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The
Best
Teen
writing
of
2013
The Scholastic
Art & Writing Awards
Presents
The
Best
Teen
writing Edited by
of
Loretta Lpez
2010 Scholastic Awards
2013
Gold Medal Portfolio Recipient
Foreword by
Terrance Hayes
2010 National Book Award
Recipient in Poetry
Dedication
Humor Poetry
79 Stock of the Season, Luke Haas 195 Bronx Rooftop Song, Gabriella Gonzales
87 Creative Napping 101, Katelyn Davis 196 Expanding, Haley Lee
90 #InternetProbz, Dylan Magruder 197 daughter one, Aline Dolinh
198 pulp, Stefania Gomez About The Best Teen Writing of 2013
199 Haiku for an Extravagant & Wheeling Stranger,
The works featured in The Best Teen Writing of 2013 were
Lucy Wainger
selected from National Awardwinning written work in this
200 Halidom, Mckayla Conahan
202 In the Summer, Kira Pelowitz years Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. The Awards is a na-
204 The Coming of the End, Caleb Rak tional program presented by the Alliance for Young Artists &
205 Timelords Burden, Rachel Hargrave Writers, which recognizes talented teenagers in the visual and
207 Wolf in the Desert, Robert Bedell literary arts. Founded in 1923, the program celebrates the ac-
209 steeplechase rd., Alison Liu complishments of creative students and extends opportunities
210 Survival Is a Roast You Have to Keep on Carving, for recognition, exhibition, publication, and scholarships.
Meggie Royer This year, 543 teens earned National Scholastic Awards in
212 Destination, Parker Elkins writing categories. The works selected for this publication rep-
213 The Heroic Actions of a Girl Stuck in the Middle, resent the diversity of the National Award winners, including
Mary Rose Weber age and grade, gender, genre, geography, and subject matter.
215 A Crane-ian Homage, Katherine Fang
They also present a spectrum of the insight and creative intel-
217 Judgment Day, Francesca Sedlacek
lect that inform many award-winning pieces.
218 Ate My House for Dinner, Ashley Crutcher
A complete listing of National Award winners and online gal-
219 The Cleaner, Brianna Breaux
220 Origin, Olivia Linn leries of winning works of art and writing can be found on
our website, www.artandwriting.org. Information about how
Short Story to enter the 2014 Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, a list of our
221 The Human Condition, John Lhota scholarship partners, and ways that you can partner with the
230 Dreaming of Stars, Helen Copp
Alliance to support young artists and writers in your commu-
237 The Shortest Short Story in the History of Short Stories
nity are also available.
of All Time Ever, Adam Schorin
250 I Am All That Is, Garrison Asma
254 The 2-Hour Clock, Niklas Theorin Some of the writing selections have been excerpted. Go to
259 Luke and the Moon, Aaron Cooper-Lob www.artandwriting.org/galleries to read all of the work as it
269 Windigo, Ursula Grunwald was submitted.
272 The Doormen, Nathan Meyer
ABOUT THE SCHOLASTIC AWARDS Pittsburgh, PA. The U.S. Department of Education and the
Presidents Committee on the Arts and the Humanities will
Started in 1923 by Scholastic founder Maurice R. Robinson, the
also host a yearlong exhibition in Washington, D.C.
Awards have grown to become the nations highest honor and
largest source of scholarships for creative teenagers. All stu-
Publication This anthology, The Best Teen Writing of 2013,
dents in grades 712, whether public, private, or home schooled,
features a collection of our students most exemplary works
are encouraged to apply. Through a nationwide network of more
of writing. The Alliance also features National Awardwin-
than 115 partnering organizations, the 2013 Awards received
ning work in our National Catalog and on our website. These
more than 230,000 submissions in 28 categories.
publications are distributed free of charge to schools, students,
Notable Scholastic Awards alumni include Andy Warhol,
teachers, museums, libraries, and arts organizations.
Richard Avedon, Ken Burns, Truman Capote, Lena Dunham,
John Updike, Sylvia Plath, and many more.
Scholarships The Alliance distributes nearly $250,000 in
direct scholarships annually to National Awardwinning stu-
Recognition The Alliance and our partners provided regional
dents. Seniors also leverage their success in the Awards for
and national recognition to more than 60,000 teens in 2013.
funds from a network of 60 partnering universities, colleges,
Students earned iconic Gold Key and Silver Key awards, as well
and art schools, which collectively earmark more than $8 mil-
as Honorable Mention certificates at the regional level.
lion in financial aid and additional scholarships.
The top 15,000 regional winners competed in the national
competition1,700 of whom earned national medals and were
National Student Poets Program In 2011, the Presidents
celebrated at the annual Awards Ceremony at Carnegie Hall
Committee on the Arts and the Humanities and the Institute
in New York City. Thousands of fellow students, families, and
for Museum and Library Services partnered with the Alliance
friends celebrated along with those in New York City by tuning
to create the National Student Poets Program (NSPP), the
in to our 90th Anniversary National Awards Ceremony web-
countrys highest honor for youth poets presenting original
cast (www.artandwriting.org/carnegiewebcast2013).
work. Annually, five high school poets who demonstrate excep-
tional creativity, dedication to craft, and promise serve for a
Exhibition One thousand works were displayed at the ART.
year as national poetry ambassadors.
WRITE.NOW. National Exhibition at Parsons The New School
National Student Poets are chosen from national medalists in
for Designs Sheila C. Johnson Design Center and Pratt Insti-
the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards by a jury of literary lu-
tutes Pratt Manhattan Gallery in New York City.
minaries and leaders in education and the arts. Student Poets
The ART.WRITE.NOW. Tour, a traveling exhibition fea-
receive college scholarships, opportunities to present their work
turing a selection of National Awardwinning work, will make
at writing events, and appear at the National Book Festival in
stops in Albuquerque, NM; Laramie, WY; Savanah, GA; and
Washington, D.C., in cooperation with the Library of Congress.
X The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | XI
Foreword expected someone who was half man, half god, half cheetah.
Terrance Hayes There are runners who do many things well, your Majesty,
2010 National Book Award Recipient in Poetry the messenger said, clearing his throat. But, in reality, no one
is simply the best at all of them.
A decree went out across the land: The king desired a meeting
The king sat stroking his beard for a long moment.
with the worlds single best runner. Candidates began arriv-
Yes, I was in the crowd too.
ing almost instantly, by foot, naturally, but by train too, by
I grew up running and was well aware of those who were big-
buggy and bus, horseback and camel. By sunset the next day,
ger, faster, stronger. My coach always advised us to race against
the kings courtyard was filled with runners of every stripe:
the clock and our personal bests. (Maybe this is why runners
men, women, children, old and young, short, thin, tall, plump.
mostly practice in solitude.) Even in the game, we were advised
I know because I was there among them. We stood beholding
to focus on our own lane not the lanes around us. Writing too
the kings perplexed brow. Hed expected three or four svelte
is a matter of solitude and personal bests. But play the running
runners from the corners of the earth, perhaps a woman with
analogy out and you know someone always finishes first and
wings on her shoes, a man with muscular calf muscles. What
someone always finishes last. Is that synonymous with who is
he got numbered in the dozens, hundreds. Had his message
the best? No, no.
been confused? (No one had been brave enough to ask him
I have spent much of these past months reading journals in
what kind of runner he required or why.) The king summoned
search of the best poems published this year. Im editing an
the court messenger to his throne for an explanation.
annual publication of the best contemporary American poetry
Well, your Highness, the messenger said nervously. I
and have had a lot of time to think about what best means.
called for the one who ran the fastest, but I figured the one
At the beginning of the process I thought only the poems that
who was quickest would probably lack stamina. So I called also
made me weep or laugh out loud should qualify as the best of
for the one who ran the farthest, but I suspected one who could
the best. Then I encountered great narrative poems, great mu-
cover the greatest distance would probably be too slow. So I
sical poems, great formal poems, great experimental poems,
summoned the best in both areas, Sire.
great surprises. Like the messenger, I came to see the difficul-
The king nodded. He looked out over the crowd.
ties in seeking a singular best. This is, as you likely know,
Then I called for the runner who could run up a mountain
especially impossible when it comes to art. It seemed better to
best, the messenger continued, and the runner who could run
make best a word with lots of room, lots of versatility.
through a dark tangled forest best, and the runner who ran
This anthology is a celebration of personal bests. Each of
best with no shoes, the runner who ran best wearing armor,
these teen writers is distinguished for originality, craft, and
the runner who ran best in the rain
voice. Each is like the serious runner who works on speed as
The king cut him off, frowning. Was there no single runner
well as endurance. It is also an encouragement for those liter-
superior in all these categories? The king was thinking back
ary athletes who are not yet here.
to the myths he read in his youth. Hermes, Nike, Mercury. Hed
XIV The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | XV
Dear Reader, you should not go into this marvelous anthol- Editors Introduction
ogy with a measuring stick. Do not make the kings mistake of Loretta Lpez
narrowing your gaze according to a slim vision of the best. The 2010 Portfolio Gold Medalist
king! I forgot to finish the story about the king. When I said Scholastic Art & Writing Awards
best, perhaps what I should have said was excellent. The king
said finally. I would like only those who chase excellence. In the year 2013, we are saturated with information. Technol-
That you have, your Highness! the messenger chirped. A roar ogy has given us access to an unimaginable number of stories,
burst from the crowd. allowing us to understand our world through a plethora of per-
There are losses and failures in track and writing that still spectives. However, the nature of its formatmalleable and
sting a bitbut lets not get into that. It is ambition enough to intangibleallows us to skim through ideas for a millisecond,
race yourself, to try making the next thing you write better only to click away. As we become accustomed to the fast pace
than the last thing you wrote. This anthology celebrates excel- at which technology permits us to travel, we may also begin
lence, brilliance, and potential. Let us celebrate all that comes to excuse our impatience. While we search through a surplus
after the best. of information, we might dismiss what does not immediately
please us and miss out on a mind-opening experience.
As you read through this anthology, be conscious of your at-
tention span. Indulge in the practice of patience. If a story or
poem does not fit into the context of your life and knowledge, I
challenge you to stop and listen harder. For these brave writers
prove to us that in the midst of daily commotion, there is time
to explore unconventional and innovative ideas.
The writers in this anthology address difficult subjects with
honesty, inventiveness, and humor. They investigate moments
of beauty carefully and recognize the complexity of happiness.
As an audience, we are not underestimated. We have been given
room to interpret and delve into the multiplicity of meaning.
And while everyone in this book is brave, each individual is
courageous in a distinct way, in his or her own tone and genre.
Some writers choose to share their opinions in personal
memories. They ask us to meditate on challenging questions:
What does it mean to be an American citizen? How can we find
happiness in adult life? What labels do we place on our sexuality
XVI The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 1
Thin Ice snow ahead. They seemed a mile away in the inky blackness.
We trudged closer to the lights, left footprints in the cold yel-
Isabella Giovannini, Grade 12, Age 18. Writopia Lab, low, and into the dark beyond. Instantly, the wind wheeled the
New York, NY, Rebecca Wallace-Segall, Teacher snow over them. For all the ice and snow told, we could have
never existed.
The first thing you are supposed to do if ice begins to crack is We advanced, bodies bent to protect our freezing faces from
to lie down and be very still. But how do you do that if the ice the assaulting wind. As we struggled to pull farther from the
isnt really ice and the crack isnt really a crack? shore, the blanket of snow on the ice thinned out and out until
We have been best friends for nine yearssince kindergar- there was no more snow. If it had been possible to see anything
tenbut we have had some fragile patches. I remember so besides the stars in the black sky and the even blacker outline
clearly the chill sight of her with her arm about another girls of the opposite shore, the warped ice would have reflected us
shoulders, walking by laughing. We have been thrown together into an infinity of symmetrical worlds.
in circumstances of outstanding pressure and become stuck, Lila lurched on the ice behind, and I heard her suck at the air
like tectonic plates. Weve had a couple of major earthquakes. before she righted herself. The ice was totally solid. It did not
After every earthquake, there must be one moment when the creak or gurgle or even sigh under our weight. I stopped for a
Earth is perfectly still. Then it slowly begins to slide smoothly moment to explore the cold seeping in through my boots and
again. This New Years Eve, we were just beginning to slide three pairs of socks to my toes. I felt the wind weave through
again. We were relearning the deep connections we had, and the stitches in my knitted black gloves to my fingers. And I
reconfiguring how they linked us. experienced the pressurethe weightof the wind on my face.
I stepped over the black line where there was no snow and Lila caught up to me, slipping again. Instinctively, her hands
onto the frozen lake. To my surprise, I sank about six inches flailed out and grabbed at my arm. I let her pull herself up.
before hitting hard ice. The wind whipped straight into my We are continuously testing the friendship: how much pres-
face, through the scarf, slamming into my cheeks and hurtling sure it can hold, where we cannot go, how to avoid the slippery
past. It blasted into my eyes at fifty miles per hour and made patches.
my eyelashes hum. I hunched over and clutched the rolled rug I Lila bent over to retrieve the rug she had dropped. I started
was holding even tighter. Each step was a task. First, one silver to speak, but she put out her hand. I could not see it, but I felt it.
PORTFOLIO GOLD | 6 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 7
Listen, she said, listen to that. Ice is water frozen in time. The ice I was standing on was re-
She was facing the other way, back toward the shore. I turned ally water that had simply decided to stop counting and stand
to look where she was looking, back at the lighted windows and still for a bit. Inside it, there were probably little bubbles of air
yearning branches. Facing that way, the wind was to our backs, trapped from when it froze. Air that had not changed for days.
out of our ears. I thoughtor maybe imaginedI could hear the Friendship has those little bubbles, those little memories that
faintest rustle of trees from the shore. The wind still streaked situate it in time. Like everyone, Lila and I have good and bad
past us, but now it seemed to be flowing around us, not attack- bubbles.
ing. We stood there and looked back where we had walked. For a nonexistent amount of time, time did not exist for us.
Straight down, at black ice. Farther away, at black snow. Still Then we turned back into the wind.
farther, at less-black snow. Then at golden rectangles of snow, Here?
strewn like beads to a broken necklace. Then more black snow. Here.
Then the short, steep bank lined with brush, and then we were I cautiously flung myself down on the ice and lay there, eyes
gazing up at the house. The large front window, so small from to the stars. The wind at my head whirled snow across me,
here and suffused with golden light. A television screen flash- trying to obliterate me like my footprints. It was so tempting
ing colors. And I imagined I could see Lilas parents sitting in to lie there forever, but we were running out of time. Lila was
front of it. spreading out her rug, that dark rectangle, on the snow. I sat
Do you hear it? up, encrusted with white, and unrolled my bundle. Out came
I remembered to listen then. Again, I thought of rustling a spoon and knife, which I placed on my rug with my knee
trees. But the trees were mere rattling skeletons at this time over them to prevent the wind from carrying them away. From
of year; there were no leaves to rustle. I stood there, balanced Lilas rug emerged the cylinder of cookie dough. Snowflakes
on the ice, clutching my rug, with six pairs of pants and eight were flying in horizontal stripes between us, and the dough
shirts on. was frozen nearly solid. Clumsily, I wrapped my tingling fin-
And then I heard it. It is the purest sound that the Earth has gers and glove around the knife and sliced the cookie dough.
ever heard. It is so clear, but you have to listen so hard to hear Snow stuck to it and glazed it over on its journey between the
it. Once you do, it is the only audible noise. It is utter silence. wrapper and my mouth.
Time should exist only when you think about it. It should be Lila was fumbling in her pocket to pull out her watch. The
something that man has invented. If a person has the courage glowing blue face hardly made a dent in the furrows of dark
to lose count of the years, the months, the days, the seconds, around us, and I could not read the time. She looked up at me,
then it should stop. When they think to count again, it should the corners of her eyes crinkling into a grin. We began the
start where they left off. Maybe the problem is that there are countdown into the new year, shouting over the wind, through
so many people in the world that not everyone has the courage the snow, across the ice.
to lose count at the same time, because then there would be no
way to situate oneself after.
PORTFOLIO GOLD | 8 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 9
in Pembroke Pines. I miss that house. Its pearl-colored door- the school musical, Guys and Dolls, and had a so-called one-
bell still rings in my head. My grandma would greet me with on-one with a senior in the boys dressing room immediately
arms full of excessive hugs and my favorite candy. Thats why I afterward. I got the part of Benny Southstreet. I would some-
started to call her Grandma M&M in the first place. She loved times tumble around the cramped backseat of a black F-150,
it, even if it meant that Id call her something she wasnt. sometimes until three in the morning, with my lab partner
I remember Rickys, the local wing joint where my grandma from Physical Science once or twice a week for a whole two
would let me play shuffleboard after Id eaten every last chicken years. My detachment made it all okay. I was normal. As nor-
tender. She watched all of the Disney movies with me, helped mal as I had been back when Grandpa was still alive.
me with hokey art projects, and even taught me to play soli- He was dead for seven or eight years before I ever had the
taire before I learned my multiplication tables. Grandpa was courage to ask Grandma M&M about their marriage. Youve
always there too. Age had begun to wear him down, but that got to understand that no good Catholic agrees with every rule
didnt stop him from meeting my mom and me for lunch at the in the book, she said. I listened, asked questions, listened
Broward County Malls food court once a week, or pinching my again. Another time I asked her what she thought about homo-
cheeks and saying, Thats the way, whenever I brought home sexuality. The answer was the same as the Churchs: Love and
an A on my report card. Then one day, I started to dread the marriage should be reserved for only a man and a woman. Any-
slightest mention of a visit to my grandparents house. I dont thing else would be against the natural way of things. But the
know why. It felt uncomfortable, as if we all knew something Church doesnt punish people for homosexual thoughts, she
but were too afraid to talk about it. Something had changed said. Her next words were rushed: only homosexual actions.
or was about to changeor had never changed, and was just on I fought back the urge to ask her about the Churchs teachings
the verge of discovery. on the celibacy of its priests. The same basic rules apply. To be
A good strategy, one that I read on a self-help website with tempted is forgivable, to act upon is forbidden. Or supposed to
obnoxious, bright-pink lettering, is to know in advance the an- be forbidden.
swers to the obvious questions about to be asked. How do you If she asks me whether or not my parents know, I could bring
know youre gay? Just do. Well, when did you realize it? Not up Connor. He didnt spend the night at my house, didnt tum-
sure. Am I supposed to say that even if my preschool crush was ble around a truck with me, and we didnt have one-on-ones
Catalina, I couldnt help but stare at James? I could blame it on in a dressing roomor anywhere. Just feelings. He was the
my parents. They raised me to respect women, as if having sex kind of person you think is your first love. Grandma M&Ms
with them would be impolite. Maybe I should have prepared a met him a handful of timeslike when the three of us and the
piechart. I try to imagine saying, Here, Grandma M&M, re- rest of my family went out to a barbecue restaurant. She said he
search shows that I experimented with more than seventy per- was her favorite of my friends after that. Obviously, she didnt
cent of the boys I ever invited to spend the night at my house. see us hold hands under the table. Connor helped me come out
I never had feelings for any of them. Once, I auditioned for to my parents. I remember how I curled up in a corner of my
PORTFOLIO GOLD | 12 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 13
Ricos laugh reverberated off the walls and bounced back to the flowers stopped coming. I would have strangers in my bed
his suntanned face. more often than Rico, who started coming home less and less.
Course you didnt, Sarafina. You didnt know to notice. Tell When Rico was home, he was angry and impatient with me,
you what, since this is such a special day, you coming to town asking what I had made today, if there had been any walk-ins.
and all, Im going to close down shop in a minute, and you can This should have been a red flag, but to me, I just thought that
stay with me. Its a big city, and youll need someone to protect if I worked harder, Rico would cast his favor my way. I began
you. to walk streets, looking for any poor sap I could pick up out of
And thats exactly what he did. Rico and I carried on great the gutter. All he really needed was a checkbook. All of this, I
for a very long time. He showed me the city, taught me how to did for Rico.
work the espresso machine and coax street vendors into giv- It had been some months after my arrival, months of work-
ing me the best produce. He showed me how to grate cheese ing and stress when Rico first started his little deception. He
and how to keep from sweating to death in the Arizona heat. hadnt been around in weeks, and I stopped waiting up for him.
He also showed me other things. Things that had seemed so What came next was nothing less then divine intervention.
wrong before, things that had seemed so distant. With Rico, I had been turning tricks all night, every night, and what
everything felt right and good, and I felt as though nothing happened wasnt surprising since I had never been careful. I
could hurt me. was pregnant. There was no way to deny it. I think I must have
I was so in love with him, that I didnt care when he would taken at least five tests, all saying the same thing:
give me things I couldnt name. I never blinked to swallow a Positive.
pill or inhale any number of white lines for him. Rico was my Positive.
world. I moved out of my small room, into a large apartment Positive.
with my newfound love. I was so caught up in Ricos sweet The irony of that word struck me as I read a note Rico left
words and the soothing ocean green of his eyes, that I didnt on the nightstand when he abandoned me: If you cant work,
notice myself spiraling downwards. Soon, he was inviting men you cant stay.
over, letting them watch me undress, and making me do things Positive.
with them that I knew I shouldnt have. But I would never have Not likely. This baby had ruined my life, and it wasnt even
questioned Rico, not for a second, because I loved him. And I here yet, or so I thought.
thought he loved me. He bought me clothes and flowers and I looked into every possible avenue. I talked to adoption agen-
chocolates, everything I could ever dream. He called me his cies that said they would be happy to take my baby. Places that
Sarafina, his own little angel. offered to take my baby and give her to a good home. I even went
The drugs soon became a staple in our house. The drugs, the to an abortion clinic, where they explained how they could neu-
men, the lies, all became things Rico force-fed me, like some tralize my situation. I walked out of that place within ten min-
demented game of house. At first, the things I did didnt both- utes of going in. I sat crying on the front steps of that damned
er me. I was well taken care of and I was loved. But soon,
PORTFOLIO GOLD | 18 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 19
clinic for hours before I knew. This baby was mine. No matter the church. Noel goes to the school there, and she loves God
what, this child inside of me was my responsibility. It wasnt just as much as I do. I thank our Holy Mother that I found faith
someone elses to have, and it wasnt my life to take. when I did. Noel deserves so much better than the life I was
It was December, and it was cool outside. All the stars came living before. I would actually like to commit my life to the ser-
out especially early and lined the Arizona sky with countless vice of God. I want to become a priestess and save the women I
lights. I walked along the streets until I came to a church. I had once knew. I want to help girls like me, girls who have no hope,
seen it before, and I vaguely recalled being approached once by no love, joy or peace, and bring them into the arms of the Lord.
one of the deacons. I worked that night, and he came up to me I have talked to Father Chris about my passion many times,
and gave me a small bible, which is somewhere in a small bag of and he is all for it. I would like to begin training, but there is
things in my car. The church was quiet, but the sign out front a problem. The rules state that I must be pure, a virgin. And
said, Come, ye who seek rest. It was fitting, so I entered. I that, as you well know, is not the case. I am far from innocent,
walked to the back of the cathedral and saw a wooden box. I which is why I am writing you.
had seen such confession boxes in enough movies that I knew Your holy gracious lord, I know what the laws of the Church
what to do. I drew the curtain and sat down. are. They state that you have to be pure, righteous, and holy
Speak my child, a calming voice said behind the curtain in to serve God. You must set an example for the people you wish
front of me. To this day, I have not heard a more gentle voice. to lead. I understand the stigma of having a woman like me
That voice saved me, and I told it everything. I told that priest preach at a pulpit. But sir, I am pure, for God can wash away all
every disgusting, vulgar, horrendous thing I had ever done. sin, and he has set me free of my past transgressions. I am no
And the voice told me that God loved me, and not like my fa- longer the woman who did those things. I am new and reborn.
ther loved me or like Rico loved me. God was not someone to The Holy Mother smiles on me and my daughter, and all I
stand in silent rage as I was hurt, like my mother. God wanted want to do is share that light. So, if you could possibly reevalu-
to hold me, to protect me from all the things in life that had ate my case, allow a waiver of some kind so I can carry out the
made me the person I was. The voice said that Jesus died for work the Lord sent me to do. You will not be ashamed, for what
me. He gave up everything to save me, that it was his own better example for lost women is there than a woman who has
personal prerogative to save me, to be reunited with me. This been found?
voice gave me hope. And every day for the past four years, I
have listened to that voice. Every Sunday, Father Chris holds With love and Gods will,
mass, and every Sunday, I am in the front row. My little Noel Sarafina Manicotti
and I, dressed in our Sunday best, watch and pray and listen
to the Father.
I have done what I can to raise Noel in a good, Catholic
home. I am now an accountant, and we live not a block from
PORTFOLIO GOLD | 20 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 21
tach myself from everything that reminds me of the past. Like V. (Summer)
roses, we bruise too easily. My friends are glass people with I destroy beautiful things.
machine hearts. I forge my chin up and sometimes I forget how Sometimes the wiring of my bones shake, and I want to des-
to breathe. perately fold into myself, to become something less, but I am
Remind me how to breathe. afraid there is nothing left. People play dress up with evergreen
trees, and I am spindrift thoughts and amaranthine veins in a
IV. (Spring) terribly gray winter. I tangle stars in my tawny hair so I can be
The sky is crying, and I am drowning in the city, half moons reminded of a flaxen summer with ginger eyes when I cannot
carved underneath my eyes. Rain is falling on the apartments sleep at night.
erected from stories of Renaissance, Italianate, Greek, Vic- A muted watercolor on a virgin canvas, I am falling away
torian, and French dreams, 1830. The trees were on fire last from everyone and the indifference echoes in my lungs. She
month, and winter snuffed them out with her grandiose ar- blows out her birthday candles in a dimmed room, surrounded
rival, temperatures bowed their heads in modesty. by the resplendent company of old and new friends. To become
When a strange boy paints my dreams at night, I feel hol- nothing is a frighteningly silent process.
lowly empty the next morning, husks and shells. The human I am convinced that I can save you somehow, with my willow
heart is frightening. Sometimes I like to believe that he does tree arms and ivory bones. Your cinnamon-colored skin looked
exist in this world, breathing fragments of himself into the air. lovely amidst the city lights and everyone drowned in Saturday
I think I was born to travel. On some days my mind is else- air. My heart was silent, but I was content. Sometimes I want
where: backpacking across the Carolinas, scaling the fiery skies to leave. Incompatibility has torn the stitching of a family and
of France, dancing along Melbourne coastlines, wildfires in a we hide behind closed bathroom doors and bedrooms where we
secluded forest. Possibilities are frightening. scream. It makes me nauseous, and I have learned how to be
I fall too deep too easily with strangers in the city and in silent with my hollow tears. You tell me get away from you as
bookstores and the way the lights remind me of Times Square, far as possible. This was never supposed to happen.
New York. On some nights, my skies are dreamless. Once I Some things, I will never let go of. Some things, they will
saw something orange in the obscured folds of a starless eve- never change.
ning canvas, and to this day I tell people about how I saw the I am flawed and free.
planet Jupiter. Self-destruction is when Zachary sings, plant-
ing flames in my aching heart. That is the cycle of life, death, VI. (Autumn)
and revival. My soul is an overgrown garden, and I am lost.
I am suffocating. I stumble on the entirety of things, clumsily, with thin ankles
of a ballerina. Before I had a machine heart, you used to call
at one in the morning and I was always asleep. It is December,
PORTFOLIO GOLD | 24 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 25
and I am wide awake when the sun breaks through the ashen
clouds like combustible stars. Daylight is always too fleeting.
You tangle yourself in between the lines of my notebook
and guitar strings, demanding for a love poem. I am captur-
ing slivers of my life in expired film canisters, sharpie scrawl-
ings documenting twenty-four brittle births of exposures in
chronological order. Sometimes the city swallows the weekday
sunsets with bright lights, and I feel the need to reinvent my
Habibi
name. We are just breathing underwater and Samantha West, Grade 12, Age 17. Capitol High School, Boise, ID,
I have yet to savor the sound of your voice at 1:00 a.m. Carla Zumwalt, Teacher
the shanty schools, salting the earth, stitching up spines, Gold, Silver, American Voices, and
handing out heartbeats?
Creative Concept Awards
When he picks up, she wants to run her tongue over the
receiver but licks her Students in grades 712 may submit works in
lips instead, recracking their knitwork, and he can feel the
brackish
11 writing categories. This year more than
on her breath like the county council calling for more salt 2,900 Regional Awardwinning writing
to beat the snow to the streets. An abortion, she says. submissions were reviewed by authors, educa-
My mind is made up, hums the wind, but you had a right, tors, and literary professionals. Gold, Silver,
clicks the phone cord stretching an equator between
and American Voices medals were awarded to
them. Braslia is silent. The southern hemisphere holding
works that demonstrated originality, technical
its breath. Soon they hear a click. Quarters running out.
