do now?
I spot a bench at the far end of the path, right where the trail forms a crossroads. Making a mental note to sit down once I reach it, I push forward with a little more spirit than before. I look away from the bird for a moment and look ahead instead, towards my destination. My feet are still pulled to the ground by a force stronger than gravity, steadying and slowing me against the persistent gale.
It feels good and pleasant. Having a purpose. Even if it is simply to reach a bench by a lake.
I cross my arms to brace myself against the chill, which has suddenly resurged. The wind pushes against me once more with a strength not often felt. My eyes are wide open.
The wind reminds me that I am alive.
I reach the bench. The grainy wood looks old, yet cared for. Many others before me have chosen to rest here. I sit down.
How am I supposed to move on?
A breath of cold, fresh air, like icy water being poured in my chest, enters my lungs. As I exhale, I feel a little less tired, and a little more so, both at once. I adjust a little on the bench, sliding forward ever so slightly.
My phone buzzes in my pocket; the outside world trying to pull me back in. Normally I would check without hesitation, but instead I let the moment pass over me, like the gently swaying waters of the lake.
Why couldn’t things be like they once were?
My back leans against the back of the bench, my gaze drifting toward the distance. The clouds have moseyed on a little further than they were before, slowly shifting and churning shapes of white. How calm they seem. How liberated.
The bird overhead continues to circle, and I continue to watch. Whatever it’s searching for has yet to be discovered. Yet it continues to look.
My thoughts can’t help but wander. And their wandering can’t help but circle downward, a breeze outside my control.
I can’t stay here forever, in this temperate wild paradise of solitude. The outside world, and all its demons and dilemmas, can’t be ignored forever.
Why did it have to end?
I feel my arms tense up, my hands cold and dry where sweat should be. The soft sensation of an innocent tear runs down my cheek before being swiftly blown away by the breeze.
The wind reminds me that I am alive.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I spot the bird suddenly swooping down, almost falling toward the earth. My head turns out of pure instinct. It’s so graceful in its descent, as if the action were planned from the very start, and the bird itself doesn’t have a care in the world. It swoops so low that it almost brushes the tops of the nearby trees.
But at the last moment, the bird rises back up to the heights of the sky, and begins circling once again.
I nudge myself to follow its flight through the sky. It continues to circle, and I continue to watch. The bird’s feathers flutter in the air as it glides perpetually below the clouds, yet above me on my bench. It’s naturally confident in its solitude. Boldly independent.
How I wish it were so with me.
The breeze blows over me once more. My hair flies across my face, touched by the strong yet gentle caress of the wind.
The wind reminds me that I am alive.
I stand up, and look at the sky.
The clouds are far away now. The bird, high above, circles one last time. Then it decides to move on.
And so do I.