Bridges being christened. Salt running her eyes through. skill, and emergence of a personal voice.
Afterward, she spreads herself out on the street. Face Creative Concept Awards recognized works
down, the snow on her teeth could almost be mistaken
for scripture. The flakes on her coat, the salt falling off that dealt with grieving and loss (The New
York Life Award) and voting rights (Creativity
heavenly loaves as they are broken.
& Citizenship).
Reflections
Rebecca Scurlock, Grade 8, Age 14. Lakeside School, Seattle, WA,
Susan Mortensen, Teacher
1. My Name
Rebecca Scurlock. Rebecca is Jewish, and Im Christian. Scur-
lock is Welsh, and Im Irish.
Papa tells me it came from the old man who traveled to Amer-
ica four hundred years ago. It survived through the founding
of our nation; through the Civil War; through generations of
fathers, husbands, and grandsons. It finally came to a girl: an
only child, who was named Rebecca for no real reason at all.
I grew into the name Rebecca. It became me; I became it. But
Rebecca turned into Becky, which turned into Beckers, Becksy,
Beck-Beck, B-Dawg. It was like a native wetland turning into
a towering skyscraper: It was from soft lavender to imposing
magenta, from a flowing stream to a steel metallic box, from
subtle olive oil to designer perfume. It was from water to ice,
from me to not me.
But Becky is now my name. When people say it, it sounds like
theyre biting down on a frozen McDonalds cheeseburger: the
be slow and luxurious but the cky fast and sharp. If they
add my last name, it sounds like a creaking teeter-totter. Be-
KEVIN ARAGON, Suburban Astronaut, Grade 12, Age 18. Pine Creek
cky Scurlock, Be-cky Scurlock, Be-cky Scurlock.
High School, Colorado Springs, CO, Lindsay Williams, Teacher.
I was once told what my real name means. According to the
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 32 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 33
Torah, Isaac was tied to a mountain as a sacrifice to God. As Paige, Anthony, Christian, and I all go downstairs to play, but
Isaacs unfortunate wifes name, Rebecca means to tie, or to sometimes Christian stays upstairs, because hes 15 and he
bond. thinks hes too old for us.
Ive since wondered what this means for me. Of course Re- We play hide-and-seek and catch-the-dog and tackle-Chris-
beccas husband was tied up, but what does it mean if your tian-because-hes-evil if Christian comes down with us. We
name means to tie? jump on Olivias bed and play on the funny exercise machine
Maybe it means to make mischief, like tying knots in the that makes your feet go up and down and up again until you fall
rope of life. Maybe it means to connect, like bonding with off. We even play Wii once in a while, but thats never any fun
friends or family. Maybe it means to love, like Rebecca loved because Anthony always hogs the remote.
her husband. Sometimes at night after our yummy dinner, we sneak all the
Maybe Ill decide what it means. One day, Ill be sitting in cookies we can fit under our shirts and then we go outside and
my bathtub, and Ill have an epiphany, and Ill run out into the make grass angels. Its not all bright and shiny like in the city,
streets naked, shouting, Eureka! Eureka! I know my name! so we can see all the tiny little holes in the sky. Cousin Ethan
just like Archimedes. Yes, thats my plan. What fun it will be! knows all the constellations, so he points out Cassiopeia, Scor-
For now, though, I guess Ill just have to wait. pio, Ursa Major, Pegasus, Taurus, and Orion until we forget
about the cookies and fall asleep under the big, big moon.
2. Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is my favorite day of the year, except for Christ- 3. Raindrops
mas and Halloween and my birthday, which is sometimes on Everything was wrong when I woke up this morning. The
Thanksgiving anyways. We always take a ride in the big Ferry house was all silent, and the birds werent chirping, and all I
Boat to visit all my aunts and uncles and cousins in Coupeville. could hear was the pitter-patter of the autumn raindrops tick-
If its my birthday, they give me lots of presents, and I even get ling the windows. No slam of Mitsubishi doors, no hum of the
two whole days of no school. ancient microwave, not even the neighbors wind chime that
When we get to Uncle Johnnys house, their doggy Fido al- tinkles in the breeze.
ways jumps up on us and we pet him until he jumps back down When I pounded downstairs to fill the silence, I found Mama
again. Then we walk inside, and we all smell Aunty Sarahs grasping the phone in her quivering hand and weeping. She
warm buttermilk biscuits and scrumptious pumpkin pie. And was staring out the window at the gray rain. Papa was holding
if Uncle Henrys already there, we smell his sweet-potato and her hand and crooning, Its okay, its okay, dont cry, like she
marshmallow crisp, which is like a big crunchy cloud on top of was a baby. Her other hand was drooped around little puppy
a sticky orange sky. Tippit, who was staring out the window too. Id read a book in
The adults always tell us kids to go down in the basement which the characters cried in their hearts, so I leaned over to
so we wont bother them with all our noise. So Ethan, Olivia, her and whispered that my heart was crying too.
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 34 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 35
Ive always thought people regretted things theyd done. who spouts chemistry lectures at dinner
But now I regretted the things I hadnt done. Because when who knocks on my door to say good-night
Mama choked out between gasps like she was drowning that is the first star I see tonight
her mother died today, just like that, she sank away into the who grins and chuckles at my lame jokes
earth like raindrops in a mud puddle. I wanted to cry, I wanted whose thick gray hair is turning white
to cry so bad, but I couldnt. who forgets what I told him yesterday
I wanted to cry for all my memories of Grandma. I wanted to and says my heart is in the right place
cry for her soft lilting Boston accent, for the nostalgic stories even if my mind isnt
of childhood that shed tell me over and over, for the way shed who counts his days like pennies
wave away the compliments on her famous apple pie and say it who counts his blessings like diamonds
was nothing. I wanted to cry and cry and cry with Mama until is the flicker of the embers in the hearth
my nose ran and my eyes stung. is the shimmer of the evening sunset
But Id never heard her accent or listened to her stories or is the haze of the midnight moon
eaten her apple pie. Id never known her because she lived far that slowly trickles away
away, and when we saw her at Christmas, Id always forget to as morning nears again
say hi and how are you and whats new. And she was gone now,
and I never knew her, Ill never know her because every day I 5. Something I Love
thought shed be there tomorrow. Im just a nave teenager who doesnt think about anything
After Mama told me, it was all silent except for Grandmas other than clothes and makeup and boys.
rain. Mama and Papa and little puppy Tippit were all staring Thats what Mrs. Rodriguez down the street told me on my
out the window, and I was staring at them, and I wished I could thirteenth birthday.
be there too, I wished I were the raindrops trickling out of the Maybe shes right. I do love to flip through Seventeen maga-
gutter. zine, which is exclusively about clothes and makeup and boys.
And once in a while I like to experiment with Moms lipstick
4. Papa Who and indigo eyeliner too.
Papa who smiles like warm honey I guess Im too pretentious to admit that Im living up to her
and asks how are you sweetie expectations. I like to think that Im just as mature as that old
who is fried eggs and overcooked pasta lady; that Ive been through every walk of life like she has. But
who is sailboats and bicycles of course I havent.
who is rain and rainbows Mrs. Rodriguez says she knows everything there is to know.
who laughs like Santa Claus, heavy Whenever it so happens that I pass by her house at the same
who waits every morning to eat breakfast with me moment she looks up from her crocheting, she calls down to
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 36 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 37
me and says, Becky Scurlock, what brings you here? and be- Everywhere I turned, he was there. Walking to class, in the
gins to recount the extensive story of her life without waiting lunch line, in my dorm room . . . he was always there and I
for an answer. would always smile, even though I hoped and hoped and hoped
Once, she paused to ask me what I thought of her new dahl- he would just go away.
ias. I made the mistake of telling her that I loved how beautiful I told him I was short compared to him and that there were
they were. plenty of girls who were taller. I told him I was ugly because
Kids these days! she shouted. Going around talking about I am, but then I smiled and he just looked at me all funny
love like its a toy! Dont say that word, Miss, because you dont because he thought I was joking. I told him to go away, but he
understand anything youre saying. didnt because I smiled, and so instead he just moved in closer.
Somewhere inside I know shes right: When I grow old like He moved in closer, he moved in closer. He moved in clos-
her, Ill see that I didnt really love anything I think I love now. er, and I couldnt wipe the stupid smile off my face, and he
Im just being a teenager. moved in closer. Go away, go away! I wanted to scream, but
But if only she could see me run, maybe shed see the love in I couldnt, and his hot breath was on my neck and he moved
my soulno matter how young and callow. She might see me in closer.
inspired: running with long, graceful strides down the side- I wish I could forget everything. I wish I could tuck the
walk and a wacky smile plastered over my face. Maybe shed memories away in a little locked box and lose the key. I wish I
see me sad: running all slow with my head in the trees. Shed could forget what he did to me.
laugh if she saw me confused: running with stiff legs and fuzzy But that night he walked away in the rain, no jacket, just
eyes; my head in the moon. robins-egg polo and strong arms fading away under the
Maybe then shed see my love. Maybe shed see that even if streetlamp, and I watched him, I watched him from the win-
Im just a teenager, my love for running is as pure as crisp air dow, the tears streamed down my cheeks, it wasnt his fault. It
on an autumn morning. wasnt his fault, because Im the one who smiled.
Maybe shed see that it doesnt really matter whether its
teenager love or real love. Because when you give something 7. Dreams
your love, you set your heart free, and you can go up to the Everyone seems to have a dream. Mama dreams of having a
moon and back down again, without ever leaving the ground. perfect family. Papa dreams of being a virtuoso on the cello.
Little Zo across the street dreams of riding to the sun and
6. Smiles back on her stuffed unicorn Sally, which has a light-up horn
He thought I was pretty. He thought ten other girls were pret- and a sparkly tail.
ty too. He liked my smile. When he told me so, I covered my I have dreams too. At night I dream about the sky, about
mouth, but he still knew I was smiling. He said I was the only never-ending paradises and rainbow lollipops. I dream about
girl tall enough for him because hes 59 and Im 56. new beginnings, about starting over again and no regrets. I
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 38 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 39
dream about flying away on midnights wings, up, up, up, never
to return again.
Sometimes I wonder if theres someone out there who doesnt
dream. Who spends their days with their head in the clouds,
their body in the sky, spirit in the stars. Who knows love and
happiness like their own reflection; whose life is as clear as
the glimmering ocean below them. Who cant dream because
theres nothing left to dream for.
The Pink Sari
Maybe someday Ill find that person. Ill ask them, what is
Pooja Chandrashekar, Grade 10, Age 15. Thomas Jefferson
life without dreams? Whats it like without a goal, without a
High School of Science and Technology, Alexandria, VA,
purpose? Isnt it a shame never to feel pain, or hunger, or re-
Jennifer Seavey, Teacher
gret? Because in my experience, you cant appreciate happiness
without pain, fulfillment without hunger, satisfaction without
When I slowly flip through the faded pages of the albums en-
regret. Its the moments of imperfection that give meaning to
closing the old photographs of my first visits to India, almost
life, the moments of melancholy that kindle dreams.
all of the pictures have Ajji in them. My grandmother always
Im not sure how theyd respond. I dont know if theyd see
looks so regal, holding her head high like a queen, and her sari
what I see.
wraps perfectly around her body while her blouse peeks out
But I do know that somewhere beneath all their ignorance,
on top. I love those saris, the way they shimmer and catch the
theyd understand something its taken me fourteen years to
light when the morning sun spills through the windows. Shed
discover: that a life without dreams is sun without sunshine,
sweep her hair back, a ravens color dusted with white powder,
rain without raindrops, a heart without a soul.
and tuck the corner of the sari to her waist as she goes to buy
vegetables.
The vendors voices soar through the crisp morning air, lilt-
ing and twirling amidst the towering oaks that line the streets.
I wake up to these voices every morning. To the neighbors, its
not a fresh sound. But to the little girl from America, where
the storekeepers dont sing, the sounds fill my body like warm
sticky honey. The wind moves quietly among the trees, the cur-
tains in the open windows embrace the rustling leaves, and
the euphonious bird calls. The gentle music offsets the brilliant
blue hue that paints the sky and the green that tints the foliage.
As I peek through the little wooden window of Ajjis house,
her firm voice cuts through the air. She always bargains with
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 40 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 41
the vendors. Her glasses frame her face, the creamy chocolate and I squeeze my eyes shut. Nothing will happen, she says.
skin just beginning to wrinkle. Her face reflects her emotions. But my mouth is closed tight in case the fear spills out.
But sometimes shes good at hiding her feelings as well. Shell We enter a sari shop, cloaked in gorgeous hues of silk and
drape her feelings with a mask, and layer them over and over hand-embroidered cloth. There is a characteristic smell to
with happiness. She drapes her sari the same way, first tucking Indian saris, one that creeps through the shops and hides
one side to her waist, then making tiny precise folds until the amongst the fabric. It is a tablespoon of musk sauted with a
whole cloth covers her body, hidden away beneath the innumer- pinch of fresh tropical breeze and finally garnished with the
able folds, just like the wrinkles on her face hide her emotions. affection of a warm hug. Its one of those unforgettable smells
In the corner of Ajjis bedroom is an old weathered chest, in my memory of Ajji.
one with faded and cracked leather skin. The sides are lined As I grow older, perhaps getting a bit more mature and less
with nicks, and the top is half caved in. I run my hand along wide-eyed than I was back then, my perspectives also change.
its surface, feeling the grooves and indentations. It reminds me The Indian culture that had so influenced each of my decisions
of those magical wooden cupboards hidden away in the dark and actions no longer tethers me to my native country. As I
cobweb-filled corners of castles in Ajjis folktales. Can I open became assimilated into Western culture my grip on my Indian
this? I ask. Not now, she replies. I pout, exaggerating my heritage slowly loosens. The stories of the maharajahs and ma-
childish discontent at not being able to get what I want and haranis that had haunted my imagination seem to fade away.
know what everyone else knows. She laughs. I strain my eyes I see my grandmother only once every two or three years,
and catch a fleeting glimpse of something pink. But, soon after, and the time in between waters down my memories so that
the splash of color is but a blurry streak in my overwrought they shimmer then dissolve. Last year, when I visited Ajji in
memory. I can only guess and wait. Ancestral jewelry encrust- India, she was very sick. She looked frail and weak, and her
ed with diamonds and glittering gems, a dark family secret? voice shook when she spoke. She didnt speak much, and our
They are all intertwined in my web of fantasy. conversation was limited to cordialities and a quick hug here
She walks out onto the crowded Indian streets, holding me and there. When normally I had to force myself to slow the
by the hand. The shops tower up on either side of us, their tumbling cascade of words, I had to search for what to say and
bright-colored advertisement boards catawampus and frayed think about how to build the sentences. The days rolled by, and
on the edges. Children run barefoot on the stone-lined roads, it was soon the morning of our departure. As I was preparing
and the smell of freshly cooked sweets and snacks drifts among to leave, Ajji motioned for me to sit next to her. I look up at
the carts and painted bangles that sparkle as they catch the her, and for the first time, I realize how much different she
light. Stray animals freely roam the streets, silently napping in looks. Her face is lined with wrinkles, and her hair is dusted
the middle of the sidewalks. I clutch Ajjis hand tighter as one with snowflakes, more white than raven. As I look at her with a
of the dogs watches me with piercing eyes. She drapes a thin questioning gaze, I am suddenly drawn back into my whimsical
veil of her sari around me, as if the mere cloth can protect me, childhood days. Resting in her wrinkled palms is the weath-
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 42 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 43
ered leather box, the box that had evoked such flights of fan-
tasy when I was but a little girl trying to search the world for
answers to my endless questions.
This is for you, she says, handing me the chest. Slowly, I lift
the lid, not knowing what to expect. There is only an old burlap
cloth wrapped around something very thin and fine. I sepa-
rate the pieces of the fabric and draw in my breath sharply. My
mind flashes back to my childhood days, when the weathered
Fish Skin
chest had evoked such fantastical musings. The surreal splash Elizabeth Heym, Grade 12, Age 16. Bexley High School, Bexley, OH,
of pink that had faded away from my memory many years ago Chad Hemmelgam, Teacher
is suddenly part of something enchantingly real.
Yes, this is my wedding sari. For you. The stunning shade When I was little, the most common question people asked me
of pink is lined with gold embroidery that etches out symbols of was Whats wrong with your face?
Indian culture and beliefs. The soft colors dance before me, the Its not a particularly polite question, but looking back, I
dappled light casting chocolate shadows on the walls. cant blame them. Its not every day that a kid sees someone
I take the shimmering fabric and touch it to my face. Its with a face that looks like it has been plastered with papier-
memories evoke much more than what picture frames enclos- mch in a kindergarten art project.
ing black-and-white photographs can do. The sari now lies Everywhere I went, kids would ogle at me from a distance,
tucked away in my hardwood armoire, quietly sleeping, wait- clutching their mothers pants legs. Parents would scold their
ing. Sometimes, Ill take the cloth down from the shelf and children for asking such insensitive questions, while they
wrap it around me. This tangy-smelling pink sari lined with themselves peered curiously at my marled skin. The bars of
peacocks fosters dreams painted in color. And, as all inanimate deformity isolated me, relegating me to be like a spectacle: an
objects close to the heart have an invigorating spirit of life, I animal in a zoo. The dry lacy web of skin sprawled across my
have given the pink sari a nameNidhi, meaning treasure. face must have been for everyone else like a haunting painting.
Sometimes I wonder, if I were to have a daughter, what would People couldnt tear their eyes away from my skin, bound by
happen to her? How would I instill in her an appreciation of some strange fascination with the unusual and terrible. Like
her Indian heritage? How would I tell the magical stories with- passersby riveted morbidly to a car crash, they couldnt look
out Ajjis guidance and magic? At least I know I can give her away.
the old weathered box and watch her animated face as her hand Ichthyosis, it is called. I can remember how the word scraped
runs along the golden borders and delights in the stories and over the doctors tongue, hanging about awkwardly in the room
memories woven amongst the fabric. And I hope my Nidhi will like an unwanted intruder. They told me it was also called
be her treasure too. Fish Skin Disease, but I wish they hadnt. It made me feel
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 44 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 45
dehumanized, and from that moment I became a helpless child A few long years later, I found the companion I had been
trapped in the skin of a fish. searching for. To my infinite delight, there was another fish
I began kindergarten trying desperately to make friends. But skin kid in my gymnastics class in the fourth grade. As soon
every time I would try to speak to someone, they asked me the as I saw his peeling, flyaway skin and he saw mine, we were
same question about my face. I would try to explain. I would instantly bound by our common place. Our unique sphere of
say it was no big deal, but my response became forced, be- existence on the margin of society bound us in a secret pact.
cause I had begun to believe that it was a big deal. We rarely talked, but we would often catch each others eyes
I was relieved when my classmates stopped asking what was in silent solidarity; we had an understanding that didnt need
wrong with me. I was convinced that I would soon be able to to be spoken because we already knew all that needed to be
play four square with them and join them in running around known.
pretending to be horses. But soon after, word spread around Strangely, though, I soon came to learn that he had many
the school that my skin condition was contagious. My class- friends. People listened to him, not out of fear but respect.
mates became convinced that touching my papery, cracked Slowly, I began to see that his skin didnt define him. He could
surface would send an itchy dryness creeping up their little tell people that his skin was no big deal and people believed
fingers. No use of my limited knowledge of medical terms could because he believed it himself.
break through the plague of fear. One day, flushed with excitement, my gymnastics class bus-
Eventually I gave up trying to make them understand, and I tled into the gym. But as I cautiously looked around, I noticed
crafted a masterful story. To me, it was devious and genius. I some kids staring at me. He noticed too, and his normally
decided that if I couldnt escape being a pariah, I might as well cheery face clouded.
take advantage of this strange, terrible power of fear my skin All he said was, Hey, knock it off! Mind your own business!
gave me. I knew that the rumor would eagerly spread like an They uncomfortably looked away and walked past us to find
infectious disease. I told everyone that I was an alien, a Mar- some other way to occupy themselves.
tian sent to corrupt the world and turn every little kid into a Thank you, I said. Those were the only words I ever spoke
Martian with demented skin just like mine. to him and the only words I ever needed to say.
They no longer ogled from a distance; they fled. I had a That was the first time someone truly stood up for me.
strange, wicked power that I hadnt known before. I would I dont know what it means to feel comfortable in my own
chase them around the playground and through the jungle skin. In fact, Im not really sure what it means to feel normal.
gym, shrieking and threatening to curse them with the same But I learned that day the one thing that I can be sure of in life,
fate I had been given. I truly came to feel like an alien, and no matter what.
I even came to wish that my disease were contagious. All I I am human.
wanted was a companion on my pedestal of shame, while the
crowd fearfully watched from afar.
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 46 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 47
That Girl a Table to My Right amantly acknowledged the existence of the Cowgirls. I dont
watch sports.
Alexander Nguyen, Grade 10, Age 15. Klein Forest High School, Im not gay.
Houston, TX, Stephanie Vaughan, Teacher That girl a table to my right masks her nose and mouth in
expectancy of a sneeze. Her eyes squint shut, she leans in my
My sister dresses me, peppy-striped, argyle sweater, a neon ar- direction and offers a kitten sneeze, the kind that would rack
ray of graphic Ts, with high-waist saffron shorts pulled past up millions of views on YouTube. There arose the rare moment
the knees, Neurotmesis-inducing jeans, a straw fedora. She in human society where communication across social barriers
says, A splash of color, thats what gets the peoples attention! was acceptable. Bless y It came out as a whisper and died
I get attention. I get questions. into a regrettable silence somewhere along the way.
Im not gay. All of my friends are girls. I guess we share a similar state of
Theres that girl a table to my right. She sits like a ballerina, maturity, initiative, and docile behavior. Boys are more aggres-
legs crossed and a foot into relev. The Adventures of Tom Saw- sive. A few punches of acceptance into the threshold of mas-
yer, my favorite, splayed out before her. culine psychology were not worth it. I bruise easily. I dont hit
I have a small larynx. When the telephone rings, my hello is back. I laugh with the girls. The boys snicker at me.
responded to with maam or some form of second-person fe- Im not gay.
male pronouns. Puberty failed me. Ive been told that I sound Paper hands still clasped to her face, her eyes opened as fad-
like my mother, not my father, not even my brother. My mouth ed denim blue, but their roundness and size compensated for a
rambles alongside my mind, my thin vocal folds fluctuate with startling effect. That girl a table to my right heard me. Thank
my emotion, accenting and stylizing every word with a distinc- you, ever so eloquently.
tive prosody. I overuse like. The boys hungry for social attention come out. It causes
Im not gay. ripples in gossip pools as he dives under girls radars. Then he
Her hair fell from her pinna, cascading a waterfall of black scoops one up. Now they are dating. Mark Simpson coined it
silk down her profile. That girl a table to my right catches it be- metrosexuality. I cant swim. Im not metrosexual.
fore it obscures her entire face; her paper hands push it grace- Im not gay.
fully back into place, like picking up water and bringing it back
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 48 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 49
John, who says it is weird that my shoes are green. sake of sound, forgetting entirely that the beauty of sound lies
Enter silence. in the listening.
From the instant I was thrown into this new, preteen, al- Whenever I read Waiting for Godot, I am touched to remem-
ternative world, so ready to make my presence known but not ber this rather crazy fifth-grade version of myself. It is not a far
knowing how, silence was there. It was the quickest acquain- stretch to say that at age eleven, I was purposefully living out
tance I have ever made, and I prayed it would be short-lived. I my own theater of the absurd.
thought I loathed her. I resorted to the monologue. I would go home each night and
In that new middle school world, in a constant effort to find think of little anecdotes to tell my friends or family the next
my place, make good impressions, and form fast friendships, I day so as to make sure that silence had no chance to show her-
feared judgment at every turn. And as I became more acutely self. It was exhausting, and to what purpose?
aware of sound, I became more acutely aware of those mo- I was stuck. Here I was, speaking, and thinking about speak-
ments when sound was missing. ing, more than I ever had before, yet still feeling as though I
Frankly, they terrified me. had nothing to say and as though I could hardly connect with
Awareness of silence and fear of silence were one and the anyone. I missed being ten years old. Everything is easier when
same to my eleven-year-old self. Sound encompassed every- you can count your entire age on your own two hands.
thing I associated with good. Sound was an indicator of laugh- Moms make things better too.
ter, of chatter, of the people around me having a great time be- Mom and I were driving back from a ballet rehearsal one
cause I was fun and we were friends. It was a tangible indicator night, and after about 15 minutes, I realized that neither of
of connection. us had been speaking. Whats more, I realized that I felt no
In its absence, what was left? obligation to be speaking. And a small voice in the back of my
Jenny and I were on the bus coming back from a field trip, head seemed to whisper, Perhaps this contented silence is an
and I was so focused on thinking of something fantastic to say indication of just how strong your relationship really is.
that, as is the contrary tendency when we think too conscious- Mom was, after all, the only one I felt like I was still able
ly about anything, it was becoming impossible for me to think to talk to throughout the entirety of this mini communication
of anything to say at all. crisis.
Silence. The wheels began to turn, but it took some time for me to
Youre boring, Emma, Jenny casually observed. really seeto really see that relationships are defined not by
Silence was an omen of all things disastrous. She was an indica- the tangible sound between two people, but by an intangible,
tor of dullness, of boredom, of having a terribly lame time. Silence silent understanding, an understanding that is always present,
was an indicator of distance. And all I wanted was connection. regardless of what the other person does or does not say. An
My path became clear. I was ready to fight silence at all costs. understanding that this relationship is a balanced give-and-
Prepared to babble on about nonsensical trivialities for the take, that it is mutually beneficial, and that you are there for,
and because of, each other.
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 52 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 53
easily take advantage of this rule without necessarily having individuals to encounter younger officers who are of higher
cultivated the wisdom and compassion that age is supposed to rank than you or older officers who are of lower rank. As one
bestow. As a younger student, I must confess that even I am can imagine, in a culture that places such emphasis on age and
scared of the stereotypical bully who chews gum like an angry hierarchy, it is just too easy for an older, but lower-ranked, sol-
cow while swaggering around campus sporting a loose necktie dier to resent being treated like an underling by a younger, but
and a malicious grin. To avoid getting beat up, or made fun of, higher-ranked, officer. Equally complicated is the temptation
we students have learned to keep our heads bowed low, to avoid by the younger, higher-ranked officer to take retribution on the
eye contact, and to speak only when spoken to. This is the abid- older, lower-ranked soldier because of all the ridicule he may
ing law of the land. be suffering from those who are even older or higher-ranked
The irony of all of this is that the rule of showing respect than himself. In the end, everyone feels emasculated rather
to our elders stemmed from the Confucian idea that, by hav- than empowered. I cannot see how such a system can continue
ing more life experience than us, our elders had the ability to without further weakening the culture in which it currently
guide and protect us from the mistakes that they made them- thrives.
selves. In this way, the older generation becomes the steward For as monolithic and immutable as this outdated custom
of the younger generation, while the younger generations sup- is, a part of me still holds on to the spirit behind this law, cre-
port the efforts of the older. Yet in all my years at school, I ated so long ago: stewardship of the younger generation. I have
have rarely seen my teachers intercede on the behalf of low- often asked myself how it might be possible to guide us back to
erclassmen when these Confucian values are used and abused Confuciuss true intentions, without chaffing too hard against
by bullies. Instead of being a tool that helps to unite us into a the grain. The answer I have come up with is this: One day, I,
stronger family, these values have divided us and made us like too, will be a senior, a highly ranked officer, or even a teacher
hens within a pecking order; each individual pecking and being and role model. When these times come, I will not only re-
pecked on in turn, with everyone aspiring to become a senior strain myself from bullying, but I will also set an example for
so they can live out the maxim that absolute power corrupts others by truly mentoring those who are younger than me. I
absolutely. will use firm but gentle ways to dissuade the reckless abuse of
Exacerbating an already serious problem is the confusion power. I will show the world the spirit of solidarity that this
brought on by rank versus age. In school, an upperclassman is law can manifest when it is followed with integrity. In this way,
not always older than you in years. Do you then speak to them perhaps I can illustrate to others the difference between power
with the honorific yo, or should you expect it from them? and force. In this way, perhaps I can finally become the change
This problem is amplified even further in the mandatory mili- I wish to see in this world I am a part of.
tary service that every Korean male is expected to undertake
for two years. Since men can enter into the military anytime
between the ages of twenty and thirty, it is not uncommon for
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 56 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 57
Dip Into Happiness I move the first paces into the cool and transparent water.
A shiver of pleasure runs up my spine. I am about to dip and
Hana Zeric, Grade 10, Age 15. St. Stephens School, Rome, Italy, disappear into the purity of water that washes away sorrows
Tamzen Flanders, Teacher and joys, leaving me in a state of ideal nothing, where even the
thoughts trapped in my mind will be wiped away by the water
The sound of a wave more powerful than the others reawak- passed through my ears, and where I just swim, moving for-
ens me from my daydream. At once excitement flows through ward. I am about to, but I do not entirely dare. The cold makes
my veins. I realize where I am. I stand in front of the grand me shiver, and yet I do not move from this point, vacillating
sea, motionless, feigning a calm that I do not own. Joy in its with indecision. I am in between water and land, in the cold.
pure shape. Here, basking in the light of this spot, I can feel Half of my body is immersed, and the other half is dry. Wheth-
my true self, the one that does not need peoples company, peo- er I come out of the water or I plunge myself into the depths of
ples help, and peoples approval. I am alone with the waves. the sea, I will sense the tender heat of the sun, or I will be so
Somewhere behind me, however, I perceive the laughter of my cooled down by the crystal water that I will feel almost warm
brother, the voices of my parents, and I feel warmed by their again. My hands run to the goggles stretched on my forehead,
protection. Ahead there is just a vast valley of sapphire water. and I pull them downwards, to cover my eyes.
I breathe in the pure marine aromas. Another year has passed, and my soul has been shaped by
Behind the gentle curve of the promontory that the beach tears, sudden joys, my parents kissing me on the cheeks in
follows, I feel the presence of my true home, Makarska. Home the morning before I leave, long walks hand-in-hand with my
sweet home. brother, friends greeting me every morning and embracing me
From miles above, the heavenly azure sky surmounts my with their affection, the first acknowledged encounters with
smallness. At the horizon, it is covered with a single scarf of injustice and death, newfound knowledge, and love above all,
soft clouds, like fluctuating snow. The sea is sparkling with all but the sea is untouched in its mystery.
the colors of the rainbow. The white, hard, perfectly shaped I feel a deep, pleasant pain in my chest. My heart is over-
pebbles leave uneven and strange marks on the soles of my feet. whelmed by the grandeur of this sight, and I feel smaller than
One wave after another crashes incessantly against the shore. a drop in the ocean.
The burning rays of the sun, whose undying light shines
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 58 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 59
With the exception of a few puttering cars whose drivers are letters, yet I can almost hear him reciting the poem in his ten-
still wiping the sleep from their bloodshot eyes, and a poverty- der voice and heavy accent. The verse is complex and wise, but
stricken wanderer who has lost his sense of time, my grand- raw and savage at the same time. The words burn my ears with
father walks alone through the narrow drives of his colony. dark intensity like a branding iron on calf hide, and I see his
In the darkness, he thinks of his childhood, of the partition pursed lips scowling as he reads.
of India. He thinks of his parents, and the village where he But as the sun seduces the sky with its warm and orange
was born. When he was my age, my nana had already been an touch, I know my nana is smiling. These days he is always
adult for many years; terror, violence, and death made him old smiling. On the same desk where his yellowing journals sit, he
before his time. Now time has caught up to him and has taken has set up a computer and a web camera. He grins and claps his
his thick hair, his hearing, and his health. In the dim glow of stained hands when we video chat. I am still adjusting my eyes
dawn, he walks beyond the crumbling home where he raised to the light as my grandfather returns from work at the Sewa
two children. He turned an abandoned dentists office with a Mandir, a nonprofit hospital he runs with the help of my grand-
leaky ceiling and steel pots on the dirt floor that overflowed mother. It is 8:00 a.m. in Michigan and 6:30 p.m. in Ajmer,
into puddles during the wet monsoon season into a home for but his home and my home have never seemed so close. Today,
his family. Tugging at his cap, he tries to hide his memories though, I have trouble looking into his eyes, and I stare down
under the knitted wool until he is back in his study. He keeps at my sweating palms. He knows that I havent been able to get
his journals on a modest wooden desk where he writes. I imag- out of bed for days, that Ive been missing too much school, and
ine he must have hundreds of journals, piled as high as the that Ive been overwhelmed by anxiety. I wait for him to ask
Himalayas along the edge of the table. From the desk, he can me if Im sick or if I need help, but instead he promises that I
see his garden through a large paned window adorned by heavy will be okay. He tells me that he and my grandmother got a new
curtains that have never been drawn closed. But right now it puppy: a tiny retriever named Goldie. He tells me Goldie hides
is dark, and the flowers seem to be sleeping under a blanket of in his shoes and nips at his ankles on the cold marble floors. He
dew. In the day, the jasmine and lilies will dance to remind my tells me, Goldie is very smart. He likes to play on the stairs.
nana that he is surrounded by life. He climbs one step, and jumps down. He climbs two steps, and
In the pool of light from a single lamp, he slowly peels off his jumps down. He climbs up to the third step, but he knows it is
cap and gloves and smooths his wispy, white hair with his frail too high, and he does not jump down. Even Goldie knows his
and wrinkled hands. With an ink-dipped fountain pen in his limits. My grandfather learns from everything around him.
grasp, he scribbles quickly and the words spill onto a new page He wants to help everything around him. Break the shack-
of an old journal. In his poetry he escapes reality, or rather, les, he says. Then he tells me a story that I dont understand:
transcends reality. My grandfather publishes his work in both There were two buckets. One was golden and proud, and the
English and Hindi, but today he writes in Hindi. I cannot read other was of humble tin. A thirsty traveler asked for water.
all of the Devanagari script that looks more like pictures than Both buckets ran to drench him, but you know the water was
the same.
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 62 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 63
the prospect of impending adulthood; simply put, Im afraid of viewing manner and well-formatted rsums that will some-
growing up. how give us the privilege of being able to contribute to it in a
Much of my apprehension stems from the fact that, from positive manner? And what makes us obligated to show great
what I have been able to observe through my life in a middle- loyalty to bosses and companies that would gladly throw their
class suburban enclave, even adults dont seem to enjoy adult- employees out on the street if they found they could move their
hood all that much. Life as a grown-up seems to consist largely operations to Thailand or Guatemala?
of rushing between appointments, deadlines, and meetings, To be clear, I dont mean for this to devolve into a foot-stamp-
stressors blunted only by a customary evening-time alcoholic ing rant against the Western capitalism that has bestowed
beverage and a couple of hours flipping through cable network, upon us such wonders as automobiles, skyscrapers, and the
before passing out during a late-night talk-show hosts mono- self-lubricating catheter. It is simply an expression of frustra-
logue. As a naturally shy and annoyingly pensive individual, I tion at the fact that adult life seems doomed to be nothing more
am not necessarily enamored with the hormonal ooze of high than one long anxiety attack over how to allot the rectangular
school life either, but even then, a dry two-hour chemistry lec- pieces of green paper that seem to be the defining barometer of
ture seems to be infinitely preferable to paying the heating bills self-worth in our society.
or contesting charges with unresponsive credit-card-company It also stems from worry over the idea that I may very well
answering machines. be in the process of missing my prime. I had always heard that
And I dont think that I speculate about this dishearten- high school was supposed to be the best time of ones life, but
ing drudgery with no foundation. As teenagers, we have got- as someone who was (is) chronically unable to indulge in the
ten used to the sermonizing of teachers and others who ask dates and parties that are supposedly the hallmark of the teen-
us to prepare ourselves for the vagaries of the so-called real age years, I feel that that train has already left the station.
world, which is apparently populated by hyenas and vultures Some have attempted to remedy such despair on my part by
just waiting for us to stumble so they can swoop down, pluck saying that, in fact, it is ones college years that are the apex.
out our eyeballs, and feast heartily on our entrails. The cen- I suppose that gives me some more time to work on my social
tral theme of these tough-love speeches, these grim hybrids of shortcomings. But does that mean that, in roughly five to six
boot-camp pep talks and video Pilates-instructor directives, is years, I can prepare for one long downward slide, at least until
that, to paraphrase Uncle Ben from the first Spiderman movie, I retire and spend my days shunting a croquet ball around a re-
with the great power and independence afforded to us by adult tirement-home lawn? Or will I find that my frontal cortex even-
life, we must also take on great responsibility. tually reaches full development, and one day in my mid-twenties
Perhaps, but then again, many of these obligations seem Ill wake up with an overwhelming urge to put on a suit and tie
thrust upon us as a result of the curious machinations of en- and go provide for my progeny? Either way, Id like to take this
tirely artificial constructs of human thought. I mean, what is chance to make a tentative reservation for one to Neverland.
an economy anyway, and what is it about a confident inter-
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 66 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 67
Songs. He hesitated a moment. Classical music, mostly. . . . powerful. I think he recognized his unconscious slip too.
Songs that were popular back then. We were both silent for a moment. The pot bubbled contently
Did she sing to you? behind us.
Hm! He exclaimed, which is his way of saying yes. Its Did you like it when she sang to you?
hard to describe, but theres a lot of force behind the word, as He nodded as much as he could. Yes, I asked her to sing for
the pitch increases at least three notes. Mothers like to sing me.
to their kids. Do you remember any of her songs? Can you sing one?
Was she a good singer? Now?
He paused. It was a mental pause; his hands were still mov- Now.
ing, the food was still being cooked, but his thoughts stalled in He breathes deeply, trying to gather the lyrics. I remember
his eyes. Yes. She was good. my mom telling me that when they were young, my dad would
Very good? ask her to sing for him. Every day. She has a beautiful voice too.
Very good. I guess my dad had a soft spot for good singers.
How good? To be honest, I didnt expect much when he sang. Both my
She was so good that she used to sing at anti-British rallies. brother and I have played the piano for most of our lives, and
People would call her to sing, in front of thousands of people. have bent over backward trying to get him to recognize simple
She was in sixth, seventh grade. things in music, like major or minor scales, or hitting a note.
Ive never heard him brag about his mother. Himself? All the Its been exasperating, to say the least.
time. But never his mother. He mostly just tries to forget her. But he had a decent voice. More than decent, actually. A
He gives the pot one final stir and sits down in a lawn chair good voice. It was warm and rich, like his eyes and the kitchen
that has found its way into our kitchen. He moves slowly, de- lights. All these things melted together to form this wonderful
liberately. Part of this is because of his back, which has curled perfection in our kitchen, with his voice and the smells and the
into a hunchback that makes him stand slightly shorter than bronzy shades dappled around us.
me. It took me a few bars to recognize the song. He used to sing
And Mom used to sing and sing until the soldiers would it to me when I was little and couldnt fall asleep. He aborted
come and fire their guns, and everyone would run away as far the song after a few verses, saying that it was distracting him
as they could. from his cooking, and shuffled in the hobbitesque way that he
Mom? I asked, trying to picture my mother that old. has back to the pot. And I let him, mostly because my dad hates
No. My mom. it when other people see him cry.
I dont think I can effectively explain to you the significance
of this. Everyone in our house calls my mother Mom. Including
my dad. He refers to his mother as my mom. This switch was
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 70 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 71
hamma would not allow the gardener to cut a single branch, for
fear the gods would leave the tree. So the tree grew throttling
the overripe jack fruit trees and the musky araliya bushes. My
grandfather watched in bewilderment as the branches choked
the gutters and clawed their way up to the wrought-iron balco-
nies, spilling coral-colored flowers swollen with yellow stamen
When the Gods Leave on the bedsheets hung out to dry. Do not touch the babys
tree, my grandmother would warn him severely.
Akshan Dealwis, Grade 11, Age 16. Noble and Greenough School, For fourteen years, every summer, I would arrive sleepy and
Dedham, MA, Richard Baker, Teacher nauseated after eating the egg sandwiches that were sent to
the airport with the driver and my grandfather, who came to
When my mother called from Boston to tell Aththamma that pick me up on the 3:00 a.m. flight to Colombo. Aththamma
I was a boy, it was too late. Aththamma had already packed would be waiting to greet me on the red-tiled veranda with the
her bags and ordered the pinhead-size diamond earrings and sari drawn tightly across her so-thin shoulders like a shroud.
gold bracelets for the granddaughter she thought was on the Flecks of lights would sparkle from inside the house, and out-
way. The doll-size bangles are still in a box with the faded blue side on the Sal tree circled flickering clay lamps. Nestled in
velvet on my mothers dresser, along with the picture of a tiny the branches was the small shrine with statues mildewed and
brown sleeping baby who looks nothing like me. In the same decayed. The shrine is heavy with the heady smell of the slowly
box is the sacred white thread that now looks like rusted wire budding Sal flowers and the swiftly dying jasmines offered the
with the five gold charms to battle the evil eye that harms the previous morning.
newborn. My mother never slipped the bangles through my When Aththamma fell ill last year, there was no one to of-
chubby fingers and, afraid that I would swallow the charms, fer milk rice at the shrine and light a lamp for her health. Her
never hung them around my neck. The earrings went back to maids had left her, unable to take care of a woman who no lon-
Sri Lanka to a six-year-old granddaughter with eyes like black ger could eat without help. The nursing aides would not pluck
diamonds. flowers in the morning. That was not their job. Still, Aththam-
For months before I came to the world, Aththamma offered ma would not allow the branches of the Sal tree to be cut. The
milk rice and jasmines to the gods under the Sal tree in her gardener would come twice a week to cut the grass and sweep
garden, hoping that I would be healthy. She would wash the old away the purple bougainvillea flowers scattered like thousands
silver bowl with the carvings of the intertwined dragons and of crumpled tissue papers on the lawns but he did not touch
fill it with the steaming milk rice the cook would bring to her. the babys tree. The old stone statues green with moss had
The maids would pluck the jasmine still heavy with dew and long slipped off the tree and cracked into myriad delicate lines.
string miniature garlands to be hung on the branches. Atht- Without the jasmines garlanding the tree, there were no bees
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 72 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 73
with their mechanical murmurs buzzing around the tree. The grandfather. There are no terms of endearment written on that
squirrels had built a nest in the hollowed-out bodhiya, and be- book: To Sarojini from your grandfather on the day you leave
cause the branches were reaching into the house, my grandfa- for university. The Rubaiyat is broken halfway down the spine
thers office room often had a green lizard on the windowsill, and held together carefully with yellowed, wrinkled Scotch
watching beady-eyed during the siesta hour. tape and the last pages are missing from it.
The last time I saw Aththamma, she was so tiny that I could Behind the books is an old box of Monopoly covered in dust
barely hold her papery hand. When I bowed to touch her feet and stains. I had never seen a Monopoly board with Piccadilly
in worship, my fingers touched little misshapen bones stick- Circus and Kensington Gardens on it. On a balled-up piece of
ing out in different directions. Before I left, I sorted through paper three children had drawn crooked columns under their
her old books, where silverfish had bored through filigree, like names and totted up the amounts they had made in real estate.
holes. To little Sarojini on her eighth birthday is written on a The houses red, blue, and yellow are still arranged in unsteady
worn copy of Little Women. Years later, my mother had written rows, as if after the game was over the children played with
her own name on the inside cover in a thick red crayon. Her the miniature plastic houses on a foreign land that they called
handwriting, like a childs, is exaggerated with an elaborate their monopoly. What did they think about building houses on
flourish to the R. A copy of Pushkins poetry is underlined me- unfamiliar lands? How did they build houses on land that had
ticulously with a ruler. A tiny black-and-white photo falls out of no araliya trees with sticky oozing milk or wild bougainvil-
it. There are three children sitting on the steps of Aththammas lea spilling off of tiled roofs? How could those children born
garden. The photo is so gray that the girls billowy skirt melts where gods lived in every tree build their homes in strange
into the blackness. Her long hair is tied in a ribbon, and she lands without those gods?
wears no shoes. The two boys have curly hair and look like me. What will you do with the house? my father asks my moth-
I put the photo in my pocket. To Dearest Sarojini, my grand- er tentatively, almost afraid to say the words. Neither speaks
fathers unruly handwriting is on the covers of the Complete about what has happened, what is yet to happen. My mother
Works of Shakespeare, on our engagement. Then there is the slowly removes the papers that look like old deeds from a file
book Aththamma gave to my grandfather, a leather-bound copy tied with string and hands it to him. The string looks twisted
of War and Peace, inscribed in her elegant curling writing, All and discolored on Aththammas saris that my mother has laid
my love, on our engagement. I pick them up to take back to out on her bed. Pink and green and saffron and ochre with a
Boston, but then put them back again side by side, pushed far faint smell of incense burnt to keep out the mosquitoes still
back on the bookshelf so no one would see them and separate clinging to them, the saris are like waves of undulating color.
them. I wondered why my grandmother gave her new husband I remember how they would flutter like a giant kite when Ath-
a copy of War and Peace. On the Shakespeare volume, I could thamma ran behind me on her driveway while I shouted, Run,
still carve out the embossed faces of comedy and tragedy. I run as fast as you can, you cant catch me, I am the gingerbread
put in my backpack the Rubaiyat given to Aththamma by her boy. When she would catch up with me, she would hold me
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 74 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 75
until my head is full of them and I am laughing about how lights that are stars that are magnolias that are still so beauti-
many there are. Laughing, laughing, laughing. ful-perfect-flawless.
I hold onto this day until I cant stand it anymore. Until I And then I feel it. Something lifting, stretching, and expand-
cry over it, though the reason eludes me. But the air is still ing like a balloon. I get excited because I only feel this every
warm, you still look s-o good, and the stars are magnolias, but other Monday, I was due for this tomorrow but now its early.
waitisnt it supposed to be the magnolias that are stars and, And my hips are still pressing and my back is still arching
oh, the wishes are beautiful and perfect and flawless, and I am and my hair is still swinging and, oh, the lights that are stars
still laughing, laughing, laughing. that are magnolias still are so beautiful-perfect-flawless but I
... feel even more so.
She calls up to me, Ill be done in ten minutes, and I tell Somethings lifting. And I realize that, yes! It is my wall thats
her okay, but she tells me that I wont get it done. Nothing gets lifting, lifting, lifting, and I am laughing, laughing, laughing,
done in this house, though. and I feel the girl that rarely comes out, taking a tentative step
I hang on to the banister and let my back arch, arch, arch into this unfamiliar world, and she is beautiful-perfect-flawless
until my head is lolled back too, upside down. And I smile, too. Like the magnolias. And it feels good. It feels so good. Like
because it feels good to me. I can feel my hip bones press into breathing after being underwater for a very long time.
the jeans that I had wanted for so long, and I hold on to the And then, I notice that I didnt need anyone for this lifting. I
bones, because theyre so beautiful to me. I can feel my hair am just hanging from our banister and I am free.
swinging and dusting my lower back, and I laugh, because I My sister had long since finished, but I didnt care. Nothing
feel beautiful. got done in this house anyways. My hips were still pressing, my
I let my eyes open, and I see the lights and, oh, theyre so back still arching, and my hair still swinging and, oh, the lights
pretty and clear like the magnolias, and I laugh because every- that are stars that are magnolias are still so beautiful-perfect-
thing seems so beautiful and perfect and flawless. So much that flawless, and I wish on them until it dizzies and dazzles me
I want to cry. And I almost do. over and over, an explosion that I will never understand.
And I think of you. And I think of mango tea and of bit- And I laugh. I laugh because I feel beautiful-perfect-flawless,
tersweet strawberries and magnolias and stars. And I think and I truly know the reason of happiness and why others are
of that linen-grass-woods smell that Id know anywhere. And so addicted to this feeling, to the point that they do ridiculous
of a warm touch on my back, shoulder, and hand. And of the things to achieve it, yet I had all of the answers in the lights
time when you wrapped me in your arms as I shook like an that are stars that are magnolias and, oh, wasnt it funny that
earthquake, and all I could think was Oh, God, hes staying. it was here all along? And I know you are trying to talk to me,
And I think of the two weeks where I saw so much but heard but Im sorry, Im too busy being free and allowing this girl to
so little . . . breathe fresh air instead of remaining in her prison for so long,
I think of many things, and my hip bones still press, my hair and how odd, I think, that I have no name for a girl I know so
still swings, and my back still arches, and I can still see the well yet so little.
PERSONAL ESSAY / MEMOIR | 78 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 79
what did I do? I ran someone over. To be more specific, I ran May 23rd, Entry 2: The street cone.
the mayor of Windham over. Ever since I got denied that application to GE, Ive kind of been
Okay, I know that sounds pretty bad, but before you judge, lying low. By lying low, I mean hollowing out my uncles fridge
you should know that the mayor of Windham at the time was and playing Call of Duty. Im casually looking at different com-
quite short. He also happened to be dressed in an orange panies and corporations, but Im filled with despair as I read
sweater with white stripes that day, which made him look basi- requirements of character and application formats, because I
cally identical to a street cone. Actually, that probably made know a light bulb painter at the GE headquarters has a bet-
you judge me considerably more, so why dont we just forget I ter chance of making it into any large business. Maybe Ill go
said that? Its not like Im writing this journal to let whoever into banking, you know? They do all kinds of illegal crap that
reads this in a few years judge me. Matter of fact, I didnt want the government doesnt care about, so Id probably fit in pretty
to write this at all. But my uncle made me. Hes a professor at nicely. Nah, who am I kidding. Theres no way to be successful
Brown (which is how my incident got overlooked in my ap- with a record . . .
plication), and hes also my former, and only, legal guardian. Hold up, I never really expanded on that story about me run-
I never did know my mom and dad. Only Uncle Roland and ning over the mayor of Windham, did I? Let me be clear. I
Aunt Mary, but she passed away when I was six. Go ahead, pity never intended to do such a thing. He was opening up some
me, boo-hoo, all that crap, but I dont remember any of it viv- highway apparently, and I could only see the back of him. My
idly. If youre going to pity anyone, pity my uncle. Hes the one uncle told me that this highway was opening at 9:00 a.m. over
who went through all of the deaths. Its kind of ironic, because the phone, and I mistook that for 8:00 a.m. So I drive over, ar-
my uncle is always so happy. He brings so much life into the riving at 8:30, and see nothing but the highway, a just-snapped
world, just to see it disappear. Now that I think about it, irony red ribbon, and an authoritative street cone. Remember, there
is my family curse. My aunt died of cancer after it was caught are no people standing and watching, because lets be hon-
too late. She was an oncologist. A building collapsed on my dad est: its Windham. No one goes to public events in this town.
during a business trip in western California. He was an archi- I simply figured the highway was open, and I was the first one
tect. My mom died of Lyme disease, a result of a tick bite. She there. I barreled through, eager to visit New London (my friend
was an entomologist, one who studies insects and arachnids. moved there, and the highway was a direct route) and then the
Ill probably die like that too. The victim of irony, the target street cone that I ever-so-carelessly knocked into rolled over
of misfortune. Maybe Ill become a chef and starve to death. the hood of my Honda Civic, screaming like a human. Like an
Maybe Ill be working for a car company, only to be run over angry mayor type of human.
by its most recent brand. Maybe Ill be a daredevil who dies of Listen, Ive said this before, and Ill say it again: Im not a
something lame, like old age. I doubt any of those will happen dope. I got into an Ivy League university. So what if my uncle
though. Its not like Ive got much of a future ahead of me if I teaches Literature there? With my record, it kind of cancels
cant even be a light bulb painter for the General Electric head- out. So dont think I wasnt shocked when I realized I was re-
quarters. Not even a light bulb painter . . .
HUMOR | 82 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 83
sponsible for several broken bones in our treasured mayor. June 19th, Entry 3: A meaningful Nice to meet you.
That was one of the stupidest things Ive ever done in my life. Its been more than a month since I started this journal, and
But to be honest, it was pretty hilarious a couple days after. I believe youve been in the dark about one crucial detail: my
You know, after all the legal stuff was worked out. I was prob- identity. Additionally, my gender. Maybe you assume Im a man
ably cracking up the whole day, which is weird, because I dont because of my talk of business and whatnot, in which case Id
crack up. It kind of sucks that running over short people was have the right to call you sexist. However, I am indeed male, so
the thing that got me, though. But the whole situation was so I cant do that. If only, if only. Anyway, I think its about time
. . . ironic. Yeah. I think that family curse is catching up to me. you know my name. Hello, my name is David Luther. Nice to
But really, the mayor getting run over right after he opens a meet you.
highway to the public? Thats good stuff. Now that weve cleared that up, I think its necessary to say
Now that I think about it, the only person in my family who Ive found my low-key business to work in. Before I say what it
hasnt experienced a lot of irony is my Uncle Roland. Which is is, I hope you acknowledge that Ive been looking everywhere
ironic because he teaches ironic pieces in his classes for a good for the right job since I wrote my second entry. I started work-
part of each year. So is that ironic? Is it ironic that Im con- ing at some fast-food restaurants, but that was too demean-
fused about irony when I may be part of one of the most ironic ing. I can enjoy a Big Mac every once and a while, but not one
families on earth? Is it ironic that Ive used the word ironic thats been made by a co-worker. Aside from McDonalds and
or irony about eight times in this paragraph alone? The world KFC, I worked at a frozen yogurt place called Cream-Haven.
may never know. Lets just leave it at that, I suppose. Ive over- I got out of there pretty quickly for two important reasons:
worked my brain enough today. One, Rhode Island frozen yogurt doesnt make money, because
Anyway, I guess what Ill try to do is start my own business. Rhode Island frozen yogurt stinks. Two, I may be liberal, but
Ill probably have to start off small, though. I think Im just go- the owners wanted to set me up with their dog. No, thanks.
ing to work up some money being a cashier or something like Finally, I ended up where I think Ill be for a good amount of
that, then use the money Ive saved up to get the wheels turning time. Its a convenience store in downtown Providence called
for my business. My theory for business is specialization and Stock of the Season. Staying true to its name, it sells all dif-
uniqueness; youve got to specialize in one thing in particular, ferent types of convenience-store appliances according to the
and make sure you dont have much competition. Even if its season. For example, over the summer we sell blow-up kiddie
something random, like, I dont know, spoons. But youve got pools, suntan lotion, and those foam noodles that embarrass-
to make the best spoons out there, put them up for a reason- ing uncles of teenagers bring into public pool areas. Especially
able price, and youve got business. Yeah, spoons. That sounds eccentric uncles named Roland who work at Brown University
pretty good, actually. Im gonna write that down. Spoons. and wear full wetsuits . . . for the shallow end. God, that was
a disaster.
On my first day, everyone was quite friendly. Im a cashier
HUMOR | 84 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 85
along with two other people, a short blonde girl currently at- with in the beginning, but here, stage one of friendship turns
tending Brown University (she must be alright if shes going into stage two. So, if I know anything about logical progres-
to a college like that) named Carol Ackerman, and an African- sions, stage two will become stage three, and stage three . . .
American seventeen-year-old named James Graham, but he Stage three is like having a second family.
said I could just call him Jim. It was sort of awkward consider-
ing the fact that Im several years older than both of them, but July 4th, Entry 4: The curse has arrived.
like I said, they were very grateful to see a new face. At least Screw irony.
thats the vibe they gave off. I hate it! Its stupid, counterproductive, and unfair. Especial-
Youre gonna start a business? Jim said when I told him ly today, because today its double irony. Today is supposed to
my long-term plan. How are you supposed to do that without be the day of America, the country of business, the country of
a loan? success, and I get more death. And more responsibility.
I dont trust banks. I barely trust them with my account, I Of course, the moment I feel comfortable in my workplace,
said truthfully. another irony-bomb drops. Of course! What would the son of
Well said, David. Well said. Kim and Thomas Luther be without irony. I dont know if Ive
Ive got to say though, the application interview was the even written this down yet, but my whole life has been irony.
most awkward part. The owner, George Robin, was like eighty- In third grade I got into trains. Trains, trains, trains. It was all
something, and he sometimes just paused before asking a ques- about trains. And the day I bought that gigantic train set, thats
tion, which made a really awkward silence. I kind of felt bad the day my dog got run over. By a train. I used to be really into
for him, though. He never got married or had any kids, so hes nature in the fifth grade. I was out in the woods almost every
pretty much running this store until the day he retires, which day. The animals, the trees, the grass, the leaves. And the day
he should have done a couple of decades ago. I guess he must before I go out to camp, I break my leg. By falling out of a tree.
be really committed to that place. The end of the interview was Ive got dozens more examples, but you get my point. But this
him telling me how I was a leader type with fresh ideas and . . . this is the worst of all.
a good sense of character, which is really nice considering the Goddammit, so much for getting on my feet, huh? I joined
fact that I had to confess that I ran over the mayor of Windham. Stock of the Season because it was a decent salary that could
Nevertheless, he likes me, I appreciate him, and we respect each help me start a business, but no. My plans never work out. Nev-
other behind the register. This is my kind of business. er have, never will. You think I wanted to get bailed out by my
The most interesting part was the greetings. Anywhere you uncle after an hour of jail time and get a twice-as-long lecture
work, people say hello and nice to meet you, but they dont from the police and my uncle the day I ran over that authorita-
really care. They just want to go home and relax at the end of tive street cone? No, I was planning to see my buddy, Nick. We
the day. But at Stock of the Season, it felt like they meant it. In were gonna spend the day together, catch up. But I forgot that
any workplace, youll make friends who you werent friendly nothing works out for David Luther, never!
HUMOR | 86 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 87
And now its the last straw. I cant take it anymore! The iro-
ny, the death, the lost dreams, Ive had enough. But it isnt re-
ally my choice, I suppose. I guess I just thought things would
work out for once, that I could get a big break with one good
idea, but that was stupid of me. I should have known what I
was getting into.
You know what? I think he meant to do it, the old coot! All
that talk about me being a leader type . . . it was so obvious
Creative Napping 101
what he was doing! He finally had a chance to relax, with me Katelyn Davis, Grade 11, Age 16. Mississippi School for the Arts,
coming along. He had no more responsibilities with a leader Brookhaven, MS, Jeanne Lebow, Teacher
type, so why wouldnt he take a break. He could chill for the
first time, and thats what killed him. Not old age. 8:43 a.m.
And you know how its ironic? Let me give you a bulleted list: She draped her black pea coat over the back of her chair and
Im the newest employee at Stock of the Season; Ive only straightened out her sweater in the reflection of her computer
been working here for half a month. screen. Seventeen minutes, she noted as she rolled her Pilot
Its the Fourth of July, Independence Day, the day we get to Bottle-2-Pen between her fingers. Promptly two minutes later,
make our own choices. she paced to the door, opening it, just before a handful of stu-
Although there are only two details that make this occur- dents piled in. She cantered back over to her desk, sitting upon
rence ironic, theyre big ones. Very big ones. Matter of fact, I it, waiting in silence for the room to fill.
think Im going to need to reintroduce myself: Hello, my name When it did, she adjusted her thick-rimmed, cat-eyed glasses
is David Luther. Nice to meet you. I am now, by right of will, and spoke. My name is Dr. Mary Lee. You will address me as
the new owner of Stock of the Season. Dr. Lee and only that. She stared out at the paled faces. You
will need paper, pens, creativity, determination, and a sense for
dry humor. If you have come to class without any of these ma-
terials, the door is to your right. Please do not close it behind
you, as Im sure there will be more to follow.
She looked up as one young girl shamefully walked to the
door, and then continued.
In addition, good grammar, a compelling love for strong
English tea, a high tolerance for confessional poetry, and excel-
lent comprehension of overcharacterized metaphors will prove
itself useful in this course. You may want to invest in a high-
HUMOR | 88 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 89
capacity mobile filing cabinet as well. She gave her audience a At that instant the entire second and third row of her class
blank expression, counted one . . . two . . . three . . . four, until headed for the door. Dr. Lee simply stared at them blankly as
another portion of her class had exited. they left her classroom behind.
If youre looking for an easy A, I would suggest you leave In conclusion, you will need an infinite amount of passion
now in order to make it to home economics on time. If youre for your writing to survive my course. If you are still here, you
here because you think youre a good writer, you should prob- must think you have what it takes. She said as her last two
ably start searching for a gullible publishing company, and it students peered at her over a stack of outlandish supplies. They
wouldnt be a bad idea to pick up some food-court applications said nothing.
on your way out. So? Dr. Lee raised an eyebrow at the smallest girl. She rose
Two more students disappeared. to her feet and exploded into tiny tears of intimidation and
If youre here because you thought this was an English fled from the classroom, leaving her filing cabinet behind. Dr.
class, reread your class descriptions and find your way to ad- Lee turned to the only remaining student. After a good thirty
missions. Three more students disappeared into the hallway. seconds of an intense staring contest, she retreated back to her
Dr. Lee turned toward her white board and wrote Creative desk drawer and pulled out a mass of papers, neatly lined and
Writing 101 and then turned back to her quickly dissipating bound with a binder clip.
class just as a latecomer staggered in at exactly 9:08. The stack of papers landed neatly on the last students desk
If you cannot be here five minutes early, this isnt the class along with the words This is your syllabus for the first grading
for you. She watched him stop mid-trek, turn, and walk back period. Before Dr. Lee could enjoy the anticipated look of fear
out. in his eyes, the last student had her back turned on Creative
If you have ever in your life referred to a grocery basket Writing 101 and was through the door.
as a buggy or a Pepsi as a Coke, I suggest you switch to Dr. Lee glanced at her watch. 9:22 a.m.
an English class and consider taking this class next year. Dr. That took five minutes longer than last year, she announced
Lee paced to the back of her classroom and removed a stack of to an empty class as she pulled a blanket from under her desk
worn, heavily-used composition books from the closet. Return- and nestled into her chair for her first nap of the year.
ing to the front of the room, she let the stack of books land
solidly on a students desk.
You will need an unlimited supply of composition books and
a bottomless pit of ink in multiple colors. Inspiration will be
key in this course. If you do not have inspirational surround-
ings, I suggest you indulge in some type of tragedy. Murder has
proven to be great inspiration for me in the past.
HUMOR | 90 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 91
sensation. Thats 174 times every second that @sswwaaggyy- attention, its common knowledge, and that doesnt piss me off
biber feels the need to tell Justin just ignore the h8ers or @ enough to write an essay about it. What pisses me offlets call
hipstermermaid compels himself to insult the Biebs new hair- it the fall of Twitteris the propensity of Internet users to take
cut (and lets be honest, it looks terrible). Like I said, Ive sent my something fantastic and turn it into a technically advanced pile
share of horrible tweets, but Id never lower myself to begging of radioactive, methane-breathing shit that cares more about
for attention from Justin Bieber, no matter how many times he #ObamaRyanGayFic than it does Hurricane Sandy or an up-
posts pictures of himself shirtless. But damn, he looks good. coming presidential election. Twitter isnt the only social net-
At the time, I think the ninety-seven percent of us who werent work to suffer this wayReddit, Digg, 4chan, Tumblr, Flickr,
tweeting about Justin just held on to the hope that the stupidity YouTube, Vimeo, Foursquare, Instagram, and Goodreads have
would contain itself to Biebermania, and as long as we avoided also gone bad. Im not saying people cant have fun, but if
following members of that three percent (three percent of the theyre going to spend their limited time and energy in this life
two percent I mentioned before, which I guess is more like .06 writing short-burst messages about their favorite celebrity or
percent), our baby social network could avoid a horrible, vapid how their coffee is too hot (I know, @curlykrysten, its a hard life),
death. This was Star Wars, and we thought we were the Empire. then Id ask them to please pull themselves together and post that
We werent. We were a collective Obi wan Kenobi. crap somewhere else. I hear MySpace is looking for users.
Since 2010, Twitters crown has passed to Lady Gaga. Im not Ive made an effort over the years to make my Twitter some-
surprised, considering her millions of fans are so obsessed with thing respectable, and Ive encouraged other people to do the
the high fashion popstar that they call her Mother Monster same. To people outside of the Twitterverse, I probably come
and have even termed themselves her Little Monsters, imply- on a little strong. I might seem obsessive. But Ive spent the
ing that all thirty million of them burst forth from Gagas swol- past five years cultivating my (tiny) following and building up
len uterus, hair dyed pink, screaming the lyrics to Born This my Klout score from a lowly ten to a little over fifty, which puts
Way. Bieber represented the worst of social networking in the me above ninety-five percent of Internet users. If I can put
first decade of this century, but Lady Gaga and her Monsters work into making sure my Twitter feed is (usually) grammati-
take viral stupidity to a whole new level. Every few weeks, they cally correct and my tweets are about things that matter, why
flood the Twitter Trending Topics with hashtags begging for cant @annepat or @connorhoward95? And how is it fair that
the stars attention. #JakartaNeedsTheBornThisWayBall, #An- Lady Gaga and Justin Bieber have tens of millions of followers
otherMillionMonsters, and #MadonnaCanSuckGagasTit are even though all of her tweets are written while shes drunk or
actual honest-to-God hashtags that made the Trending Top- high and his consist of bad Instagram pictures of his (admit-
ics, but without a doubt, the worst trend inspired by the pop tedly well-shaped) body? Some of us, what seems like the mi-
icon has to be #IWorshipLadyGodga. Godga. Its kind of like nority, are trying to post content thats funny or interesting or
a worst nightmare. just well written, but well always lose out to celebrity selfies
What Im saying is this: I know that Twitter is just a tool for and drunk tweets from college students.
attention whores to satisfy their needsif youve paid enough
SCIENCE FICTION / FANTASY | 94 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 95
Wedding Feast my fingers is loose, and I dont wish for it to fall off during the
ceremony.
Holly Rice, Grade 11, Age 16. North East School of the Arts, Emma turned from organizing the white rose bouquets and
San Antonio, TX, Amy Stengel, Teacher looked at her Aunt Virginia. The middle-aged woman wore a
shawl over her hunched shoulders. She chuckled slightly under a
The small town of Castle Marks (one might not really call it a velvet-laced veil, and dry flakes of decayed flesh sprinkled onto
town since only 193 people actually lived there), was known for the carpeted floor. Her niece complied dutifully as she picked
rules. It seemed the conservative community had a law for any- the small, plum-colored bag and fetched a needle and thread
thing that could appear before the pathway of the foolish, and from its organized contents. Emma did not like the feel of the
many appreciated this, for it gave the people delight in know- much-used kit in her hands, but she could never explain why. It
ing what they could and could not do. The constrictions felt was very helpful to her family, and she was certain as time went
freeing in a way that was grounding to know that you would on it would serve her as well. Still, she had never felt content
never have to doubt the right versus the wrong. Everything around needles, no matter how wonderful they could be.
you could need to understand was all there before you. At least, Thanks, darling.
thats how Emma felt. Virginia smiled, her brown-and-red gums showing under-
Emma had been pleased to find out her cousin had chosen to neath her cracked lips. With a shaking left hand, the woman
be married in the Town Hall she had grown up in. The girl had pulled out a silver needle with a lilac thread, to match the col-
been afraid her cousins eccentric fianc would have an influ- ors of the wedding party, and started looping it through a thin
ence over his bride; and he did, to some degree. layer of skin covering her middle finger.
The dresses were less than chaste in her opinion, but the This whole day has my stitches coming undone. Margret
color was nice. The town members often wore royal blue dur- hasnt had a craving for brains in two weeks, and her skin is
ing such events, so Emma was not used to much else, but the starting to pinken! I swear, if she wasnt my daughter . . .
lilac color chosen looked pleasant against her gray skin, and The woman shook her head, securing the thread with a knot.
the flower-adorned hat covered a section of the exposed brain She dropped the needle and kit back into the plum purse and
peeking out from her skull. She could not decide whether she placed it by her ankles.
liked covering this or not. She had been told women should
SCIENCE FICTION / FANTASY | 96 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 97
Well, nothing I can do now. At least I have another go with Emmas Uncle Bill let out a scratchy moan as his daughter
you. approached him. His left eye dangled next to his open mouth as
Emma nodded, hoping to look as if she was paying atten- he embraced Margret. His rotting, gangly fingers touched her
tion. She loved her aunt, but her insistence on controlling her shoulders for a moment, before intertwining her arm with his
upbringing could be quite exasperating. At that moment, Mar- in preparation to march down the aisle.
gret, dressed in a white-lace gown, entered the holding room Virginia lined up the girls in front of the bride. The grooms-
with a cluster of her bridesmaids. Emma recognized two of men stood next to the bridesmaids. The man of honor tugged
them; her cousins Eden and Charity were glancing down ner- at his dress collar nervously as Eden, the twin who had always
vously at their spaghetti-strap dresses while talking idly with been a tad closer to Margret, came to stand next to him with
one another. The twins smiled their hellos at Emma and Vir- her bouquet of long, white roses.
ginia as they filed into the powder room. Emma took her place next to a boy in his early twenties, try-
The other two girls were obviously from the grooms side of ing very hard to conceal her mottled pale blush. She had never
the family. Their skin had a yellowy glow to it, and they had found men with such clear skin attractive before, except for
long, flowing hair that looked too shiny to be a wig. Emma Mayor James, but that was when she was much younger. With
tried to smile at them, but they hastily turned away. this boy she found herself wondering what the folds of his brain
Giving her niece a small hug, Margret let out a nervous looked like, and how he would look if his finger were to loosen.
laugh. Emma noticed her skin was softer than it had been be- Of course, Emma chided herself for thinking such dirty things,
fore and had a rosy tone to it. The girl didnt comment though; but she couldnt help but wonder.
her aunts frown was enough to conclude that it was not her The wooden doors of the small building opened as the organ
imagination. began to play. As they had rehearsed, the wedding party walked
Lets hurry up then, Virginia said as she picked herself up down the aisle slowly and carefully. Virginia, Eden, and Char-
from a lounge chair, her bones crackling like wood as she stood. ity had all made sure their legs and ankles were properly at-
The group of girls met the rest of the wedding party out- tached and stitched; it was always better to be safe than sorry.
side the chapel doors. Margret had decided on using the newer, Emma noticed Mayor James smiling at her from the second
smaller building as opposed to the larger auditorium used dur- row of benches, his strawberry blonde hair combed back and
ing services and town meetings. She had also insisted on hav- his porcelain skin glowing in the reflection of the stained-glass
ing her future husbands pastor lead their service instead of windows. He winked a hazel eye at her, and Emma couldnt
Mayor James, who often was very involved in anything occur- help but shiver slightly. She never knew why she was so jit-
ring in his town. Virginia was against this but finally relented tery around the mayor. He had practically raised her, but she
after having her daughter promise to invite the family friend never could get the cold feeling out of her stomach when he was
to the service. around. Her mother and aunt reassured her that these feelings
went away with time, and that as long as she did what he said,
everything would be fine.
SCIENCE FICTION / FANTASY | 98 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 99
The guests stood as Margret walked next to her father. The her fathers fate, was sad about what was to come. This both-
girl had a wide smile on her face, showcasing two teeth poking ered her, for she felt as if she should be sad too, but wasnt able
out from pale gums. Emma wondered if she would look that to make sense of the reasoning. Instead, she helped guide her
happy when she was getting married, and decided she probably uncles body to the storage closet, in case it started to move
wouldnt. Her parents, who were sitting stoically in the fifth around while unattended, and headed out the oak doors down
row, never recalled their wedding day to be particularly joyful, to the reception area.
nor did her aunt or uncle. Emma sat beside Charity as Margret and her new husband
The ceremony was short, and Emma was glad. Even though twirled across the small wooden floor. The building had no
she did not require stitches yet, her bones were becoming rooms made for dancing, so the wedding guests had pushed
weak, and standing for too long made her feel faint. back the white, cloth-covered tables to create a small dance
When the preacher announced that the groom could now kiss floor for the bride and groom. Emma saw her Aunt Virginia
his bride, Emma watched with a questioning gaze. Her cousins staring disapprovingly at her daughter and as some of the
lips, which were now touching her grooms, became a pink color, grooms family made to join them. Mayor James never liked
and her patches of dark brown hair seemed to become glossy dancing, so the town did not like dancing either.
and longer against her flesh. Emma had heard of people kissing Chicken and salads had been passed out, and the smooth-
like this, but she never thought it was true. She had not seen skinned, full-haired guests ate with eager bites. They looked
much affectionate contact in her life, except when she had once at the occupants of the town oddly as their china remained
accidently walked in on her parents rubbing brains. That was a empty. It was obvious to Emma that they were not aware of the
moment, though, she would have liked to forget. change in menu for the brides guests.
On the brides side, a clunk was heard as Emmas Uncle Bills Margret let out a laugh as the man holding her hand spun her
head rolled across the wooden floor. There were a couple of around, her dress flowing elegantly by her ankles. She didnt
gasps and wide-eyed looks from the grooms side of the room, seem to notice when Mayor James, who had disappeared after
but her Aunt Virginia ignored them as she discreetly scooped the ceremony, entered the reception areas door, a lid-covered
up her husbands detached brain-pan and held it in her arm as tray held in his hands.
she returned back to her place. He smiled a row of pearl-like teeth as his followers started
As the guests filed out of the room, some ogling at the head- to approach him, plates at the ready. Emma stood with Char-
less body still by the altar, Aunt Virginia dutifully passed the ity and Eden, her own plate gripped tightly in her hands. She,
head to Mayor James, whose lips curled happily in response. personally, could not smell what was under the silver cover but
Bills left eye still dangled from its socket, but the right one had could tell by the longing looks in her familys clouded eyes that
now closed. Emma frowned when she noticed the hungry look they all could smell it perfectly.
her family held as their eyes rested on Bills exposed brain. She Mayor James chuckled, amused.
wondered for some reason if Margret, who surely had noticed
SCIENCE FICTION / FANTASY | 100 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 101
I know you all have been waiting, he said, his eyes flicker-
ing to the tray, but what better way to celebrate such a beauti-
ful occasion?
With a lavish movement, Mayor James grabbed the handle
of the lid, and pulled it away. Emma could faintly smell some-
thing that reminded her of meatloaf. Her cousin Edens shriv-
eled tongue poked out of her lips, and Emma could see her
fathers mouth let out a moan. Mayor James smiled.
Dont Be Afraid of the Dark
Dig in. Gloria Martinez, Grade 8, Age 13. BASIS Oro Valley,
Filed in a perfect line, one by one the guests held their plates Oro Valley, AZ, Heather Nagami, Teacher
up to the mayor, not waiting long before digging their teeth, or
gums in most cases, into the rubbery substance. Emma was My older brother Tynan always tells me not to be afraid of the
close in line, and the food on the tray could still be recognized dark, but its a hard thing to do.
as a brain. I clutch the edge of my quilted blanket tighter as I wait for
Emma sat back down, having received her portion. Her piece the small sliver of blue light to stretch throughout the room
was smaller than most of the other guests, seeing as she was and chase away the darkness. The tiny light that is a sign of
younger and did not need as much to behave properly. She the dawn that is to come has just appeared on the dark wooden
bowed her head. floor from the frost-covered window above me. It lies in front
Thank you, Uncle Bill, for your contribution, Emma thought. of the white bedroom door, and I blink quickly to see if it will
And with that, Emma took her fork and dug in. change, but it doesnt.
Come on, little light, I whisper on the cold breath of winter
air that escapes my lips. Please make the darkness go away.
The light doesnt seem to hear me, for it ignores my request.
From the bed beside me, I hear Tynan yawn before his bare
feet hit the floor with a thump. I listen to Tynans footsteps as
he walks around his bed until he stops to lean down beside the
little light.
Ara, Tynan says without looking at me. Dont be afraid of
the dark.
But Ty, I whine while pushing my blankets off my body
stubbornly. I immediately regret the action, as a blast of cold
air causes a shiver to run across my spine. I c-cant st-stop
being afraid-d of the d-d-dark, I stutter as my teeth chatter.
SCIENCE FICTION / FANTASY | 102 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 103
Tynan doesnt reply as he walks over to the head of my bed Tynan groans as he plops down on the ground with me.
and kneels down, so his face is close to mine. His dark gray Ara, Tynan says as he shakes his head. What am I going to
eyes with a blue undertone thats the same color as the little do with you?
blue light on the floor reminds me of a piece of stone slate sub- Looking down, I let my fingers fumble with the piece of pa-
merged in a river. per within their grasp. I dont answer because Im sure that
Ara, he says but pauses as his eyes shift downward. Can I whatever I say will only make Tynan angry.
ask why you were talking to the light? I unfold the lifeless paper bird in front of me and refold it,
I bite my lip and look down, so my hair can cover the blush- so it looks like a fox. Then I touch the tip of its nose, and with
ing skin of my freckled face. I dont know, I mumble. I just a shiver of movement, the fox springs to life. The fox regards
wanted the light to make the dark go away. Tynan cautiously before it curls up into a ball, tucking its head
Tynan lets out a deep sigh, and I look up just as he stands underneath its body.
and holds out a hand for me to take. I place my hand in his, I hear Tynan shift the contents in his bag as he looks for
and Tynan pulls me from the bed. The floor feels cool from the something, and I turn my head to watch as he pulls a document
coldness of the air, and I listen to the soft pitter-patter of our from the bag.
feet as Tynan leads me out the door. This is what Im going to do with you, Tynan says while
Just before we disappear around the corner, I look back to looking down at the document, but his words are more to him-
see that the little blue light is a tiny bit bigger than the last time self than they are to me.
I looked at it, and I let a smile twitch my lips upward for just I take the piece of paper out of his hand and look it over. Its
a second before Tynan leads me away from the cold darkness. an application for Miss Peggs boarding school, and I notice
*** that quite a few of the questions look like they belong on an
Im sitting outside with my hands clasped around my knees exam to check peoples mental health.
as I watch my origami paper bird fly around my head. It lands Ty, I whisper, my voice shaking as I look up at my older
on my shoulder and begins to peck at my hair, and with a brush brother, are you sending me away?
of my hand, the bird becomes nothing more than a piece of Its for your own good, Tynan replies tightly, but he doesnt
folded paper on my shoulder. I take the bird and place it in my meet my eyes when he speaks. Miss Pegg is a woman who
lap just as I hear footsteps approach me. knows how to deal with . . . unusual cases. She can help you.
Ara, I thought I told you not to play with these silly things, Help me with what? I ask while fingering the paper foxs
I hear Tynan say at the same time I hear a crushing sound. ear. It seems to purr at my touch, and I cant help but smile
When I look up, I see that Tynan has killed a little origami down at the little creature.
hummingbird that I had brought to life. Tynan makes a sound in the back of his throat, and I look
You didnt have to crush it, I say bitterly as Tynan hands up only to notice that his face has tightened into a look of rage.
me the dead paper bird. They have feelings too, you know.
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Without any warning, Tynan reaches forward and snatches the I swear hums with the mutterings of a mad man, taunting me
paper fox by the scruff of its neck. to step forward.
Hey! I exclaim, reaching up to take the fox away from Dont be afraid of the dark, Ara, I mutter to myself while
Tynan, but Tynan holds it out of my reach. Tynan, youre twisting the hem of my dress within my fingers.
hurting it! Let it go! Little girl? someone calls out in question from behind me,
You want to know what Miss Pegg can help you with, and I twirl around to see a plump woman with a purple hue
Tynan growls over the sound of my anguished cries and the to her pale skin. Are you lost? she asks me in a voice of slow
foxs howls of rage and terror. This is what shes going to help rhythm and thick diction.
you with! Tynan says while shaking the fox in front of my To my surprise, the sounds of hissing have ceased from the
face. This curse of yours! darkness and instead the hallway is filled with a silence that
The fox growls fiercely at Tynans words, and it twists around settles like thick smoke in a muggy room.
violently as it tries to bite the flesh of Tynans hand. The snap I nod in reply to the womans question, and her lips pull up-
of its jaws as it closes around empty air is an unpleasant sound ward in a smile that reminds me of comfort in its purest form.
that reminds me of shattering bones. With a loud howl, I watch You must be Ara then. Im Miss Pegg, and we are all so happy
as the fox makes one last effort to reach Tynans hand and youve come to join our little family. Please, let me show you
manages to snap its jaws around Tynans pinkie. to your room.
Tynan cries out in surprise and pain as he drops the paper Miss Pegg walks over to the wall and flips a switch, causing
fox to clutch his bleeding pinkie. Tynan glares at the fox, and it the lights in the hallway to turn on, banishing the blackness
hisses angrily in reply before jumping back into my lap. from the hall. We then walk down the hallway as if there were
I touch the fox, turning it back into a lifeless origami fox never any darkness residing in its walls at all.
before I speak. Its not a curse, I say firmly, although to the Halfway down the hall, Miss Pegg opens a door and tells me
best of my knowledge, Tynan could be right. But if you really that this is the room in which I will be staying. I thank her
want me to go, then I will. But dont you ever call my gift a for her hospitality, and she leaves me with a polite gesture of
curse again. parting.
And true to his word, Tynan has me packed and sent off to Entering the room, I tug my suitcase in after me and ex-
Miss Peggs boarding school within a week. amine my surroundings for a few seconds, taking the overall
The moment of goodbye is tense as Tynan shifts between velvet appearance of the room. Then I set my suitcase upon my
showing affection toward me and not, and even though Im still bed and flick the switch open to reveal all of my belongings.
mad at Tynan, Im glad when he finally decides on giving me a Humming a small tune that Tynan taught me, I begin to place
kiss on my forehead before wishing me off. my clothing in the drawers and my books upon the bottom
Behind me, the huge oak door closes shut with the sound of shelves of the bookcase that rests against a wall of the room.
finality as Im left to look upon the spanning dark hallway that After a few minutes, the door opens, and a girl of my age
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enters without asking for permission. Hello, the girl says po- out of the blue light and begins to take a 3-D form, much like
litely. Im Rawnie, your roommate. my origami fox.
Im Ara, I reply, holding my hand out for her to shake. Laughing, I say, Thats no disorder, Rawnie. Thats a gift.
Rawnie steps forward and grabs my hand, entwining our fin- The girl blushes before closing her hand again, making the
gers together. We shake, but when I move to let go, Rawnie owl disappear. If its a gift, Rawnie whispers with what seems
grabs my hand tighter and pulls me toward her. to be the appearance of tears in her eyes. Then why did my
Your face is round, Rawnie says as she gazes into my eyes. family send me here?
Moon-shaped perhaps. Your eyes are like down feathers you A silence passes over us as tears slide down Rawnies face.
would find on a pigeon or a dove, and your auburn hair is really I feel guilty for not saying anything, but there simply isnt an
long. Rawnie concludes that last part with a chuckle as she answer to her question that would make her feel better.
takes in the ends of my hair that sway around my waist. Dont be afraid of the dark, Ara, I mutter to myself bit-
Then she lets go of my hand, and I stumble backward a step, terly as memories of Tynan just dropping me off here spring to
caught off guard by Rawnies abrupt change in behavior from mind. Why shouldnt I be afraid of the dark?
polite to something more aggressive. I watch as Rawnie stands Because there are worse things waiting in the light, Rawnie
still for a few seconds before her cheeks flush red, and she whispers from her place on her bed, and Im so shocked by her
quickly retreats to her bed. Pulling her knees up to her chest, response that it takes me a few seconds to form a coherent
she apologizes, explaining that she has a disorder that causes thought.
her to act a little strange at times. What? I manage to choke out in question.
Disorder? I question, the word catching my attention. Is Dont be afraid of the dark, because there are worse things
your disorder something similar to this? I pull out my origami waiting in the light, Rawnie repeats slowly, but upon seeing
fox from my suitcase and touch its nose, bringing it to life. my confused face, she continues her explanation. The dark
Rawnies eyes widen as she takes in the moving paper fox as contains all of our fears that come from stories, such as ghosts
it leaps down from my bedspread and begins to sniff around and the boogeyman. The light holds the fears that are con-
the room. Its moving! Rawnie cries out in surprise. Then tained in reality, such as people with guns and knives. You
she looks at me and smiles, saying, My disorder is not really cant be afraid of childrens stories when the world itself is a
similar to that unless you count the fact that my disorder cant horror film.
be explained by reality, much like yours. I open my mouth to reply, but I cant seem to find the right
Can you show me? I ask, clasping my hands together in a words to say. Rawnie nods solemnly before she gets up from
pleading gesture. her bed and walks out of the room, leaving me to ponder over
Rawnie nods and takes a deep breath before closing the palm this newfound knowledge.
of her hand. When she opens her fist, I see blue wisps of light Later that evening, when the sun has set and both Rawnie
swirl into a shape upon her skin. With a hoot, an owl appears and I lay in our beds waiting for sleep to come, I notice a little
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and their harsh angles jabbed at the sky. The camp was empty. ets, leaving glaring, empty chasms. Their shadow-eyes stared
Evidently, the other priests had retired for the night. at me, unblinking. I became acutely aware of my own pulse,
This way. The shortest man gestured to a tent. The man of pounding inside my head. Im not sure you want me, sir.
middle height held open the flap. I entered. Because of your skin color? the shortest one interjected
The interior of the tent was just as stark as the exterior. No bluntly. We have seen dark-skinned savages like you before.
blankets. No rugs to lie on. There was only the dirt floor and As long as its clear that you serve us, youll have no trouble.
the bag. I sat down, laying my staff over my lap. In a pinch, I did not allow them to see me react to that comment. No.
the staff could be used as a weapon, though I harbored no illu- Because I dont understand how my gift could be useful to you.
sions about my chances of survival if the Caisterlens attacked. I did understand, far too well. I just hoped that they didnt.
I was heavily outnumbered, and the Caisterlens werent just If you can read someones purpose as well as their life, then
well-trained; they were fanatically devoted to the removal of you can help us discover those who will best serve our cause,
sin from the world. I had little training, and the only thing I and help us discover enemies.
was fanatically devoted to was staying alive. That wouldnt be Damn. Enemies?
enough to save me. Yes. Sinful people who hide their true identities. The dis-
Still, I could probably give a few of them broken kneecaps eased, the liars, the lechers, the homosexuals, the cross-dress-
before I died. ers . . . you could tell if someone belonged to one of those groups
The three men joined me in the tent, while the boy remained with your gift, couldnt you?
outside. There was hardly enough room for the four of us in the My pulse became so rapid that I imagined my heart had
cramped space, probably because I was doing my best to keep moved to between my ears, beating out its frantic pace in an
my staff between myself and the priests. attempt to drown out the Caisterlen. I swallowed. I
The boy says you read his fortune, said the shortest one. Could you? asked the tallest man, in the same flat voice he
Yes, sir. I made sure to keep my voice low. had used before.
And you were able to determine from it that he would face Fear froze my mind. If I lied, he would know. I was sure of
a dragon? it. The only thing I could do was tell the truth. Yes, I could.
Yes, sir. Then you see how you could be useful to us.
He doesnt dress like one of us, and he says he made no men- Yes, sir.
tion of his identity before you told him of the dragon. I hope youll consider it. We would be able to house you and
Yes, sir. feed you, in addition to paying you for your services.
So your gift is a real one, not a parlor trick. I looked down at my hands, silent. If your . . . your holi-
You could say that, yes, sir. nesses would allow me, I would like to go back to my room in
We could use someone with your talent. the inn so I may consider your offer.
The shadows on the mens faces hollowed their eye sock- The three men nodded in unison. A shiver that had noth-
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ing to do with the night air ran through me as I left the tent. When I chose to hide in plain sight, maybe I should have
The boy had fallen asleep, dozing with his ear resting near the considered the attention my disguise would attract.
door flap. I wished I had never said anything at all about that I could refuse the job. But the Caisterlens might question
damned dragon. The tremors continued as I walked back to why I would turn down an offer as wonderful as theirs. Once
the outpost. Caisterlens decided they wanted something, they would not
I wanted nothing more than to get away from the camp, with back down. If a Caisterlen priest grew to manhood, it meant he
its stark tents and stark people. But I could not let them know had fought a dragon and won. I could not scare them off, and I
they had frightened me, and my limp kept me from running, could not force them to let me go.
anyway. I was forced to exit at a torturously slow pace. Running wasnt an option. I could not escape on foot. I didnt
They were offering me a job. One with pay that was not de- have a horse, and even if I stole one, my leg still impeded my
pendent upon the whims of strangers. Room, board, and pay. ability to ride. Then I would have the horses original owner
It was an offer that many would kill for. It was an offer that I after me as well as the Caisterlens, and there was nowhere I
would kill for, if it had been extended by anyone else. could hide. The outpost was in the plains. My trail would be
It would take me years to be able to afford another house. I laughably easy to follow.
was barely making enough to pay for my room at the inn and Which left me with taking the job.
two meals a day. What the Caisterlens offered me was more I began removing my robes. Even in the summer, I always
than tempting. If I thought of it in terms of money and nothing wore at least three layers. With every bit of clothing removed,
else, the choice was clear. the hated shape of my body became more defined. But I couldnt
But it wasnt just money. There was a job attached to that sleep in my robes, and so I had to look upon myself every night
food and that room, and I couldnt forget it. To use my gift to before going to bed.
seek out the kind of people that Caisterlens judged to be sin- I had never been what anyone would call curvy. But even the
ners . . . They were right. I would be very useful to them. But smallest curve was too much of one for me, forcing me to re-
that didnt change my belief that they didnt want me working member what I had been born as. The slight swell of my breasts
for them. pushed against the fabric of my undershirt.
Then again, maybe it would give them even more pleasure to No, the Caisterlens did not want me. They had no idea how
own me if they knew all of who I was. Maybe it would amuse much they did not want me.
them to force a sinner to seek out others of his kind. I couldnt disclose my identity to them in order to avoid tak-
There was no one in the entryway of the inn except for a ing the job. In their minds, I was a cross-dresser. Not a man
single guard, who didnt even look up as I passed. By the time born into the wrong body, but a girl who was living in sin. I
I reached my room, the tremors were so severe that it took me would be tortured, forced to confess, and then executed.
four tries to insert my key into the lock, and my leg felt like it I was already doing everything possible to hide who I was.
was in danger of collapsing under me. The affected voice, the layers of clothing, shading my face be-
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neath my hood . . . it was all to deflect attention from myself. you sure? the tall man asked, his voice bland.
And since they were all obvious attempts to deflect attention The innkeeper swallowed. Yessir.
from myself, they led people to all the wrong conclusions. To The short man stalked out of the inn, followed by his com-
the people of the outpost and the town, I was a fortune-teller panions. He caught sight of a beggar sitting on the cobblestones
with delusions of grandeur, trying to make myself seem more by the side of the inn. You! Stand up!
mysterious. But if the Caisterlens saw through the persona cre- The beggar began to rise, but wasnt quick enough about it
ated from my disguise . . . for the mans liking. He grabbed the beggar and wrenched up-
Everything led back to accepting the job. If I accepted, they wards. With a cry, the beggar stood, revealing her feminine
wouldnt look too hard or too long at me. They would think figure. Have you seen a man in robes, carrying a staff, with
of me as a stray mongrel that, since they fed and housed him, beads around his neck?
could be expected to attack on command. All it would take for The fortune-teller, sir?
me to keep their suspicions away from me would be to turn in Yes, him.
others of my kind. No, sir, not since yesterday.
For all of their talk of learning about true believers and men Are you sure?
they could recruit, I knew that they were really interested in The man of middling height put his hand on the short mans
using me to find sinners. That was the real allure of my gift. shoulder. Brother, look at her. Dont you think shes had
Hiding in plain sight hadnt been enough. I rested my elbows enough misfortune in her life?
on my knees and my face in my hands. I might as well slit my The short man looked and saw that the girls left leg was
own throat, and save the Caisterlens the trouble. I sighed, and twisted. Some kind of birth deformity, probably. He bowed.
my breasts brushed against my arms. My apologies, miss. It was not my intent to scare you.
Slowly, I sat up. Its all right, sir. Luck to your search, sir, the girl said in a
Maybe . . . just maybe . . . voice barely above a whisper.
There was another way out. The boy was staring at her, as though he saw something fa-
Three men dressed all in white walked up to the inn the next miliar in her face. But then he shook his head and followed the
day, a boy following them. People stared as they passed, but the men, who were already walking off to interrogate someone else.
men paid them no mind. Where is the fortune-teller? the one The fortune-teller leaned heavily on the wall, and thanked all
of middling height asked the innkeeper. that ever was for the ability to hide in plain sight.
He left last night, the innkeeper replied.
Where did he go?
Dunno.
The tallest man turned his eyes to the innkeeper. They were
blank eyes, eyes without a hint of wit, warmth, or soul. Are
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Bread was always passed from the front of the lines to the 14 rarely spoke to the other children once they reached a cer-
back. They would each get small, single pieces, and it was tain age. They needed only each other.
lovely, because they didnt know any better. The breadbaskets The sky is the only thing that remains the same, Danny
came twice a day. mused one day when they were twelve, marching through a
Bread, the children would chant, once their Makers taught cold plain covered with snow. The sun comes and goes, but the
them the word. Bread. Bread. Bread. sky is always there.
One day, as the children were chanting, and the breadbaskets 14 tilted her own head back and looked up at the vast, gray
were nearing their own lines, Danny whispered something un- sky. Her hair had grown long, and it flew behind her in auburn
der his breath. waves. She smiled up at the gray sky.
But Daniel resolved not to defile himself with the kings What are you smiling about? Danny asked. He soon re-
food or wine . . . ceived his answer as small, white flakes of snow came floating
When 14 asked him what he meant, Danny just looked away down from the sky.
toward the far hills and took her hand in his own. Oh, he said.
Danny did most of the talking those days.
The day came when it was time for their Makers to leave them.
Youll see us soon, the Makers said, comforting the chil- They never talked about where Danny was from.
dren with little pats on their heads. We wont be far. 14 respected this fact and never brought it up. The older they
They made the children promise to never stop chanting the got, the less she remembered that Danny was not born here, in
mantra both daily and nightly, and to always keep in time with line, next to her. They never spoke of his arrival and 14 never
the steps in front and behind them. questioned it.
Will the breadbaskets still come? the girl directly in front Besides, what could there be out there besides these lines
of 14 in line said tearfully. Will we still get droplets of water? and the endless plain they walked upon?
The Makers assured them nothing would change.
14 remembered when her Maker finally let go of her hand Each night a drum would echo throughout the lines, and ev-
and disappeared into the forest along with the others. eryone would halt.
She remembered that she cried. This was sleeping hour.
Danny walked on, barely blinking; a face of stone. They would close their eyes, as their Makers had taught
He gripped 14s hand tightly. them, and sleep.
Goodnight, 14, Danny would say, squeezing her hand and
They grew up slowly and effortlessly, marching toward the closing his eyes.
unforeseeable future in their structured and never-ending Sometimes 14 didnt close her eyes right away. Sometimes,
lines. Some children became irritable, others silent. Danny and she would look up at the moon and wonder if children were
marching there too.
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I think weve been here before, Danny said one sunny day, They grew older.
when they were seventeen. They were marching through a They recognized this, and understood they were no longer
cornfield. Doesnt this look familiar, 14? children. As they passed their thirties, and then forties, Danny
14 did not think it looked very familiar. But she didnt say so. began to become more demanding of answers.
Maybe, she said instead. Where are we going? he said one day, as if the idea had just
Youre very vague, 14, Danny said, smiling. Danny found it sprung up on him.
awfully funny how indifferent she could be. Danny had always I think I see a valley ahead, 14 said, squinting beyond the
been the talker; 14 was the listener. endless lines of people in front of her and into the distance.
Danny always said 14 was the most peaceful and quiet girl No, no. I mean, where are we going? Danny said it with
he had ever met. such emphasis, 14 was alarmed. Do we ever stop? Do we ever
I dont think I have much competition for that title, 14 said reach a destination?
one day, as Danny repeated this statement. The girls in front 14 had never thought of this before. This was what they did,
and behind their line were awfully loud and chatty. what they were taught to do. They marched.
Danny laughed harder than he ever had before. It was dusk and was growing time for their nightly mantra.
14 thought it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. We are fortunate to be preserved, they said, the endless
lines of people, marching toward whatever lay in front of them.
Danny started singing when they were about twenty-five. Danny didnt say a word.
He would make up lyrics and melodies, and sing them to 14.
He often sang songs about 14: her auburn waves, her deep eyes, 14 was getting tired.
her quiet disposition. Sometimes the songs would be about Walking was treacherous, treacherous. She walked every
the scenery they were currently passing through, such as the day, every sunlit moment. The sleeping hour became 14s most
mountains, or the rainforests. Occasionally, Dannys songs precious time, and she became obsessed with the thought of
would have deeper meanings that 14 would recognize as differ- closing her eyes, even for a short while.
ent, but could never grasp what they meant. Her auburn hair was turning gray, like the skies before the
Im captured by these lines, Danny sang one day, I want to thunder came, and Danny found this amusing. He would make
be swallowed in the sky. up new songs about 14s hair changing colors, and then go back
14 asked what this meant. Danny simply gazed at her and to squinting up at the sky and making statements that 14 didnt
then looked away. always understand.
14 never grew frustrated by these silences, but instead em- 14 also noticed that Dannys face was changing. It had
braced them. She knew something was different about Danny, changed over the years, of course, but this time, it was getting
and she cherished it. One day she would know, she told herself. softer. The sharp lines that had once defined his cheekbones
One day she would see her Maker again, and know. and jawline were ceasing to exist, instead replaced by wrinkles.
They were fifty years old.
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In their early seventies, a remarkable thing happened that The first line marched right into the blackness and disap-
had never occurred for any of them before as they were walk- peared.
ing through a desert. 14 could tell that Danny had realized something important.
The drum sounded and they halted in the middle of the day. They were nearing the blackness by the second. Unfamiliar
This came as much relief for most of them, and they stead- men began to become visible. They were standing to the left of
ied their breathing and smiled amongst each other. 14 actually the lines, completely still. They were younger than the people
shared a few words with the others around her, which was not in the lines, 14 realized, and they were waiting.
a frequent activity. Finally, the drum sounded and the lines halted.
Danny was not smiling, however. There were several lines in front of 14 before the black mass
After a few minutes, the drum sounded and they began march- began.
ing again. But they received another break about fifteen minutes Hello, my friends, a man said, smiling widely as he scanned
later. Then they marched again. And then another break. over the lines with his eyes. Your Makers are waiting for you
I dont like this, Danny said, during their fourth break. His inside the blackness. Is that not something to be thrilled about?
eyes were scanning over the lines in front of them with careful An excited murmur echoed throughout the lines, but the
eyes. man silenced them with a raised fist.
Why? a girl behind him asked, her voice pinched and an- You have lived properly, and fully, have you not? he said,
noyed. Were resting. his smile unwavering. You have been preserved, and there-
14 was studying Danny carefully, however. She trusted him, fore, lived.
like she always had, and knew he knew something more. Murmurs of agreement rippled through the lines.
What is it? she asked quietly, touching his hand softly. And now, I ask you, what is it that you are fortunate for?
Its not right, Danny said, frowning. Its not right. The lines recited their mantra, perfectly and angelically, as
if they were one body.
The resting in between marching occurred for two whole days. We are fortunate to be preserved, they said.
On the third day, they began to see something in the dis- And then the drum sounded, and the lines began to step off
tance. It was nothing like anything they had ever seen before, the land and into the abyss.
and it excited them. 14, listen to me, Danny was saying, as they marched closer,
It was a massive blackness. grabbing her arm roughly. We are marching toward our death.
Danny and 14 watched closely as the others around them We need to break out of these lines. Now.
spoke excitedly of the upcoming blackness. They watched the But my Maker
lines in the distance during a break. 14 could see the very first Isnt there, Danny interrupted. Theyre lying. They are
line, which had halted right before the black void, and watched the Makers. The men are here. The women are back there. Giv-
carefully when the drum sounded again and they began to ing birth.
march.
SCIENCE FICTION / FANTASY | 124 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 125
Rights of the Child, Wal-Mart is currently in violation of Ar- As a citizen who wishes to see a halt to these horrible viola-
ticles 2, 3, 6, 27, and 28. Millions of children work in deplorable tions, I strongly urge you to eradicate these practices you allow
conditions with wages so wretchedly low as 1.25 U.S. dollars a in your corporation. You cannot run away from your respon-
day. Many of these children work for your company as a way sibilities. I believe you, as a well-respected man and a high-
to climb out of poverty where they could live with an ounce of ranking official, have the potential to do something about this
decency. As one explores the dark reality of child labor, it is dif- atrocity. Use your ears to hear the faint cries of the children
ficult to comprehend how profitable companies, like Wal-Mart, of this world and use your position to end this era of bond-
can utilize innocent children as young as four years old. This age. Your commitment to making the world a safer and happier
is the sad truth that has been accepted as normal in our world place for all will be greatly respected.
today. It is in your hands to eradicate this horrible practice that
hovers over this great company. In the Interest of All Humanity,
I am writing this letter to urge you and your company to put Student
an end to this disgraceful treatment of human beings across
the globe. The children Wal-Mart manipulates are stripped of
education; children belong in school, not locked in sweatshops.
Instead of receiving the education these children are well en-
titled to, they are exploited and coerced into manual labor for
up to 15 hours a day. Their unacceptable lifestyles designed
around providing goods for your company only condemn them
to a life of misery and poverty.
By valuing economic revenue over the well-being of humans,
Wal-Mart is only contradicting the latter half of its own slo-
gan: Save Money, Live Better. Yes, consumers may be saving
money, but do you think they will truly live better when
they realize your company has exploited nave and innocent
children to manipulate them for your own good? The sad real-
ity of our world today is that Wal-Mart has become dependent
on prioritizing economic gain over human life. However, I want
to pose this question to you. Would you be willing to support
child labor, as you acquiescently do now, if your own children
were employed by force, coerced into manual labor with no
freedom and voice?
PERSUASIVE WRITING | 128 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 129
Planned Parenthood: Parenthood provided medical services for more than 3 million
people in the U.S. Contraception and STI screening each ac-
An Organization at the Mercy counted for one third of their services, and cancer screening
and prevention 20%. In addition to medical services, Planned
of Politics Parenthood provided that year educational programs to more
than 1.1 million people of all ages on such topics as contracep-
Nicholas Teague, Grade 10, Age 15. Brookstone School,
tion and family planning, safe sex, puberty education, STIs,
Columbus, GA, Sherry Tomblin, Teacher
sexual orientation, AIDS/HIV, teen pregnancy, and womens
health (www.plannedparentood.org).
Since its inception, Planned Parenthood has been a contro-
Despite the many beneficial services Planned Parenthood
versial group. Recently, pro-life groups have pushed for the
provides, in 2011 Republican congressmen made an effort to
defunding of the organization, because it provides abortions.
cut funding for Planned Parenthood, largely because conserva-
However, the denial of financial support to Planned Parent-
tives in the House and Senate take issue with Planned Parent-
hood would deprive many women of reproductive health care
hoods offering abortion services. While a bill revoking funding
and lead to an increased rate of sexually transmitted infec-
to the organization was passed in the Republican House, it was
tions, death from breast and cervical cancers, unwanted preg-
later defeated in the Senate. In response to this, several states
nancies, and abortions.
have attempted to withhold government money from the or-
Since 1916, Planned Parenthood has provided much-needed
ganization. These states, including Arizona, Florida, Kansas,
reproductive health services to both women and men. These
Indiana, New Hampshire, New Jersey, North Carolina, Ten-
services are particularly important to low-income women who
nessee, Texas, and Wisconsin, have passed measures prevent-
could not otherwise afford health care. The goal of Planned
ing the organization from receiving Medicaid funds, some Title
Parenthood is to give people, regardless of race, gender, or sex-
X funds, and other government backing (www.sba-list.org).
ual orientation, control over their family planning by providing
While many federal courts have subsequently ruled that a state
information and services (www.plannedparenthood.org). At
cannot deny Medicaid to Planned Parenthood, the Fifth Cir-
present, Planned Parenthood is the countrys largest provider
cuit Court of Appeals of Texas allowed cutting abortion pro-
of sexual and reproductive health care. There are currently
viders such as Planned Parenthood from the Womens Health
PERSUASIVE WRITING | 130 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 131
Program. Although the Obama administration has threatened Planned Parenthoods providing of abortions is the point
to withhold federal resources for family planning services from of contention for those who seek to defund the organization;
any state that denies Planned Parenthood Medicaid funds, the however, their arguments lack validity. Opponents of Planned
state of Texas has responded by opting to forgo federal help Parenthood claim that federal money should not be used for
for their Womens Health Program (Kliff). Furthermore, states abortions, yet the Hyde Amendment already prevents Planned
such as North Carolina have tried to circumvent the court or- Parenthood from using federal funds for abortions. Opponents
der there that says that states cannot single out a single health also claim that the majority of Planned Parenthoods servic-
care provider like Planned Parenthood for defunding by pre- es are abortions. However, only 3% of the medical services
venting the states Health and Human Services Department Planned Parenthood provided in 2010 were abortions. (www.
from contracting with any private provider, effectively barring plannedparenthood.org) Critics of the organization hope that
Planned Parenthood (Bassett). revoking financial support to Planned Parenthood will reduce
If Planned Parenthood ultimately loses government funding, greatly the number of abortions in the U.S.; however, the vast
the results would be disastrous. Planned Parenthood relies majority of abortions in the U.S. are not even performed by
heavily on government assistance; the organization currently Planned Parenthood, but by independent clinics throughout
receives one third of its money from government grants and the country (Taft). Moreover, 34% of Planned Parenthoods
contracts (Rovner). Without this support, many of Planned service goes to providing contraception, which helps prevent
Parenthoods programs would have to be cut, many low-income unwanted pregnancies and, thereby, actually reduces the num-
women would lose health care, and, in some cases, Planned ber of abortions. In 2010, services provided by Planned Parent-
Parenthood clinics would have to close. This has already hap- hood prevented approximately 584,000 unwanted pregnancies.
pened in states such as Indiana, New Hampshire, Wisconsin, (www.plannedparenthood.org) Without publically funded con-
and Texas, where clinics have had to shut down and thousands traception services like those Planned Parenthood provides, it
of low-income women have been left without access not only is estimated that the overall abortion rate would increase by
to contraception but also to life-saving tests, such as breast 34%, with the teenage abortion rate increasing by 65% (www.
and cervical cancer screening (Landrigan, Liebelson). Fur- prochoiceameria.org).
thermore, for many of these women, Planned Parenthood is Clearly, Planned Parenthood plays a vital role in womens
their only source of medical care. According to Cecile Rich- health. Its defunding would only result in more sexually trans-
ards, president of Planned Parenthood, For more than half mitted infections and more unplanned pregnancies. It would
our patients, Planned Parenthood is the only nurse or doctor deprive many women of access to breast and cervical cancer
they will see all year (Rovner). In addition, without access to screenings. Opponents of the organization focus only on the
Planned Parenthood clinics, many low-income women would issue of performing abortions, while refusing to acknowledge
not have effective means of preventing pregnancy, leading to a that its services actually help prevent abortions. As Stephanie
higher rate of abortions. Kight, president and CEO of Planned Parenthood of Greater
PERSUASIVE WRITING | 132 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 133
There are a whole host of bankable stars . . . Can you name one
bankable Asian-American star? No. There isnt . . . One cant
name a single Asian-American whose name you can take to the
bank and get a project financed.George Takei
Asian people still prevail within American society, especially critic for L.A. Weekly, seethed about the butchered Korean
when it comes to the Asians portrayed in movies and on televi- language and pseudo-traditions of the mostly non-Korean
sion. America is a television-driven society, with Americans in- cast (qtd. Southgate). This presents a question: Is it worse for
dividually watching on average about 34 hours a week in 2010 Asians to be seen in the media, but with incorrect or offensive
(Stelter), and therefore it is no surprise that we are all subtly stereotypes, or not to be seen at all? Both are unacceptable,
influenced by what we see on the screen. Many racial minori- should be the answer.
ties have broken through the confining bonds of stereotypes More questions arise: How does the lack of Asians in the me-
on screen, and we see a fair share of African-Americans and dia influence the views Americans hold about Asians? Or is
Latinos, but Asians still lag behind in American media. Essen- the better question, how does American culture influence the
tially, this lack of Asians in the American media today keeps media, resulting in the lack of Asians in the media? Both of
the stereotypes about Asians alive. These attitudes prevent the these questions are absolutely valid, but my question is, which
social integration of Asians into an unbiased country, and it one came first? This leads us into a vicious cycle that somehow
limits the thinking of some non-Asians, resulting in socially must be broken, because each influences the other, and both
stratifying the country. are hurting the perception of the Asian-American community.
Though famous Asian actors, directors, and screenwriters The American public greatly influences what is portrayed on
like Chow Yun Fat, Jackie Chan, or Ang Lee may be household the screen. Hollywood, like all forms of media entertainment,
names, movies with such rounded and intricate Asian charac- is out to make money. When television shows do not receive
ters who are successful in America are few and far between. high ratings or when movies are not box-office hits, studios are
Even though in 2010 Asians made up 5.6 percent of the United less likely to give funding to similar projects, even if a script
States population, roughly 17 million people (United States featuring Asians is good for the world socially. When one of
Census), the media does not reflect the strong Asian influences the first Asian-centered sitcoms, Margaret Chos American
within the country. Instead, the majority of television shows Girl, failed to keep its ratings high on American TV, the stu-
and movies in the United States unconsciously influence us dio canceled the show (qtd. Southgate). The character of Lane
to hold on to the stereotypical and sometimes offensive views Kim from the seven-year run of Gilmore Girls was lucky to be
of Asians. For example, Margaret Cho, a well-known Korean on television for so long. Kim, the best friend to one of the
stand-up comic, for one year starred in a sitcom called Ameri- main characters, is presented as a rebellious and free-thinking
can Girl, which aired in 1994. The show centered on her strug- girl who lives with a very traditional and strict mother. This
gles with her traditional Korean family and the desire to as- tense mother-daughter relationship was described on a blog as
similate into American culture. The New York Times presented grossly exaggerated . . . making the Korean mother seem al-
two different reactions to this show when it aired. Elizabeth most like a totalitarian Nazi (qtd. Dynamitekenji). The actress
Wong talked about phone calls from people who said, Thank who played Kim, Keiko Agena, though, thinks that Lane was a
God, at last were being seen. But others, like John H. Lee, a complex part that broke all the traditional good Korean girl
PERSUASIVE WRITING | 136 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 137
stereotypes. Parts are very rare for Asian-Americans, and like our only idol, our hero (Wu). Asian children search for
parts as good as this are even rarer (qtd. Heldenfels). Lane role models with whom to identify, and when they dont find
is a character who breaks the Asian girl stereotype, but when them in Hollywood, some turn to the media coming out of
will characters like Lane lead their own show? How long will Asia, like Japanese animation, for heroes. These stereotypes
Asians stay stuck as the best friend and not the hero? also change how non-Asian children socially relate to Asian
Many adaptations of Japanese anime or manga done in the children. For non-Asian children, images like these may lead to
United States that present strong, usually Asian, heroes reset limited thinking: Asians are good at only certain things, or ev-
the traditional Japanese setting to an American one, and in- ery Asian kid in their class will grow up the same way. Audrey
stead of casting Asian actors, studios cast big-name stars who Kwak supports this view in Asian Americans in the Television
are not Asian. In a CNN article, Stephanie Siek quotes, Kent Media: Creating Incentive for Change, writing, For children,
A. Ono, a professor of Asian-American studies at the University the visual absence of Asian-Americans on television establish-
of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, said the practice of casting es subconscious conclusions of what one can and cannot be
white actors to play Asians and Asian-American characters has actors, anchormen and womenand perceptions of what one
a long history in Hollywood. Until recent decades, this mostly isstudious, exotic, nerdy (Kwak, 409). The lack of confirma-
took the form of white actors playing stereotypical representa- tion that Asian-Americans can succeed in television can clearly
tions of Asian characters (Siek). The Academy Awardwinning affect how people think and what people think certain groups
portrayal of O-Lan from The Good Earth was performed by can do. Adin Kachisi, an African-American author of Beyond
Louise Rainer, a German actress (Higbie). The famous perfor- the Talented Tenth, spoke on Maurice Carvers show Black Men
mance by Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffanys is currently Screaming, and recognized the invisibility . . . a veil is actually
thought of as racist, but at the time Rooney was applauded for put on the Asian community when it comes to public media,
his amazing performance in the Oscar-winning movie (Calder). nobody sees them. [The] public opinion thats created through
If Asian actors cannot even get good parts that are specifically the media is the quiet Asian that you never see (qtd. Carver).
Asian, how will they ever get parts that arent written for We must improve and change the visuals to be able to change
Asians? minds, but we must change minds before we can change visu-
The lack of Asians on screen does do psychological and so- als. Options must be opened and stereotypes must be over-
cial damage to both Asian and non-Asian children. The lack of come to socially liberate the world.
childhood role models for Asian-American children slows the But what are these Asian stereotypes that are portrayed
social progression toward complete liberation. In 2009, Kevin on-screen? In the first decades of television and movies, sev-
Wu, a notable YouTube video blogger, mentioned his lack of eral Asian stereotypes became prevalent. One stereotype that
Asian role models in his life as a kid. He talked about Goku, a Asian actors have encountered is the outdated idea that Asians
popular anime character, as being his childhood hero. There can hold only certain clichd jobs, like restaurant workers,
werent any other Asian superheroes growing up, so Goku was businessmen, martial artists, and laundry workers. Audrey
PERSUASIVE WRITING | 138 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 139
Kwak, writing for the Boston College Third World Law Journal,
describes the hardships of an Asian actor in the media. One
Asian actors experience is particularly telling: in a 2003 sur-
vey of Asian-Americans in prime-time TV, he disclosed that he
had played a dry cleaner and a Chinese takeout delivery man
in 21 different prime-time shows in the span of a few years
(Kwak, 407-408). Other stereotypes that affect Asian actresses
include two-dimensional characters like the dragon lady, an
aggressive and usually sexualized woman, or the China doll,
a submissive, helpless, pure-hearted woman, which are offen-
sive because they display an inaccurate view of Asian cultures.
Jeffry Kimble, an African-American man, speaking on Black
Men Screaming, also discusses certain stereotypes that Asians
encounter on-screen. If you look on television, you dont re-
ally see a lot of Asian-Americans portrayed in roles. There are
a number of supporting roles. A lot of times they are the only
single members of a cast, so if its an Asian male, he doesnt get
the luxury of an Asian wife (qtd. Carver).
It is clear that the Asian misrepresentation in the media is
damaging and pervasive. Though we must admit that we have
become more supportive of the exotic in the media, we can-
not say that the problem is fixed. Asian stereotypes are still
very much with us. The media is expanding, allowing more
opportunities to arise for Asian-American actors to seize their
chances and change the media. Our country should applaud
these endeavors, and show the mainstream media how impor-
tant it is to represent all people in America today.
For sources cited: www.artandwriting.org/media/848791
below the waist; trip over them. Try to look cool while trip-
ping over them. Add extra sugar to Kool-Aid; blame obesity on
slavery. Take stuff. Convince yourself that you deserve what
you take because of slavery. Vote for the black man because
hes a black man. Listen to nothing he says. Care about nothing
he says. Hes black, after all. Blame stuff you cant control on
slavery. Dont read. Please dont read. If you read, read books
Save the Chicken Grease aboutnever mind, just dont read. Avoid the future. Avoid the
past. Get angry; blame your anger on white people. Maintain a
Alexis Payne, Grade 10, Age 15. Pittsburgh Creative and Performing cycle. Get popped with hot chicken grease; save the hot chicken
Arts Magnet, Pittsburgh, PA, Mara Cregan, Teacher grease in a glass jar. Dont let it go. For the life of you, dont
let that chicken grease go. Become products of this system.
Be a democrat. Remove the ings from the end of every one Dont have the time. No, really, dont have the time. Work and
of your words. Cook everything you eat in chicken grease. work and work and then come home and sleep andmaintain
Complain about your lack of money; blame your lack of money a cycle. Save that chicken grease. Be a democrat because your
on the fact that you were denied 40 acres and a mule. Scream mama was a democrat, because her papa was a democrat. Vote
nigga in the street; make a scene when someone says nigger. for Barack Obama, because his daddy was black. Disassociate
Dont vote. Emphasize how useless voting is in conversations. yourself with Africa. Forget that his daddy was African. Be of-
Dont ask questions. Dont know who Medgar Evers is; dont fended. Be terribly offended. Cuss out a nigga cause youre so
care to find out. Laugh at racist jokes. Disassociate yourself offended. Be offended. Keep telling me how youre so offended.
from Africa. Kill your neighbor. Slaughter your brother. Jump Blame the fact that youre offended on slavery. Save that chick-
into iron cells. Become products of a system. Conform to ste- en grease. Prove me wrong.
reotypes. Own slaves. Break windows. Erase words. Discredit
yourself. Blame slavery. Blame slavery again. Talk about Dr.
King; talk only about Dr. King. Listen to music that objectifies.
Listen to music that enslaves you. Listen to music that tells
you to kill. Throw money into trash cans; buy cars. Maintain
a cycle. Buy more cars; dont invest in anything. You only live
once. Care about you. Wish you had better hair. Hate white
people because they enslaved you; pretend like you dont hate
white people. Eat watermelon. Work at McDonalds; be per-
fectly satisfied with working at McDonalds. Wear your pants
FLASH FICTION | 142 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 143
Jump the Shark you slash the tires of his new Hyundai. Whisper in his ear that
hes a cheap bastard as he stares at it in sweaty anger, rubbing
Marley Townsend, Grade 9, Age 14. Tamalpais High School, Mill his too-big ears anxiously with pancake palms.
Valley, CA, Jessica Variz, Teacher They bury an empty coffin. Your body disappeared while in
the morgue. A potbellied reporter will sigh. Nudge a female
On the day of your death, rain will fall in slanted, angry lines cop named Elsie with an elbow. Take a sip of his decaf, and say,
across your bedroom window. You will watch, from somewhere Damn shame, that is. Damn shame. Can I have your number?
around the ceiling, as nobody cares to notice. Read the newspaper instead. You will find a neat, two-by-
They will say you tripped. You tangled your cursed clumsy four article in the back, a picture of you, cropped accordingly,
feet up and smashed into the posts of your cheap Ikea bed (fr- next to a column of nice things. You think it looks like ants.
bveln!), leaving a murky pond of metallic blood on your land- They call you a child prodigy, and a young, tragic victim.
lords new carpet. It will be your final mission. He will curse Again, they will say you tripped. Such a sad thing, he jumped
you and your leaky cerebral matter later with a finger raised to the shark at 21. It will not mention your drinking problem. Or
the sky, his glasses askew. But you did not trip. the twenty thousand in cash you lost, red-faced, in Vegas last
It is exceedingly important you dont believe what they say. year. Breathe. You sound wonderful.
At first, its the lack of sound that will bother you. Its as Another article will brief the city on the business, and then
if death has eaten all the noises, swallowed them whole. You you will slip away from their minds like a failed reality TV
cant hear the couple downstairs arguing. You cant hear your show. You will notice it is smaller than your obituary, and it
landlord as he mutters, disgusted at his dying mother. Because mentions the drinking. Dont cry about it. Mourn your wan-
death, like theaters and libraries, is a silent beast, all teeth and dering corpse, then haunt a Goodwill. Doze off in an alleyway,
nails. and wake to find a homeless man crying into his coat, yelling
But eventually you start to enjoy the newfound hush. You will at someone named Rachel through snot and sour tears. Throw
start to subtitle things. Go ahead. Make children swear. Make things, have silent tantrums, and run on water. Go to France.
a morose middle-aged banker tell his boss, quite solemnly, that Break the law, then remember, somewhat loathingly, that you
he prefers bubble baths to the traditional scented candles. It are invisible. You start to feel the silence; it weighs on you,
twenty-odd pounds of bored frustration.
FLASH FICTION | 144 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 145
They will never find your killer. You know it was murder.
Someone shadowy who climbed in through an unlocked win-
dow, and smashed your face with a signed Sammy Sosa bat.
Wonder, dryly, if it was corked. You never liked baseball much.
Your tongue will start to feel dry. Your feet, eternally
wrapped in old Christmas socks, will start to fade, and your
arms will cave in on themselves. You know your time is tick-
ing. Its been only a year since your death. You wont want to
Reform
go. But you are tired. Every floating, faltering step feels like a Jackson Trice, Grade 11, Age 16. South Carolina Governors School
marathon in molasses to you. for the Arts and Humanities, Greenville, SC, George Singleton, Teacher
Return to your apartment, small, dark, and occupied by an
up-and-coming British DJ named Paul. Wander the halls, be- My friend Jeb Lindy had been in trouble before. He made a
fore coming to a stop in your old room. There is nothing but point to tread the line between delinquent and mentally in-
a faded purple stain, a flimsy reminder of a kid who died a sane. He told teachers he liked the way human bodies tasted
clumsy fool. when they were cooked slowly over the stove for about forty-
Lie down. Paul will be beat-boxing lonely in the corner. Be five minutes. The teacher had said, Jeb, and she had said,
glad you cant hear him. That is enough! But everybody was laughing by then, and
Give a last glance at the ceiling. It is speckled with age, a whatever they had been learning about was pushed far out of
clump of fungus, and a tiny nest of spiders. You will feel sud- their minds. The teachers cheeks had reddened, and her hands
denly warm. were balled into tiny fists. She had said through clenched teeth,
Close your eyes. Mr. Lindy, you are disrupting the class, but he just went on
It will be raining. Angry slants beat the window, and you about seasonings, the sauces that he used. He had shrugged
can hear them, a final word in your aching ears. They are like and said, Eh, Im not a big fan of the Irish. Too starchy, you
delicate drums, simple, mindless rhymes to a strange poem. know what Im saying? The darker the better!
Probably spiritual. You dont care. Jermaine Altois had agreed. He had said, You know where
Let it put you to sleep. it is, brother.
You will never wake up again. I sat next to Jeb in four classes. We passed notes, but they
were odd, little conversations that say too much about us now. I
ate lunch with him every day. Hed say, Watch this, and blow
milk out of his nose. It never got old. I wasnt allowed to have
play dates with him because everyone knew the Lindy kid was,
FLASH FICTION | 146 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 147
if anything, a bad influence and at the most, batshit insane. of my race and of my faith, just like everybody had wanted me
But he was the class clown, the middle schools own super- to. I even bought a house and kept a garden out in the back. I
star. Wed walk through the halls and hear only Jeb Lindy, Jeb had done everything Jeb had fought hard never to have. I was
Lindy, Jeb Lindy. The teachers hated him, but he was smart. reading the papermundane as the town I lived in, the life I
Or maybe he cheated. No one really knew. ledwhen I read an article about a man my age who had es-
The principal stared at him, asked him why he said those caped from a state penitentiary.
things about eating innocent people. I said, Well, Ill be damned.
Jeb said, I have divine powers from God. In the picture, he had wrinkles, not of an old man, but of one
The principal told him to shut his mouth. The principal said, who didnt have time to sleep, who didnt have time to stop. His
I will call your mother. hair was mostly matted to his head, but certain curls were still
Jeb said, You cant, because shes dead. Jebs mother wasnt unruly, springing out in every direction. The deranged light in
really dead. He just said that because it made people squirm. his eyes hadnt faded, neither had the mania in his smile.
The principal said, Son, I am so sorry. My husband leaned over to read it, and he said, Goddamn,
You should be! She didnt even taste good! is that . . . ?
Jeb got expelled. Not because of what he said then per se, He didnt know that Jeb and I used to be close. I had met my
but for a culmination of things. There was the time he put gum husband in high school, when only the ghost of Jeb was there,
in Eliza Bernellis hair (accidentally, of course) or the time he in the form of rumors that swirled around. There were pic-
skipped class for a month because he said he needed the beau- tures, of course, Remember that time Jeb said he ate his own
ty rest. He always had something profane to say to our English shoe? I have proof! and things of the like, but my husband
teacher, Mrs. Harris, whose fat under her neck jiggled as shed didnt know that Jeb and I used to be friends. Maybe I wanted
scream, There is no sexual tension between Tom Sawyer and it to stay that way.
Huckleberry Finn, Mr. Lindy! He came in late one day, said My husband read aloud the charges against him, put the
he just got back from Heaven. To be honest, the day Jeb got paper down and said, Goddamn, again.
expelled was the day we all started actually learning things. I said, That boyll be fine.
School got worse from there. He had been in trouble before.
There were rumors that he had been sent to a reform school.
That he had shaved all his hair and changed his ways. He want-
ed to be a Marine now, and fight for his dear country, and the
freedoms he now acknowledged and enjoyed.
There were other rumors revolving around a speculation that
he had killed his father and eaten him. I went to college and got
a degree in business, ended up in accounting. I married a man
FLASH FICTION | 148 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 149
Tattoo thought and dreamed and tasted and cried. She remembered
loving how easy it was to say, how little she had to move her
Celeste Barnaby, Grade 11, Age 17. Sage Ridge School, Reno, NV, lips and tongue. She used to whisper it over and over to herself
John Sloyan, Teacher at night, as if it were a lullaby. She had once looked it up and
learned that it was a Hebrew name meaning God is forgiving.
Jane stood before the smudge-laden bathroom mirror and un- She now hoped that wasnt true.
buttoned her shirt before lowering her arms and letting it gen- As she meditated upon the word, pictures of him began re-
tly sink to the floor, revealing her bare chest. The suns tepid surfacing. Little pictures at first: his large hands, his dirty-
afternoon rays shone through the frosted-glass window to her blond hair, his brown eyes that over time turned from sweet
left and illuminated her undressed body. She dampened a cot- and gentle to angry and callous. Short featurettes soon began
ton pad in the sink and began scrubbing the afflicted areaa playing in her mind: his fingers combing through her thick,
small patch of skin just above her left breast. Slowly, the copi- unkempt hair, his chapped lips upon her forehead, the sound
ous layers of concealer gave way and revealed the secret be- of an open-handed slap on the cheek, a ceramic plate thrown
neath. While it was perfectly normal for a twenty-something against the wall. Connecting the word with its meaning, see-
such as herself to have one, the shame and tarnish that ac- ing this meaningseeing himpermanently imprinted on her
companied hers impelled its perpetual concealment. The im- body made her nauseated, sick with grief and stupidity.
age grew darker as she continued to scrub, transforming from After showering herself with these memories, she retrieved
a cloudy, skeletal frame into a thick, dark-blue outline, con- the supplies from the drawer beneath her sink. They were col-
trasted sharply by her pale complexion. Upon completion, she lected in a small blue box with lavender trim. She placed the
tossed the soiled cotton pad over her shoulder and into the box on the counter and evaluated its contents. One bottle of
trash can, her eyes remaining fixed upon the engraving mere peroxide, one bottle of dark-blue ink, one bowl, one washcloth,
inches away from her heart. one sewing needle. Also in the box were a few pieces of paper
It was, by all objective accounts, a lovely tattoo. The let- and Styrofoam that she had practiced on, until the design was
ters swooped and curved gracefully, and were adorned by two to her liking. She could afford to go to a tattoo parlor, yes. The
blooming roses. She could remember the ecstasy she had felt product of a professional would surely be much more attrac-
upon seeing it finished for the first timethe sensuality and tive. However, this was a deeply personal matter. The right to
FLASH FICTION | 150 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 151
redeem her body was hers alone. Reaffirming this truth, she since she stepped out his front door for the last time. Since she
unscrewed the bottle of peroxide and poured a small amount had let the last bruise fade and the last scab peel off. The pain
into the bowl. She swirled it around for several moments and subsided, and she recovered the needle and continued in her
then added the entire bottle of ink. She picked up the needle endeavor. It was an arduous labor, and took far longer than she
and traced along her chest the outline that she planned to draw, had originally expected. The sun eventually dipped so low in
lightly enough that it just tickled slightly. She then dipped the sky that its light alone was no longer substantial enough for
the tip of the needle into the ink and, taking a deep breath, her to see clearly, and she was forced to momentarily stop and
plunged the sharpened point into her skin, at the tip of the n. flip the switch by the door. Instantly, her cramped bathroom
She pulled it out and drove it back in, right next to the previous was filled with intense brightness from the fluorescent lights in
mark. She continued like this, making tiny blue spot after tiny the ceiling, giving it the same sense of sterility and artificiality
blue spot, occasionally refreshing the needle with ink. as a hospital room. She looked up at the lights, recalling the
As she persisted, the pain grew noticeably distracting. This feeling of lying on an examination table, the thin paper crin-
was a pain unlike most pains, one she had experienced only kling beneath her as she cradled her swollen wrist, waiting for
once before. It was a hot, stinging sensation, like scratching the doctor to return. It had been then, at that moment, that she
a sunburn, almost. She was flooded with memories of the last had decided to make a change, to forever stop grimacing as she
time she had felt such a discomfort. She had been lying down dabbed concealer over tender, darkened patches of skin, to stop
that time, her bare back pressed against a prickly cushion of apologizing as tears welled in her eyes, to be unfettered and,
Ians craigslist couch. He had worked diligently and tenderly, maybe, after a while, even happy. Reendowed with motivation,
and with much more dexterity than she now possessed. While she went back to work.
his right hand maneuvered skillfully, his left hand had clasped After two painstaking hours, she was finally done. It was by
hers comfortingly, with the same firm assuredness that he no means perfect; some might have even called it unsightly.
would later viciously clasp her throat. In an attempt to avoid an But in her eyes, it was gorgeous. It was liberating. It was no
embarrassing cry of discomfort, she had focused her thoughts longer a reminder of inadequacy and despair, but instead one
on the lovely lies that had led her to this moment: Im doing of survival, of renewal, of hope. Sure, there were some obvious
this for me, I cant lose him, I want him with me forever. errors. The spot where the n had been altered to an m was
Facing these memories of delusion and careless navet created clumsy and uneven, and the I was far too close to the a to
far more anxiety than any discomfort from the needle. be a distinctly separate word. These details were irrelevant to
The pain becoming too cumbersome, she stopped briefly, her, as she dabbed away the extra ink one final time and, with
balancing the needle at the rim of the bowl so that only the a slight smile, gently whispered the words that her body now
tip was submerged. She drew the washcloth to her chest and held.
gingerly dabbed away the excess ink. She took a moment to I am free
remember what she was working for, what she had worked for
FLASH FICTION | 152 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 153
Skipping Rocks I told you. Its not that bad. Its not even that religious.
What the hell does that mean? Church is religion.
Serina Chang, Grade 10, Age 15. Hunter College High School, Not really. I mean, the preacher reads from the Bible and
New York, NY, Caitlin Donovan, Teacher all, but he doesnt mention God much. Its more about us.
He chuckles meanly. Us? Like you and me? Sure, I bet God
I went to church yesterday. just loves us.
Ronnie leans over and flicks the metal tab of my soda can. God loves everyone, Ronnie, I say quietly.
I wait for a response. He flicks the can again then looks up at This time he actually laughs out loud. Are you kidding me?
me. Yeah? You of all people should know thats not true. The only reason
It was alright, I begin. Its a sore topic, I know, and I have youre even allowed in that church is because youre a goddamn
to tread carefully. At least nobody tried to stone me or any- liar. You think they would let you in if they knew? Ronnie
thing. takes a deep breath. God doesnt love either of us, Matt. You
Ronnie scoffs. They dont know. gotta know that.
I know they dont. Theres no point in responding so we sit in silence. I drum
You were lying to them, he adds. my fingers and Ronnie half-heartedly watches the girl from
It wasnt lying; its just not full disclosure. Everyone hides earlier. Eventually he sighs and rubs his forehead. Shes cute,
things. isnt she?
Whatever. Ronnie leans back and stretches, his right arm How would I know? Wrong answer.
landing behind me on our park bench. I watch him warily, His eyes widen then quickly narrow. Youre a guy, thats why
wondering what his next move will be. He smirks. Hey, check you should know.
out that chick. Nice. I open my mouth, not sure whether to defend myself or apol-
Girls. Of course. Cmon, Ronnie. ogize, when he suddenly grabs my shoulders and shakes me.
His dark eyes meet mine. Come on, what? Youre a fucking guy, okay? Ronnie sighs and releases me.
You know . . . I cant say it either. Anyway, church was The wind picks up and the dead leaves stir on the ground.
weird. I hear Ronnie unzip his jacket, and I dont need to look over
I thought you said it was alright. to know that hes taking out a pack of cigarettes. He takes his
FLASH FICTION | 154 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 155
time, waiting for me to say something. But I dont want to fight contact with water. And then, three bounces later, the pebble is
with him again. gone, sunk far beyond where the human eye will ever see.
I leave him and walk over to the lake. The sun is setting and Easy. Ill make it past that floating log, watch me, I boast.
the lake is a collage of murky water, painted sky, and me. The Its a bluff and Ronnie knows it. I cant skip pebbles. No one
colors remind me of stained-glass windows. I crumple my soda ever taught me.
can and toss it into the water. The windows shatter. I throw Ronnies pebble like a Frisbee and we wait. To our
You shouldnt litter. Ronnies gravelly voice interrupts my surprise, the rock skips once, no, twice, no, three times . . .
thoughts, and I turn to see that he has followed me. He stands before, strangely enough, landing right on the log. And there it
a few feet back though, hands stuffed in his pockets and ciga- rests, atop the gnarly wooden trunk.
rette nowhere in sight. The setting sun makes his brown hair Dude, howd you do that? Ronnie asks.
red and he looks younger, like from when we were little kids I dont know. I didnt mean to. Ive never skipped anything
and played cowboys and Indians together on my bedroom floor. like that before. They always sink right away.
We were best friends then. Huh. Well, that ones not sinking anytime soon. A strong
I shake my head. It doesnt matter. Theres crap in the lake breeze now pushes the pebble and log farther and farther away
already. As if it proves my point, I toss in a dirty pebble. from us and into the sunset. Well, I guess you won.
What are you doing, anyway? he says. I grin at him. Thanks to you. It was your pebble.
I dont know. He laughs a little. Okay then. Tie?
I throw two more pebbles, one for the lake and one to him. Ronnies hand sticks out of his frayed sleeve, hesitantly
He catches it with ease. extended toward me. I watch it waver a little but neverthe-
I bet I can skip this farther than you, he says, smirking less stay there, and I cant help but to remember something
again. Its a sweet smirk though. I had heard in the pews yesterday. Love bears all things, the
Oh yeah? I say. preacher said, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all
Yeah. Hes grinning now, eyes shining and eyebrows lifted things. I thought of Ronnie immediately when he said that but
teasingly. knew I could never tell him. Yet now, seeing this uncertain
His comical face confuses me, so I bend down to look at the hand reaching for mine, Im not so sure that I cant. The wind
ground instead. I try to find an appropriate skipping stone, ruffles my hair comfortably, pulling me out of my reverie, and
although I have no idea what Im looking for. Ronnie squats I shake his hand.
down as well and hands me a flat, circular one. Thanks. Al- Tied, I agree.
right, man, lets see what you got.
Ronnie makes a big show of winding his arm, baseball-pitch-
er-style, and sends the small rock flying. It dances across the
lake, endless circles exploding from where the earth comes into
FLASH FICTION | 156 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 157
my mother taught me long ago: Ive lost their tracks, the loved
ones./Perhaps my singing will bring them.
My mother. I halt my dreary slog up and down the dunes,
and fall on my knees. The memory comes rushing with the
force of a sandstorm: I was standing in our tent, the lamp dim-
ly flickering. A looming essence of sorrow hovered in the air.
I shake this bitter memory from my head, stagger to my feet, clench my rigid palm to find not verses from the Quran, but
and keep walking. For I cannot bear to wonder what mother what seems to be a note.
must have been thinking as she heard the Sheikh bellowing Immediately I recognize the handwriting. Mother, I
and me shouting. To remember how I went back into the tent hoarsely whisper to myself. I read her words: Dear Nahla, I
and found my mothers spirit gone. How I walked over to my write this note to give you light in a time of darkness, and have
mothers body and took her hand in mine one last time. placed it in your hirz so that I might always be with you. I feel
And yet I cannot stop remembering. I sink on my knees to my eyes opening wider, and I feel salivawaterreturn to my
the sand and recall leaning over and kissing my mothers pale tongue and throat.
forehead. And I remember the rage that blew inside me, white And Nahla, a desert may be dry and desolate, but there is
hot against my heart. I burned with fury at these elders who still water beneath it if one has the faith to find it. You may be
were commanding me to leave behind my home, our tent, this tired, grieving, angry, and confused, but if you hold strong to
space where my mother loved me even when nobody else did. your faith in what you believe, and in what your spirit tells you,
I felt an impulse to shriek with anger. I could have hurt any- then you may find water to help you quench your thirst and
one or anything in sight. Yet at that moment I heard the wind keep on going in life.
seem to cry out: Nahla, stop! Clear your head. You must calmly As I look up from the note and out at the desert, the sun no
ask them to take you in as one of them. I took a deep breath, longer harshly beats down on my skin, but now gently warms
unclenched my fists, and walked toward the Sheikhs tent. But it. The dunes seem like rolling waves. As I look around me,
a half hour later, I was looking back over my shoulder at the the sand twinkles like stars in a cool night sky. The wind has
caravans dim lights, tears slipping down my cheeks. stopped howling and has slowed to a gentle breeze. My life is
That was three days ago. I am fatigued from thirst. Beads of blooming with colors, fantastic shapes, and spirit. Gently, I
sweat drip from my eyebrows like tears and trickle down my roll my mothers note and place it back into the hirz. I raise
sand-peppered nose and cheeks. The sand scrapes my blister- the amulet necklace high, and then lower it over my head as
ing legs like hot needles. I know my goatskin bag is almost de- though laying a baby into a cradle. I am no longer aware of the
pleted of water. As I stare out into the endless sand and wind, nagging thirst. I know, even though I cant see it, that theres
I miss my mother. I miss our tent. water somewhere.
Im shaken with surging frustration and anger, knowing that I set out to find it.
this aimless journey will never lead me home. I will never find
food or water alone in this harsh desert. Alone. I am overtak-
en by a frenzy of fear and hopelessness, and reflexively clutch
the amulet around my neck, ripping it from my skin as though
I were pulling away my pain and anguish. I feel between my
fingers that the sealed silver hirz has cracked open and I un-
FLASH FICTION | 160 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 161
Rosas grandfather wept over her battered body and his arms
became as the wandering seagull. He cried out and begged for
the girl who was his to come back. He swore his fortune, his
land, and his life, and the gods dried his tears. The girls heart
glowed crystal clear, and life flowed through her once again.
The ocean that had taken her, however, demanded she remain
Gulf of Mexico his own, so her body turned the color of pearls, her eyes into
the flesh of an oyster. The girl fell back into the salty breath,
Jacqueline Knight, Grade 12, Age 17. Lafayette High School, never to walk dry land again.
Lexington, KY, Liz Prather, Teacher The man, having given his vast riches to the gods, married a
girl from his village. She was kind and nurturing, with a face
Rosa dated the moon once. He took her to a movie and they like his mothers. Every night he would walk the lonely shore
discussed that if there were magic in the world, it must be and watch his mistress shepherd the tides. His children with
contained in water. He, a quick-thinking boy with pocked the lost bride never grew from bubble-eyed preteens with legs
gray skin, did not believe in magic, and she told him about her like streams of warm water. His children with the soft-hearted
grandfather, who could turn lead to gold. wife from the village were forged of sun-warmed beach sand
He had been twelve when he discovered the trick. Twelve and with skin of turtle shells.
made of sun-warmed beach sand. A traveling girl in colorful Rosa and the moons fling was short-lived, but no more than
skirts had tried to take the secret from him with a temptress a day after they took separate paths, the moon appeared in
hand tapping his upper leg. The girl made the wealthy boys Rosas window. His hair was frazzled, so stars were falling out
bones rattle like ice in a full glass. Her grandfather, whose as he trembled by her bed. He confessed he could go no longer
riches had turned him into a baby shelled sea turtle, fell for without the hollow sound of her voice and the feel of her palm
her, and they found a home on the coast. against his fingernails. Rosa batted her oyster flesh eyes and
The woman went out on a boat the day they were to be mar- twirled her colorful skirt. I know, she said. We are shep-
ried, her neck heavy with African diamonds and rubies plucked herds of the tides.
from a princesss garden in the east. The bride ran her fingers
through the water, and when a swell hit the side of her boat,
toppled over like a small stone. The waves swallowed the girl,
twisting her body in seaweed and tearing at her delicate body.
When she washed ashore, her lips were the color of the sky, and
the jewels she had worn were long lost.
FLASH FICTION | 162 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 163
will be swollen and crusted shut from the incessant tears and
mucus secretion. These nightmares will be caused not by the
guilt stemming from your mothers suicide, a theory you will
have convinced yourself of by age seventeen, but rather by your
collective unconscious speaking to you whilst you are in the
deepest and most vulnerable trance.
Who You Are This voice is your voice; the voice of your soul. It futilely tries
to bring your past memories and knowledge to light for you. It
India Nabarro, Grade 12, Age 18. Chamblee Charter High School, is trying to tell your bodya strangely scientific and mechani-
Chamblee, GA, Adrienne Keathley, Teacher cal edificeabout your true history.
Sometimes, you remember.
Twenty-three weeks and five days ago, your body was covered During the Ming Dynasty, you met with Death, leaving that
in a fine layer of soft fur called lanugo. The next day, you began four-year-old female form that trapped and caged you in the
sucking your thumb. You began to kick your legs and then streets for other peasants to pillage. You died of starvation,
soft and malleableyour eyes opened. They are unseeing, but but your mother was relieved, for daughters were a burden in
it matters not, because nothing rocks you like the ever-present that society, but you were taught the value of perseverance and
rhythm of your mothers heart. dignity. These lessons are what will eventually give you the as-
You will be born in one week and three days. The lanugo will siduity to become a craftsman of fine furniture in the Golden
shed, and you will enter this life completely naked. The physi- Age under Queen Elizabeths rule in England.
cal tie to your mother will be severed and, though many will You subconsciously recall killing 162 Jewish women and
flock to you, you will be incomparably alone for the first time. children in the fall of 1941. This event, however, eludes iden-
As of yesterday, you have spent a total of nine months and tification by your more reasonable and logical self. In truth, to
four days in the womb. In ten days247 hours and 53 minutes have the ability to isolate and trace the source of the effects of
you will be expelled from this place, this unbelievably pro- these past choices is impossible, but the crippling guilt is evi-
tected, flawless, and comforting place. dent and takes a notable toll on your elderly being.
You will spend the next eighty-four years, eleven months, In the winter of 1982, your older brothers car slid off a bridge
and two days searching fruitlessly for this original and wholly in northeastern Michigan, ultimately trapping you under the
unattainable, entirely and all-consuming overwhelming peace. ice. This is the sole explanation for your seemingly inexplicable
Of these years, you will be blessed with 333 months and 24 disdain for all large bodies of water.
days of sleep, one-thirty-fifth of which will be spent on the In these times you have loved and you have gravely sinned:
most vivid and terrifying nightmares imaginable. these elements lift your soul and blacken it. You eternally strive
These terrors will plague you. When you wake, your eyes for the equilibrium between good and bad. On your shoulders
FLASH FICTION | 164 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 165
lay the consequences of your actions from long ago. They suf- In an effort to commit all your failures, your losses, and your
focate and mold you. They are there to guide you, but you must precious learned lessons to memory, you play them in a reel in
comprehend that you are not the same individual that you were your head in the hours before your birth. They hit you like the
centuries ago. oceans relentless tides, and you pray that some sense of these
You are not the same person you were twenty-six seconds past lives will accompany you into your next life.
ago. Remembering these traumas is painful, and soon you begin
You are a polymorphous energy that controls a tangible being to physically ache.
to visibly express itself. You are crowning.
Energy is never created or destroyedyou were neither cre- The light is unfathomably bright and makes a bloody filter of
ated, nor will you ever be destroyed. This intangible force that the skin protecting your eyelids, through which you are able to
is you will never die. You are a collection of emotions, thoughts, see every vein and capillary coating the concavity.
ideas, opinions, and possibilities. You will live on forever, a You take your first breath, and you remember how wonderful
parasite among trillions, and, however unfathomable, you will it feels to breathe.
find those you lost again. That is all you remember.
As flawed as modern science may be, Aristophanes was cor-
rect in one regard: The soul is always engaged in the insatiable
game, the never-ending quest to find that absent fraction of
itselfyourselfthat is vital to the illusion of being complete.
This deception aids you in accepting and comprehending your
own importance.
In 247 hours and 16 minutes, you should be blinded by the
most sterile of white lights, but that thin membrane of new
skin will become translucent, and all you will see will be red.
Your eyes, bulbous and unseeing, will remain shut until six
days after your expulsion from your mother.
Your sleep will be fitful for two months and thirteen days,
because you will crave to return to that soft, dark place that
suspended you in a warm, viscous liquid for approximately
nine months. You will begin to suck your thumb and cry for
that haven inside of your mother.
You will not be awarded the pleasure of this return until
your 84 years have lapsed.
FLASH FICTION | 166 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 167
know to live in Strat Marmel. Benzy knew that the child had
grown brighter with each meal of pskol and each passing day,
till it caught its first meal and became a girl named Benzy, till it
set out on its journey through life, alone, as all who live in Strat
Marmel had done since the Creation. Benzy had believed, as
everyone who had lived in Strat Marmel had believed since the
What She Learned Creation, that she would brighten still more with each passing
day and with each meal of pskol, until light would finally leave
Melanie Abrams, Grade 12, Age 17. Commonwealth School, her and her body would feed the pskol fry with a lifetime of
Boston, MA, Melissa Haber, Teacher light and matter. Benzy had believed that matter was as infi-
nite as Strat Marmel, whereas light was finite and therefore
Beginning . . . sacred. Here, through a crack the size of her thumbnail, was a
The ceiling rock cracked open and yellow light streaked Strat lifetime allotment of light, sudden and unearned. Here was a
Marmel. Benzy screamed, because Benzy had never seen any- crack the size of Benzys thumbnail in the constant matter of
thing so bright, had never wondered if there was anything Strat Marmel. Reader, you cannot begin to imagine what this
above the twisting stalactites of the Strat Marmel ceiling. It would feel like.
was as if the floor under your feet had opened up, reader. It Benzy found a lifetime of color in a single moment. Benzy
was as if someone had slashed open the fabric of the universe. had been born and had grown up in a world of thin blue light
Benzy had been born in Strat Marmel, had grown up in Strat and deep purple shadows, of the dim glow of pskol swimming
Marmel, and up until this moment, Benzy had never ques- through the dark trickle of the Strat. Benzy had been born and
tioned that she would live the rest of her life in Strat Marmel had grown up in a world of deep musky smells and low rip-
and die in Strat Marmel. pling noises as dark as Strat Marmel. In a single moment, the
Benzy lost a lifetime of the faith in a single moment. Benzy warm yellow light flew in shocks over the sparkling Strat and
had believed, as everyone who had lived in Strat Marmel had outlined the pale pskol fry in a ripple of color, sent reds and
believed since the Creation, that her existence would be a jour- greens dancing over the skews of stalagmites, and flared over
ney from darkness into light and back again. The matter from the gauzy webs of Benzys outstretched fingers. I am sorry to
her mothers womb had grown into the matter of a child, a inform you, reader, but you cannot begin to imagine what this
child as unlit as the fry of the pskol. Benzy knew that the unlit would feel like either.
child had grown brighter each time it nursed, as all children
. . . Middle . . .
had since the Creation. Benzy knew that the child had been
Outside of Strat Marmel, they have little dots for eyes, noses no
taught as it grew, as all children had been taught by their moth-
bigger than a fry, such dark skin. Benzy still marveled, months
ers, the story of the Creation and everything else that one must
after she had seen the sun and far curved horizon. Outside of
FLASH FICTION | 168 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 169
Strat Marmel, their fingers are nearly webless and they have listen to recorded music, and Benzy began to wear clothing,
flat dull teeth. In the dark, they are dark, and they can hardly which itched terribly at her sunburned body.
smell or hear. Benzy remembers everything she sees and hears and touches,
Months after she had heard the crash of thunder and tasted and Benzy gave Dr. Wilson hundreds of vibrant details at the
chocolate, Benzy still saw a hazy square of flash when she closed end of each and every day she spent outside of Strat Marmel. At
her eyes. Dr. Wilson had thought to bring a photographer with the end of each and every day she spent outside of Strat Marm-
the digging team. As Benzy soon learned, Dr. Wilson thought el, Benzy wept and wept, overcome with beauty and strange-
of just about everything. But even Dr. Wilson hadnt imagined ness, color and pain. Reader, try to spend one day seeing every
the thrall of that picture; there were simply not enough maga- single thing around you for the first time.
zine covers in the world. None of the magazines or newspapers
. . . End
that ran the picture mentioned that Benzy had been rushed to
Outside of Strat Marmel, they have melanin in their skin to
the hospital right after it had been taken, knocked senseless
bear the rays of the sun, as everyone who has lived in Strat
from the hot white camera flash, that Benzy had suffered more
Marmel has had the blue light to bear the darkness since the
pain in that instant than she had in her lifetime. Reader, if you
genes of our ancestors adapted to living in cave systems. Benzy
have ever had your eyes dilated for a vision test, then you still
wept and wept when Dr. Wilson informed her that she had not
have no idea what this was like.
developed sufficient melanin and could not stay upon the sur-
Dr. Wilson, in her defense, had taken every precaution to
face of the earth. Outside of Strat Marmel, they know you are
smooth out Benzys journey onto the surface of the earth.
sick before you do, and so the sick do not always die. In a single
When Benzy had come to, she had found herself wearing dark
moment, Benzy learned that her life was a journey from dark-
circles of glass over her eyes, in a dark room with a low ceiling,
ness into light and back again.
next to a woman with dim blue lights strapped to her fingertips
Benzy did not take anything with her when she returned to
and forehead. The woman had introduced herself professional-
Strat Marmel, except for a laminated copy of her first photo-
lyreader, even I dont know Dr. Wilsons first nameand had
graph. By the time she left the surface, Benzy knew that bat-
sat for hours trying to teach Benzy in a few hours what people
teries would die in time, that apple seeds would not sprout in
outside of Strat Marmel are taught over a lifetime.
Strat Marmel. Benzy left Dr. Wilson, and museums of ancient
Benzy learned that people on the surface eat tall green crea-
skeletons, and the brilliant light of the sun as it sets like mar-
tures that grow in rows on land and orange squares that come
malade. Reader, if you have ever mourned your own life, then
in red boxes. Benzy learned that some people on the surface of
you know what Benzy felt in that moment.
the earth kill each other to find food. Benzy was taken into a
When Benzy returned to Strat Marmel, she could not see her
forest and scuba diving through the coral reefs. Benzy learned
photograph by her own blue light. She could not see the pskol
what electricity and alphabets are, what art is, what war is,
that swam in the Strat around her or hear the soft ripples of
how bottled vanilla smells. Benzy began to dream in color, to
their fins.
FLASH FICTION | 170 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 171
our heads and food in our stomachs. What more could you ask across an ad for the new Iron Gym and was ordering one off of
for? She got up and said more defiantly. We should be grate- Amazon. Joe was a little skimpy on the muscles.
ful that we are alive. It was a sad situation with the farmer Jack and Larry ran back home since they didnt live that
over in Kentucky, but at least he tasted good. We are grizzly far away. When they got home, they locked all the doors to
bears and nothing more to the locals and that is how it will make sure no one could come and take them away. By this
stay. Like I said earlier, we should be grateful for everything point they were a little paranoid, because no one else but Joe
that we have. knew where they were, and Joe was a little busy at the mo-
Back at the ranch, the two brothers were talking about what ment doing pull-ups since he had the Iron Gym delivered with
had happened and decided to tell their friend Joe what hap- express delivery. After a while of hiding in the basement with
pened. They called Joe and asked him if they could meet up a shotgun, Jack came upstairs to make himself something to
for some coffee and to talk. The three of them went to a caf eat. He went upstairs to see where Larry had gone. Jack went
nearby called The Clean Kitchen Food Place, which was called into Larrys bedroom, and he saw Larry on the floor. Thinking
that because of some salmonella cases a few years back. They Larry was dead, Jack screamed and ran out of the room. In a
started talking. It was the strangest thing, Larry exclaimed. few seconds Jack came back and checked his brothers pulse.
The bear talked and shook my hand. He wasnt dead. Larry had fallen and wacked his head and was
Yeah, and the other bear did too. The other bear made a now unconscious. Jack saw a puddle of water near the bed and
deal with us, proclaimed Jack. suspected that Larry had slipped on the puddle and wacked his
Well, you have a problem, and I think you might want to see head on the edge of his desk, since it was wet with blood.
a psychiatrist or at least a therapist, replied Joe. All of a sudden, there was a knock at the front door. It was
We are not crazy! Larry screamed. All of the people in the Bob, the bear. Sorry about the water balloon. My kids were
caf stared at him. Joe, while Jack and Larry werent looking, playing with two that we made out of your bulls lungs. It went
switched on his phone and Googled insane asylums in Mon- in through one of your open windows upstairs. I hope that it
tana. didnt break anything, apologized Bob. Thats okay, replied
Everyone, calm down, said the head chef, coming out of Jack. Then without warning, Bob lunged and ripped out Jacks
the kitchen, Everything is under control. The chef was just jugular vein. Sorry, I had to do it. You might have told some-
trying to help, but it only made it worse, because to be honest, one.
he wasnt very pretty and the sight of him made a baby start Meanwhile, upstairs, Larry was recovering from uncon-
crying. sciousness when he heard footsteps on the stairs, loud and
With everyone occupied with the baby, which is all of seven heavy. Something big was coming up the hallway now. The
customers, Larry and Jack were sneaking out the door because large something continued into his room and loomed over Lar-
they really did not want to go to an insane asylum. Joe was oc- ry. It spoke and said, Ready to join your brother? Then all the
cupied, because as he was looking up insane asylums he came lights went out.
JOURNALISM | 174 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 175
Holy Cow! A Profile of Dairy he begins work before dawn, when the air is still and stars fleck
the sky. Nobody is around. Its just outstanding, Edgar sighs,
Farmer and Cow Caretaker his words dripping from his lips like sweet cream. There are
certain fields I work in, chopping fresh grass, where theres
Edgar Pless nothing in sight, and you could be in Montana. Theres really
natural quiet. After dusk, just he and his cows remain. Some
Jake Kuhn, Grade 12, Age 18. Buckingham Browne & Nichols School,
nights he even sleeps in the barn with them. Its just unbe-
Cambridge, MA, Eric Hudson, Teacher
lievable. The noises and smells, very . . . nurturing. I guess it
must be nice in the womb, Edgar laughs, opening the door of
Edgar stops by a light-brown Guernsey standing at the opposite
his large, blue pickup truck. Sometimes Ill be driving around,
fence. Shes going to give birth soon, he says, gesturing at
and I just look up at the sky, and he opens his arms and tilts
the cows rear, where a long, dirty strand of goo dangles eigh-
his head backward, wrinkled eyes closed in reverie. Smelling
teen inches. Cows emit mucus as the birth date nears. With
the roses.
his bare hand, Edgar plucks the mucus from her and drops it
He climbs into the trucks high cab, settling into his seat with
on the ground. He feels her udder with two fingers, pressing
a small grunt. The truck grumbles to life, making the clutter of
the pink flesh. Not for a few days, he concludes; when shes
farming magazines and the empty Fanta bottles and the trunk-
ready to give birth, her udder will be swollen and tight with her
sized lunch cooler vibrate on the floor. Maisie, Edgars aging
first milk. Her vagina will stick out the back, distended and jig-
Australian cattle dog, jumps up from her back-seat slumber to
gling like jelly. During calving season, Edgar checks the herd
lick his face. A collie-dingo cross, she is semi-wildthats what
for these signs every few hours, looking especially for cows by
Edgar likes about her. Her flares of feral instinct are respon-
themselves. The day before they are due, he moves them to a
sible for the chewed headrests. Somebody once told me, Your
special birthing pasture in the back, a lawn with white-picket
dog owns you, Edgar says as he pulls out of the driveway, but
fencing and shady oaks where they can deliver in peace.
nobody owns nobody here. Its not about owning.
We have to separate the mother from her calf after she licks
Its four-thirty, and the herd over at Eastleigh is ready for
her clean, Edgar says, rubbing his knuckles as he closes the
the afternoon milking. At a fork in the road, Edgar chooses
pasture gate. The two hours with her calf gets the cows hor-
mones and milk production running, but any longer makes
JOURNALISM | 176 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 177
the narrow lane that disappears around a sharp bend. Just a After a long moment, they release each other. Grabbing
mile from the Home Farm, Eastleigh sits at the foot of Fram- a pitchfork from its hook on the wall, Edgar preps the cows
ingham State Forest in a valley with sparse neighbors and few snack by tossing a pile of brown, mulch-like material in front
visitors. Edgar motions at the dense trees flanking the trucks of each stall. This is chopped corn silage, undried grasses col-
right, explaining that on the other side of those woods is the lected in summer and stored in the airtight silo for winter, fer-
Sudbury Valley School, where students set their own agendas menting to take on a flavor that the cows love. Edgar nods to
and do whatever they want. He and his wife Juliette moved Pedro, and Pedro slides open the door at the end of the barn.
to Framingham so that one of his kids and two of hers could Seven cows jostle through the doorwaythe early crowd.
attend the school. Kidslet em loose, he says. Be there, as a They trot to their stalls and munch on their snack, snorting in
friend, consultant, advisor, whatever, but let them do what they delight while the rest of the herd trickles in. Using one hand,
want to do, and theyll be just fine. Edgar chains their collars to the stalls, and they are ready to
He turns into the driveway marked by a yellow sign advertis- give milk. Hygiene is the first and last step of the milking pro-
ing Fresh Milk! Four ivy-covered silos rise like steeples over cess. Edgar sanitizes with a teat dip, a plastic blue cup that fills
the picturesque farm. Forest-green roofs shelter beige barns, with a disinfecting iodine solution and molds to fit the teats.
lush pastures roll on gentle hills, pieces of rusting machinery From behind, Edgar reaches under the first cows udder, lifting
lie strewn about the lawn. Edgars destination is the milking the cup to engulf each of her four teats. The motion is as quick
barn, a long hall lit by sun seeping through cloudy windows. and noiseless as dipping fingers in water. He finishes the row
The aroma of milk and manure pervades the air. A row of stalls of twenty cows in two minutes, returning to the first cow with
on each side faces a central passageway where Pedro, at twenty a steaming rag. He wraps her teats with the rag, wiping away
the youngest worker on the farm, parks a battered wheelbar- all traces of the disinfectant. Sterilize the teat, wash away the
row containing the cows afternoon snack. sterilizer. Edgar scrubs around the teats on the udder, scraping
Pedro beams when he sees Edgar. They embrace, Edgars heft away dirt to reveal the soft pink skin beneath.
burying Pedros compact build. When Pedro started working at Pedro, can you get the cart and start the pump? Edgar
Eastleigh a year ago, he was skeptical of Edgars seeming pas- asks. Quick to oblige, Pedro disappears into a side room.
sive manner and scrubby look. But Edgar soon proved Pe- Hes not a boss, Pedro says. Even though he is, he doesnt
dros impression wrong. When teaching him farm jobs, Edgar talk to you or approach you like that. Hes more of a friend.
would not simply tell him what to do, but why. Their greetings Pedro scratches his stubbly cheek as he flips open a mechani-
went from hellos to hugs. Even if its just for three seconds, cal box. Having someone you work with that doesnt act like a
you distinguish the difference between hugging someone else, boss, and theyre not full of themselves, theyre a humble per-
like your mom or your girlfriend, he says. That becomes a son, it makes everything beautiful, he grins, flicking a switch
routine, but every time he hugs you, every time he looks at your before wheeling the cart into the milking room.
eyes, theres a connection. A rhythmic beating emanates from the black vacuum pipe
suspended from the ceiling above the stalls. This is the main
JOURNALISM | 178 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 179
line, bringing milk from teat to tank. Pedros cart looks foreign sink built into a spotless white countertop. Exchanging a silent
in the rustic barna chrome rack on wheels carrying a tangle greeting, she and Edgar gaze at each other and smile.
of tubes. Edgar takes one of the pulsators, a spider-like con- Thats the colostrum? Juliette asks, brushing her long gray
traption with four thin, black-and-chrome suction cups sprout- hair from her face. Colostrum is the cows first milk, full of
ing from a central chamber. A clear blue tube runs from the antibodies that the calf needs to build its immune system.
chamber to the main line. Edgar attaches the suction cups to Yeah, she can have this tonight, Edgar responds. Even if
the teats one at a time, slurping them up. The cows bloated ud- they have to tube feed it, they need to give the calf colostrum.
der deflates as the milk surges into the tube. The fresh milk is Without it, her chances of survival plummet. Edgar pries the
a steaming 110 degrees, making the room warm and humid as lid from the bucket. The life-force liquid, bright yellow and
it travels through the tubes. The cow flicks her tail once, and thick with globs of congealed minerals, reaches the brim. Its
Edgar pats her haunch before pulling the pulsator from her like snot, Edgar laughs, lifting it to the counter. Juliette rinses
teats. He dips each teat into another cup, this time coating on clean another bucket, placing two sieves over it. After stirring
an orange sealant that prevents bacteria from entering the teat the colostrum with an oversized wooden spoon, Edgar pours
and infecting it. Safe cow, safe milk. Done in ten minutes. He it through the sieves. Since the colostrum goes straight from
moves on to the next cow. the cow to the pot, sawdust can get inEdgar isnt taking any
The care that Edgar has for these guys, the lovewow, chances. Juliette stands beside Edgar with four-pint bottles
Pedro says, refilling the cows silage. That amazes me. He waiting to be filled. They work as one, moving around each
pauses to watch Edgar humming to cow number 577, who gave other in wordless harmony. He pours the strained colostrum
birth this morning. Her first milk will feed her calf back at the into the bottles, she caps them with red rubber nipples fresh
Home Farm, so the pulsator sucks the milk into a huge silver from the dishwasher. She soaps up the buckets, he stores the
pot rather than the main line. When the pot is full, it cools extra colostrum in the fridge.
for an hour and a half while Edgar finishes milking the herd. Edgar and Juliette met when they both brought their first
He then separates the milk into two white buckets and drives families to Sirius Community in Shutesbury, Massachusetts,
them to the Home Farm. where people lived together under a consensus government. I
Lifting the buckets from the bed of his truck, Edgars hands had built all these walls around myself to protect myself, pro-
quiver under the weight. He brings them into the front room of tect my reality, Edgar explains. He decided that he needed
the barn, a cozy space lit by a bare light bulb encased in a jar. to put himself in a situation where he was forced to talk to
Clutter swallows most of the room: baskets of wool socks, piles strangers and be more open. There, he realized that there were
of folded shirts, cases of power tools, containers of dog biscuits other people who shared his ideas about life. The community
and cat food. Edgars children and grandchildren smile from believed in the sacredness and intelligent nature of all life, in-
photographs crowding every ledge. As Edgar plops the buckets cluding plants. They worked consciously with nature spir-
onto the swept concrete floor, Juliette turns from her place at a its to grow forty-pound cabbages and two-pound tomatoes.
JOURNALISM | 180 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 181
He was harvesting vegetables in the garden when Juliette first this earth and then came back again, Pedro says. Nothing but
visited the community. As soon as we met, we knew, Edgar knowledge, nothing but heart, nothing but love to offer. I feel
whistles. Damn. like theyre angels.
It was like he was somebody Id known forever, Juliette Angels they may be, but Edgar and Juliette are convinced
says as she caps the last bottle. I felt like I had met a kindred that the true divine being rests with the animals. In the back
spirit. She and Edgar each take a bottle of colostrum and head of this barn alone, both of them have experienced an extraordi-
for the back of the barn, where the newborns spend their first nary connection between themselves, the cows, and what Ed-
weeks. Edgar and Juliette never had a baby together, but to- gar calls the other side. Juliette recalls nurturing to health
gether they raised three children from their first marriages. I Mason, a calf born with a heart defect. He was more than
was always atypical around how to be with kids, and it wasnt thirty feet away in the barn when she murmured, Mason, I
until I met Edgar that I met anybody who was similar, Juliette love you, and he looked up, trotted over to her and pushed his
remembers. Both were against using threats, intimidation or head against her. Its like the animals know what Im think-
fear with their children, instead seeking a respectful relation- ing, she says, fingering a small braid above her ear. It amazed
ship built on clear communication. I had to learn to do that. I me at first, but now its just part of the fabric woven into our
wasnt sure how you commanded respect if a kid was blatantly everyday life.
doing something you didnt want him to. Edgar was like that In its hay-lined hutch, the unnamed calf lows when she sees
naturally. Edgar and Juliette coming. She wobbles to them on unsteady
Edgars oldest daughter, Anisa, who left for college before her legs. Juliette kneels beside her and Edgar rubs her cheek, let-
father married Juliette, remembers him as gleeful and open- ting her nibble his fingers. He straddles the fledgling calf and
minded. When she was ten, she wanted to have two friends semi-locks her head between his knees to keep her focused on
sleep over but wasnt sure if it was okay. Edgar not only agreed finding the bottle. Nudging his free hand with her rosy nose,
but invited every kid in the neighborhood. She says that he was she licks his skin, jacket, pants. Hey, girl, he coos. She lo-
the perfect mixture of playmate and parent. I dont remem- cates the bottle and almost yanks it from his hand, inhaling
ber him ever yelling, she says as if realizing the novelty. He her milk. Shes not shy; she takes what she wants, Edgar
would just sit down and talk to us, and we responded to that. chuckles, stroking her velvet fur. I can tell she has attitude.
He understood kids and treated them like people. The calf hiccups and moos. He offers her a second bottle, and
Edgar and Juliette are more than just parentstheyre men- she takes it, her ears wiggling with pleasure. Edgar feeds his
tors. None can attest to this better than Pedro. He recently calf and hums a low tune, filling the farm with the sound of
moved away from home and is trying to become a better man, his spirit.
to do things right. He says that Edgar and Juliette listen to
him, look past his wrongs and see him for who he is. They en-
able him to open his heart. Theyre like people who lived on
JOURNALISM | 182 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 183
The Mammoth, No Longer a allowing scientists to examine the creatures to the upmost ca-
pacity. From cloning a beloved, deceased pet to growing replace-
Thing of the Past ments for people in need, this project can open many doors for
new methods and improvement. To an extreme, this technology
Bailey Hwa, Grade 8, Age 13. J. Lupton Simpson Middle School, can be taken to the next level, when applied to humans.
Leesburg, VA, Debra Sheridan, Teacher The roots of this magnate project lead back to 2008, when
Teruhiko Wakayama, a brilliant, eminent geneticist, success-
Falling back into time, to the ancient, long-lost age of dino- fully produced a clone from a dead mouse. Frozen in a labora-
saurs, colossal giants towered over the blood-stained land, tory for sixteen years, the mouse and its minuscule cells were
mercilessly eviscerating their prey with teeth as sharp as dead, but mostly intact. With the utmost caution, his team
knives. Lush vegetation painted the world in a multitude of of scientists removed the dead mouses nucleus, thousands of
bright colors, as if it were a masterpiece collage. One fateful times smaller than the sharp, piercing tip of a needle, fusing it
day that would change the course of history, they met their end into an egg cell. As a result, thirteen thriving identical clones
as countless, burning meteors rained down from the sky, tear- were produced. This breakthrough conveyed a clear, yet sig-
ing the earth apart, leaving only death and mass destruction. nificant message; cloning a mammoth was no longer a mere
For many years, these beasts have been ghosts of our long-lost idea but a reality. All that was needed was the genetic material
past, with their faint essence imprinted in rock. However, it of a woolly mammoth.
will be a matter of time before scientists resurrect these mas- Fortunately, in 2010, the remains of a mammoth were dis-
sive creatures via genetic engineering. In Japan, scientists have covered in isolated, frozen Siberia. The mammoth, though
set their eyes not on the dinosaurs, but the woolly mammoth, dead, remained preserved and frozen in the motionless ice,
an ancient, extinct cousin to the modern elephant. However almost intact as if time itself had never passed. Frozen deep
the result turns out, this project will make a crucial impact on in the ice for 10,000 years, the mammoth, presumed to be
our nearing future. three years old at the time of its death, was given the name
The project, led by Akira Iritani and a collaboration of the Yuka. Unlike other mammoth remains, Yukas matted brown
worlds brightest geneticists, hopes to bring back this gargan- fur, which protected her from the biting winds and extreme
tuan by the year 2017 for a multitude of reasons. In particular, temperatures, still remains on isolated patches on her massive
JOURNALISM | 184 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 185
looks about twenty-five and is wearing a gray business suit the virus of the syndrome is present in his cells, but as far as
faded and torn by long years of use. From his posture and we can tell, he is healthier than ninety-nine percent of the
expression, its obvious that hes been locked in the cage for specimens weve studied.
an interminable amount of timeperhaps a dozen years or
MAN
more. Trickling in and out of the room at random are the zoo
What is he wearing?
visitors. From appearances alone, they seem to be ordinary
people, but their movements are sometimes strangely inor- TOUR GUIDE
ganic. Their outfits are impeccably fashionable, as if picked That is his tribal costume.
straight from the pages of designer magazines. They speak in
hushed voices as they gaze upon STEPHEN but do not inter- MAN
act with him. At length, a woman enters the room, followed It looks a little like . . . clothing.
by a group of people.) TOUR GUIDE
TOUR GUIDE Yes, we have determined through analysis that it is composed
And here is our number one exhibit, the one youve all been of the same material and through the same procedures as our
waiting for, the pice de rsistance: Homo sapiens. Or people, own clothing. His species is difficult to observe in the wild,
as some of you prefer to call them. but it is possible that they acquired the technique for manu-
facturing clothing from our own service sector.
(The group of visitors crowds around STEPHENs cage, but in
an orderly fashion, so everyone gets a good look. STEPHEN MAN
does not react to their presence. He continues to play with the I see. Thank you for the addition to my data banks.
broken yo-yo, his eyes dull and his movements mechanical.)
TOUR GUIDE
WOMAN No problem. That is my purpose.
I have a query. (One of the visitors approaches the rope surrounding the ex-
TOUR GUIDE hibit and gazes intently at STEPHEN. As he does so, STEPHEN
Go right ahead. fumbles and drops the yo-yo.)
WOMAN WOMAN
Does this specimen suffer from Mendelian Syndrome? What organic behavior! How fascinating.
WOMAN MAN
A command? I dont have the proper superiority protocol to Why havent more data resources been devoted to the task?
do that.
TOUR GUIDE
TOUR GUIDE Well, we are also working on recovery programs for several
No problem. X13 is an organic. He doesnt require superiority species of Bovinae and Sciuridae. The dung beetle also has a
protocol. Go ahead and give him a simple command. fascinating life cycle that we would like to devote some of our
resources to studying. Our aim is to preserve these species
WOMAN
physically as well as electronically, to allow a more holistic
X13, Command. Pick up the toy.
integration into our visitors data banks.
(STEPHEN rolls his head slowly to the side to look at the visi-
MAN
tors for the first time. The entire group is silent, waiting for
I understand.
him to act. After a few moments, he looks away and buries his
head in his hands. His shoulders tremble noiselessly.) TOUR GUIDE
Good. On our way out, I invite you to peruse our data wall.
MAN
There are some entries there on Homo sapiens recovery ef-
Ive heard that Homo sapiens are prone to self-deletion in
forts that you may find educational.
captivity. Has he made any attempts?
(The visit to this exhibit is over. The tour guide leaves the
TOUR GUIDE
room, followed by the rest of the group except for HEGEMO-
X13s brain patterns have been regular for the past eleven
NY. She is dressed in a brown vest, knee-high brown leather
years. We have not detected the chemical imbalance that usu-
boots, and a burnt-orange scarf straight from the pages of an
ally precedes an attempt at self-deletion. No, I dont think we
autumn-issue fashion magazine. She moves closer to the cage,
have to worry about losing our star exhibit for some time yet.
remaining beyond the rope line, and studies STEPHEN in
MAN silence for a few moments.)
Its a shame their lifespans are so short.
STEPHEN
TOUR GUIDE I can feel you looking at me. Why are you still here?
Yes, it is. We have run some genetic reprogramming simula-
HEGEMONY
tions, but nothing is foolproof yet. We hope to discover a solu-
Youre speaking to me.
tion to his species high mortality and low fertility rates, as
well as a way to counteract Mendelian Syndrome. STEPHEN
Havent you seen enough?
DR AMATIC SCRIPT | 190 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 191
HEGEMONY STEPHEN
Ive never communicated with an organic before. So youre a walking Library of Congress.
HEGEMONY HEGEMONY
On the contrary, you have much to offer me. I value data equally. I am a singular platform with no purpose
other than to assemble random data.
STEPHEN
Nothing you cant find on the data wall. STEPHEN
But that data has already been assembled. Thats what the
HEGEMONY
wall is for. You wouldnt make a hard copy of the Internet.
I have already exhausted the data wall.
It isnt logical. You things are all about logic. (He comes to a
STEPHEN realization.) Youre broken. Arent you?
You mean . . . you read the whole thing?
HEGEMONY
HEGEMONY (quietly) There is a flaw in my programming.
Yes.
STEPHEN
STEPHEN So that makes you . . . what? A datamaniac?
But you cant possibly have stored everything. Thats . . . I
HEGEMONY
dont even know how much that is.
I do not know that word.
HEGEMONY
STEPHEN
Slightly over two exabytes of data.
Thats because I made it up.
STEPHEN
HEGEMONY
Exabytes? Thats 2 million terabytes. Youve got to be kidding
Oh. Invention.
me. Where are you keeping it?
STEPHEN
HEGEMONY
Yeah. Its something we humans do. You know, when we
(places a hand on her sternum) Here.
arent locked up in cages.
DR AMATIC SCRIPT | 192 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 193
HEGEMONY STEPHEN
Cage? This is a container for your own protection. But you dont follow their rules, dammit. You said you
were broken.
STEPHEN
Doesnt matter what its for. Its still a cage. And caged birds HEGEMONY
dont sing. We have to fly free for that. You . . . do you get Flawed. Not broken.
metaphors, or am I just wasting my time?
STEPHEN
HEGEMONY I should have known. But I had to try, didnt I? You could
I have recorded data on metaphorical language. have been the one in a million. My ticket out of here. A free
ride home.
STEPHEN
Of course you have. Hey, listen. Youre broken, right? Youre (STEPHEN picks up the yo-yo from the floor of the cage and
not like the rest of them. The machines, I mean. turns it over in his hands, staring at it. Suddenly, he smashes
it on the floor, shattering the toy beyond repair. His mood ap-
HEGEMONY
pears to swing rapidly from casual to enraged.)
I am unique.
Just get out of here! Useless hunk of blasted metal. I should
STEPHEN
have known.
Good. Thats great. We have something in common. Could you
do me a favor? Could you bypass that lock right there? It only (STEPHEN turns his back on HEGEMONY, curling into a
responds to electronic pulses, so I cant do it, but you could ball on the floor of his cage. His frame quivers, but it isnt
open it. There isnt even a code. clear whether hes sobbing or laughing silently. HEGEMONY
observes him coolly for a few more moments, then leaves.
HEGEMONY
End scene.)
You wish to be released.
STEPHEN
Yeah. You wouldnt mind that, right?
HEGEMONY
It is against zoo policy to release a specimen without
authorization.
DR AMATIC SCRIPT | 194 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 195
Wings dipped in the iron of the sun slice like butter knives. My mother was the one who taught me
Clipped, combed. how to turn my heart to stone. Make your eyes dark like
You are a cosmonaut, a moon dancer. bullet holes, she whispers softly
Your pastpresentfuture is ripe and blushing, while braiding my hair. Set your mouth like a razor blade. The
sweeter than the time the night fluttered on our lips, unfurled war is not yet over.
on our hips. Of all the children, I was old enough to remember
Locked, looped. the acrid tang of napalm, blooms of crimson on the humid air,
I am sorry the swelling flares of gunfire. I tell myself
for the broken glass to get used to the weight of that stone hanging heavy in my
and the way we were constantly expanding, chest.
but for every breath we spend, the universe takes one more Theyd said Id never be pretty here, so I want to become
step toward chaos. beautiful instead
Fall into me; teach me how to sew the layers of us into but the terrible sort of beauty, the kind that makes men die,
something new. the kind that launches a thousand ships. I want a revolution
Bloom, burst. that brings up the blood.
Your eyes remind me of velvet mornings when the gray- A long time ago, I tore out the threads
tinged-pink-sprayed-orange fastened to my heart. Theres electricity in my veins
spilled onto our thighs like a prayer. that could burn cities to the ground.
We are heavenly bodies pickpocketing the cosmos.
Warm-blooded, bold.
I know the way spring skies will pulse.
POETRY | 198 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 199
nothing is ripe here during the Summer, because I cannot reach the moon:
but I dont write char poems; I write lying poems filled with rain;
I dont write dust poems; I write poems full of the sumptuous night
I dont write poems slick with sweat. and poems that ripple when touched.
I write wind and sandstone poems instead; I write moon poems that hide in oyster poems,
I write poems where the wind makes the mountains a flute; and palm poems full of oysters;
I write ribcage and hipbone poems; I write poems where I drink the moon
I write poems that crumple below the weight of swollen slick, and soft, and cool.
stone-fruits.
Of a permanent wall
Between realities
Wolf in the Desert
And all I have Robert Bedell, Grade 12, Age 17. Pine View School, Osprey, FL,
Is a lingering scent of roses Paul Dean, Teacher
A pair of reading glasses
And a jacket you forgot I long to be a wolf in the desert,
Like you forgot me assassin of the sands,
Your Raggedy Man conspirator with the moon.
Martian Boy Two hunters,
Your Doctor the wind and I,
sink teeth like scimitars
into dying apathy,
savor each leap and lunge,
each succulent taste of meat;
Raging
for a world of fertile danger,
life or death
by the strength of my will.
Survival Is a Roast You Have Because even your father stops trying
to shine a light under the door, and you can hear the bed
to Keep on Carving rattling even with the pillow pulled taut over your head.
Once you caught a moth in a mason jar and left it on your
Meggie Royer, Grade 12, Age 18. Ames High School, Ames, LA, neighbors
Joe Brekke, Teacher doorstep, where she picked it up the next day
and set it free,
Because no matter how hard you try, your grandfather will its tiny body shivering feebly through the trees.
always Because when you visit your sister at college
keep coming back into your sisters room. she still has the old family photo album
In grade school you learned how to carve a steak with both hands tucked away in her desk drawer
and a knife, the fork weeping in between your fingers. with dirty singed Polaroids of your grandfather and her
They put the shank on a platter with the blood pooled like wine laughing during summer,
around the ribs, and all you can do his arm settled firm around her shoulders
is stare at it until the meat vanishes from the bone as if trying to keep her from getting away.
and everything is beautiful again.
Because your sisters door will always be locked, the key tossed
over
his shoulder like salt at a wedding
to keep the evil spirits away.
You are proud of your wounds
and display them on your sleeves where your heart should be.
Inside the cupboards at age four you found
a box of matches and twenty-five candles,
laid out polished and clean like quiet slivers of the moon.
You wondered what the strip of rough red on the side of the
box will do,
and struck a match against it just to find out.
The room ignited; for years after you will dream of your moth-
ers hair
orange and golden gossamer around the cool white circle of her
scalp.
POETRY | 212 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 213
II.
At the park
I saw an old man, weary, allergic,
Who, leash in hand,
Chased behind his heart as it led him among the trees.
I observed, That is a good pet, sir.
But it wants much airing out, he countered.
In winter, it shivers,
And I have to swaddle it in laundry.
III.
In the forest
I saw a creature, clear-eyed, rebellious,
Who, kneeling upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands and prayed to it.
I investigated.
I wearied of listening to it, he answered before I spoke.
But I wondered, if I whispered to it,
Whether it would respond.
POETRY | 216 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 217
IV.
On the gravel driveway
Judgment Day
I saw a young man, absorbed, muttering, Francesca Sedlacek, Grade 7, Age 12. P.S. duPont Middle School,
Who, magnifier in hand, Wilmington, DE, Tracy Selekman, Teacher
Focused sunbeams on the asphalt and on his heart.
Shocked [he was so young], I asked, What is it you intend, The fawn-like children scream shrilly,
lad? As they venture through the lush green jungle,
What I intend, he frowned, Aware of silent black hunters eyeing them like vultures.
Batting distractedly at the air near where I spoke, The drip drop of the after rain leaves
Is of course for it to shrivel. Are the only sounds they hear
But it has yet to look like a raisin. Before the sickening smell of death is upon them
Perhaps it is not the right time of year. Judgment Day has begun in the quiet velvet night.
V.
In a garden
I saw a sprite, eyes twinkling, wearing leaf-garlands,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Planted her heart in the earth and beseeched it to multiply.
I asked, Will that work, elf?
Of course, it answered.
All seeds populate.
I breathe over it and wait until its progeny rings open.
POETRY | 218 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 219
Origin
Olivia Linn, Grade 11, Age 16. Wyoming High School, Wyoming, OH,
Keith Lehman, Teacher
I saw a goddess yesterday. She was dressed in all pearls and sil-
vers; the long, light, gauzy fabric that just brushed the tops of
her feet was quietly shocking in February in line at the Seven
The Human Condition
Hills DMV. Her skin was like spring mulch. It glistened and I John Lhota, Grade 9, Age 15. Hunter College High School,
thought it might have smelled like earth. The creases in her New York, NY, Rebecca Wallace-Segall, Molly Haas-Hooven, Teachers
wrists were folds of night against the lace of her shawl like
snow. Her Corroded. Dull. Broken.
lips were roses and words fell from them like poems. I I remember the day I first saw this watch. The glass was so clean
thought it must have been the language of her ancestorsof I could see my reflection in it. The metal was the kind of shade
her people of the earth, people who might have been trees so that shouldnt even exist, but does. Too beautiful to be real. So
many years agoher hands still resembled the toughness of reflective, you can barely even see what color it really is.
oak and work. It doesnt even work anymore. Theyve put it in a museum
Her language was full of vibrant undertones, clicks and now. Artifacts of the pre-intellectual capitalist period.
throaty syllables, pockets of color like music, so that it cannot It smelled like metal, the kind of bittersweet smell that burns
be spoken. What I imagined is her your nostrils as you smell it, but makes you long for it right
singing her origins softly, but resolutely, to her sixteen-year- afterward.
old daughter, who has forgone her mothers angel-garb for dark Now that its locked behind glass, I wonder what it smells
wash jeans and a teal Aeropostale T-shirt. The harshness of like. I can barely even see it through my own reflection, so I
this color clashes with the music in the womans voice as the switch to looking at that.
daughter responds sharply in English. I dont recognize my face. Is this what I looked like when she
Unyieldingly, the goddess of language and color and roots gave it to me?
pushes forth with ever-more-urgent clicks of her tongue in a Is this what I looked like on the day they all died?
language the teenager cant help but understand. She switches I wander around the museum for the rest of the day. Part of
to English: Evidently, she was reminding her daughter to go to me wants to go back and look at the watch, and the other half
the grocery store. Eggs, milk, bread, she said. Please do not of me wants to get as far away from this place as I can. I hurry
forget. past the whining children, the sacred headdresses, the works
of art, the bored security guards. The tourists with sunglass-
SHORT STORY | 222 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 223
planes! he says enthusiastically. A girl from two rows forward Theres not much activity on the street in front of me. I realize
shouts at us, I must be some sort of homeless person. I look around. Up on a
Hey, what is it now? hill a mile or two away is a huge marble building. Considering
No, weve gotta wait til it gets to the back of the bus, whines the architecture, I figure I must be in Ancient Greece. Sud-
the sandy-haired boy. denly, I see some angry men running toward me and shouting.
Just tell me! What would this man want me to do? Would he run?
The boy sighs dejectedly. Fine, its The bananas fly planes, Well, theyre already here, and theres no point wondering
he says, matter-of-factly. anymore.
The girl giggles. Ours was Cupcakes are yummy. The men drag me down the street. And then I am gone.
***
Chapter 0 I am an old man in a boat, with a damp, salty beard. The
Back before this all started, I belonged somewhere. It was water is clear blue, and I can see all the way to the bottom of
before the leviathan of civilization ever reared its ugly head. the ocean. I am holding a rope that leads to the water, so I pull,
We were not so different from everyone else. We were cave- and up comes a cage full of lobsters. The lobsters look at me
men, like them, banging rocks together. and blink.
They were bad at surviving, so I am the only one left.
***
*** I am wearing a suit and drinking champagne. A man sits
Im back in the dark hallway. I think Im the same person. I next to me, talking about a book he is writing. A woman sits
now realize that the politicians must be at some sort of party. I next to him and nods. A tear drips into my drink, and plunges
notice that I am wearing a suit. I must be one of the politicians through the pale liquid; why, I know not.
as well. Not knowing what else to do, I walk out and greet the
others. Chapter 1
Ron! exclaims a man with gray hair in a black suit. Good My people were smarter, more creative. If souls exist, theirs
to see you. were more beautiful than the most vibrantly pale flower ever
I grin awkwardly, not quite sure what to say. Its, uh, nice written about in a rough draft of a movie script that was turned
to see you too . . . in as a college project and accidentally thrown out by the writ-
The shrimp here is great, comments a sleepy-eyed man. ers professor. They cared about each other, and they just sim-
By the way, what have you been thinking about that new ply did whatever they knew was to be done. They knew that if
thing . . . uh, HB1776 or whichever one it is. everyone did that, they all would be fine, and they trusted that
*** their friends would do the same good as them.
I wake up on a sandy street. Bright midday sun is shining They were bad at surviving, and their time soon came. This
down on my face. I sit up and yawn. My face feels tight and dry. is how I escaped. This is why I am the only one left.
SHORT STORY | 226 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 227
*** hearts and blood pumps to the flat and dusty earth, I hear
And now, I am back with the politicians. shouts of death to Muslims, and cheers for the disciples who
that people need to have guns that bad. I mean, when you will at long last worship on this land again. Im horrified, and I
look at the number of violent crimes that take place every year dont know where to go.
in America, you realize that youve gotta tighten the restric- But as I whirl around in this scarlet kaleidoscope, part of
tions. me wonders if it would really be so bad to just let go, give up,
Well, Im just saying, people need the right to defend them- release all the love and fury and pent-up exhaustion thats been
selves from building and building for as long as I could think and breathe
*** and feel, to lift the sword and look into his eyes and let it fall.
An angry dog says woof to me. I pet it and say hello. It frowns And suddenly the sword feels heavy, heavier than anything Ive
and walks away. ever had to lift, and I cant hold it up anymore.
Fur the color of chocolate. ***
*** As I fall into the waves of the dark black sea, hitting their
And there I am, an Ancient Roman soldier, dragging a shout- surface and feeling the sudden cold, I realize that I do not want
ing Jewish man down the street. Should I let him go? What to die, and with the single fact, a frenzy of emotion washes over
would happen to the soldier? Hes hardly the helpless one, but my body just like the cold, briny splashes that slowly spread
goosebumps across every inch of my skin. I realize this means
***
Im going to have to swim, so I lift my arm forward
Paris, sipping a wine that tastes so peculiar, it has to cost at
least a few thousand dollars per bottle. I think back to a few ***
seconds ago. It seems so surreal, and yet I cant deny that it And the blade penetrates his chest. I barely register that Im
happened. I keep staring at the red liquid for a few minutes, back on the batteground from before, and as I look around,
and wonder why its so expensive. I pick up the glass, and slow- I still feel faint prickles of the icy abyss, just beyond the feel
ly swish it around. of my skin and the reach of my mind and the armor I wear.
And yet it somehow feels warm, and stuffy, and I need to do
***
something, to fight, and though I dont know what will hap-
They holler, running down the street with their inverted
pen if I die here, I cant find out, and as the next soldiers ad-
metal crosses. The rush of sunburnt energy fuels their shouts
vance up the line to the fight, and they roar at the top of their
as the last of the troops enter the Holy City. The crosses whip
lungs, I find myself caught up in the sheer volume, the sound
around through the air like leaves in a hurricane, the soldiers
waves lifting up my arm, and I join in the cry, rushing forward
using all the solid adrenaline for the impossible task of barely
with the gargantuan mass of human flesh, ready to die for their
hanging on. Even as the men around me pierce their armored
cause, and
SHORT STORY | 228 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 229
***
Im still shouting, still rushing forward, barely taking an in- Chapter 2
stant to see that I am now on the other side, rushing toward There is no past, and there is no future.
the others There is only an infinite amount of isolated, unrelated mo-
*** ments.
And Im still shouting, and I lift my sword None of them contain any context. They all must stand for
themselves.
***
higher and higher with every scream that joins in the incom-
An End
prehensible blurring of sound and passion and energy
I walk into a shop and see an old man sitting behind the coun-
*** ter. I awkwardly walk out of the shop before he looks up, not
And I dont even know whose side Im on anymore, but I just knowing what else to do. Out of sheer curiositywhat other rea-
keep shouting, back son do I ever seem to have?I look up at the sign above the door.
*** Clockmaker.
and forth Simple as that. No name, no brand, no copyright and trade-
*** mark.
and back And I dont even have to wonder. I know its the same one.
*** I hurry back into the shop. Excuse me, do you know what
and forth, and the two sides blur, its all one continuous year it is?
scream, and as our lines meet, and our swords finally fall, it The old man looks up. Why, yes, its 1999. Can I help you?
doesnt matter. I dont need to know where I am, there is no Umyes, yes, I think you can. I say it quietly, almost afraid.
order or formation or confounded clever strategy; now the We exchange a few words.
only thing left that can matter in this world is how I thrust And then, like a whisper, I am gone.
my sword forward with every last piece of ragged put-together
strength in this feebly muscular body
***
and kill
***
and kill
***
and kill.
SHORT STORY | 230 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 231
Dreaming of Stars private thing Mom did. Shed always loved the September Song
as if she was another member of our little lost family. Now, I
Helen Copp, Grade 8, Age 14. Oyster River Middle School, suppose, she was. Yes you are, youll keep us safe, wont you?
Durham, NH, Susan Renner, Teacher Keeping my gaze forward, I felt a smile crawl across my lips.
The September Song was our literal lifeboat. She was all we
It was well into the second week of the flood when I awoke had, a young craft, but an experienced sailor. The honeyed
freezing from the clearest dream in months. It was lucid, more wood was worn from padding feet, the rails beaten by spray,
like a vision than a dream, and it left me in a cold sheen of but the ropes were strong and the slice of sail stronger. She was
sweat between the rough blankets and the thin mattress in no more worn down than any other well-loved vessel.
the captains quarters. After shaking the sleep off my back, I Finally glancing around from my post at the wheel, I ob-
threw myself topside, my feet, rough with calluses, smacking served two catastrophes burst from belowdecks within a min-
the smooth ladder as I ran. Shielding my eyes from the after- ute of each other. One was my sister Gracie, nine years old,
noon sun, I leaned out over the rail, trying to find some trace basically the human embodiment of fireworks. The other was
of life on the vast expanse of blue. No luck today. I flicked my my father, who immediately went to work checking the tight-
chestnut mop out of my eyes and tried again. The water was ness of ropes and lines, as if I couldnt do it just as well myself.
bare and flat, as it had been every day since the floodwater had Caleb, can we go swimming? Can we can we can we please?
settled. My gaze trailed downward to the infinite depths of the Gracie tossed her yellow hair and drew out her please into a
water. On some days, when the angle was good, and the water whine that rattled in my ears until finally, I had to crack.
was illuminated with the slanting shafts of sunlight, I could Alright, you can take a dip, I chuckled. But just for a short
see right down into the dark. Once, I saw an old church steeple, while. Im not stopping this boat forever. My sisters energized
complete with a cross wavering a few yards below the surface. yelps popped and cartwheeled across the deck after her as she
That was the luckiest find, however. Smaller buildings never dashed to the break in the rails, and propelled herself into the
came close to the surface. shining water.
Without any landmarks or land of any kind, navigation She didnt even wait for you to drop anchor, Mom laughed
proved to be quite difficult. Standing at the helm, I tried to di- as I belatedly heaved the small deadweight anchor overboard.
rect the craft in a straight line across the open water. A voice, Adult supervision is always needed with that one. Striding to
SHORT STORY | 232 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 233
the gap in the rail, she swung her legs over the edge and disap- side, there used to be people. They walked the streets down
peared soundlessly into the water. there. Now fish do, if anything. I turned my head as if to get
I watched her go with the ghost of a smile. These days, hap- away from the bitterness in my voice. It was a long way to the
piness came and went in waves, not unlike the gentle lapping bottom.
sounds the endless water made against the edges of the Sep- I think one day, maybe kids will swim down there. Explore.
tember Song. It seemed to me the world was suspended, like it Maybe theyll dig it out again, what we used to be, San pon-
had been silenced by the crashing flumes. Unable to be seen, it dered. We sat and watched the stars, tiny pinpricks of hope
didnt have to be thought about anymore. Everything was bur- in a midnight closer than it looked. When they were the only
ied and quiet. With everyone together, on our literal lifeboat, source of light, it was apparent just how much the world was
we lived a life on pause. not the world it had been. The churning water had devoured
The last inhabitant of our vessel emerged only when the the streetlights, the skyscrapers, all the lights humanity had
wheel had spun and the gold of the sun had shrunk to the sil- relied on. Without the electric pulse cities once provided, there
ver of the stars. was no familiar orange glow to the night. It would be scenic
Glad to see you up before midnight, San, I shouted to the if it wasnt tragic. The stars were small and far away, but they
figure across the deck. He made his way from the raised cabin made a difference in the seemingly unconquerable chasm. With
roof toward the helm, resting against a mast as he glanced spir- a mirror of darkness on either side, both above and below, life
itedly toward me. unpaused. Pensive thoughts slipped into dreams. My dreams
I like the cool air, he protested, with a trace of a smile. didnt look so different from the strange sea of stars that took
No, you dont, you just like to sleep, I shot back, receiving the place of all the trivial things the world once had. Gracie
a playful punch on the shoulder as payment for my honesty. and Mom must have clambered back aboard and gone to sleep
Ive been awake since midday. That sister of yours ever had themselves while us boys were lost in thought, because I only
a lid on it? Smiling, I shook my head wearily. Gracie hadnt fell asleep when I knew within me that every member of our
shut up since shed been born. Did you find any I cut San lonely family was safe.
off before he could continue with a sharp shake of my head. I dreamed of noise. A clammer and a buzzing that grew in
The topic of possible survivors made everyone tense. A shiver volume until my ears felt like they were going to burst out-
trickled down my spine. We hadnt seen so much as a flicker of ward. Wrenching my eyelids open, the world flashed in sepia
another living person, and I couldnt decide if this was entirely as I adjusted to the approaching sun. The boat was often still
bad news. Sighing, I turned, and made my way to the bowsprit, and empty in the morning, so I ignored it now. Stepping atop
clambering out to the far point, where I could watch where the the raised cabin roof in the middle of the deck, I scanned the
sun had drowned in the eternity of water. San followed. edges of the sea out of habit. Everything was mundane except
When we were kids . . . Its just funny, thinking about this. the tiny black triangle that wavered in front of the sun. Then
I mean, down there, I gestured to the endless blue on either the noise returned. Every shadow leaped at me, stretching and
SHORT STORY | 234 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 235
running from every crevice. Everything flashed. Disoriented, a Im so glad we found you. His voice was trembling as
sharp pain in my back chased away the lights. Id fallen off the much as his body. My throat worked against me and even if I
cabin roof. Pushing myself back up, I glanced around frantical- could find something to say, my voice would have cracked and
ly, my sight clear of feverish visions. It had to be a boat. There squeaked until it didnt come out at all. We slid down to sit
couldnt be anything else out in the endless expanse of mo- on the hard planks together, still shivering, although not from
tionless sea. It was the impossible. One would think Id grown cold. How did you do it? On this boat? Alone?
accustomed to the impossible, but the truth is, the universe What? As predicted, my words came out mutilated and
keeps surprising me. Deftly hanging halfway over the rail to dry. A great hand was squeezing me, and all the floodwater on
get a closer look, I noticed with a jolt that the vessel appeared earth couldnt have moistened my voice.
to be heading toward us, the shadowy triangle growing larger How did you survive, alone on this boat? Shes a good craft
even as I watched it. For weeks Id searched for life, and now and all, but its been weeks, Caleb, weeks . . . San trailed off,
I wondered if that had been a good course. The blood beat be- staring at me. I could feel his gaze, though I didnt meet it. Now
hind my eyes and ears, taking place of the absent waves. Every- I could see just how much the flood had changed us. He was
thing was silent, and too loud. talking nonsense, because I hadnt been alone, Id had Mom
I was frozen in my hope. It was most definitely a boat, and and Gracie and Dad, sometimes, and San.
as it grew nearer, I began to make out figures. Actual people, But . . . you were there. With us, I protested wearily. You
moving about the top deck. Faint whispers of shouts flew past were with me. You dont remember? I had to push to make a
my ears, and as I watched, paralyzed, to my horror I recog- sound, as if I hadnt spoken in weeks.
nized one of the people. San. San was across from me, on the No, Caleb. I was here, on the boat we scrapped. With the
other impossible craft, waving. others. We havent been able to find anyone else. Youre the
The world rushed by and pain shot through my lower back. first one we found alive. I could hear it in his voice, that heavy
Id fallen over again. From my vantage point on the floor, I tone, the vocal shadow people get when they talk about bad
felt a scraping shudder go through my beloved boat. A shadow things. I knew.
shivered across my face, and I kept my eyes shut, not wanting Alone.
to see what might be there. But sooner or later, we all have to Yeah, Caleb. You were alone.
open our eyes. Squinting through reluctant eyelids, I stared Nobody else?
at the hand hovering in front of me. A solid hand, real and No. Nobody. His voice cracked on the no of nobody. But
welcoming. When I grasped it, it yanked me into a hug that Im here. For some unidentifiable reason, the world was un-
was unbearably familiar. I could feel Sans body shaking as it paused and now on mute and fast forward at the same time.
pressed against mine, but whether it was from tears or laugh- Are you, though? I trace a stain in the wood over and over
ter, I couldnt tell. again, gentle little swirls. Simple things.
Yes. So now youll never have to be alone again, he pleaded.
SHORT STORY | 236 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 237
Its okay now. The flood cant have reached everywhere, well
find some sliver of land and
And what? My anger rises, yet I feel strangely detached
from it. What will we do? Live again? Everyone is missing, the
earth essentially gone to ashes! What can we do?
San placed one hand on my shoulder, cooling the fire. We
can start over. Then for the first time, I looked at him. He
was older than my dream, than my hallucination. His face was
The Shortest Short Story in the
etched with sorrow, but in his dark eyes there was something History of Short Stories of All
that reminded me of the stars. We strode to the edge of the Sep-
tember Song, the gap in the rail loomed, but I was not afraid. He Time Ever
kicked the boarding plank; it lost its balance and splashed into
Adam Schorin, Grade 12, Age 17. Stuyvesant High School,
the chasm. There was a moment, one taut, detached moment,
New York, NY, Kerry Garfinkle, Teacher
where we did not jump. We turned around, and I went to the
helm, and he followed. We charted a course west, toward the
I. The Rise
hopeful mountains. We followed the stars. The dome stayed
Long is my favorite of the bunch.
constant. Our lifeboat sailed above the trees, under the stars,
At each visit, hes in his black-and-gray fireproof pants, black
and I didnt dream. I didnt need to anymore.
army boots, black fireproof gloves that he slips on and off,
FDNY crew sweatshirtwhich, as Ive told him, I also own
and Engine 47 button-down work shirt. He always greets me
the same way, with a suave fist bump and a nod in the oppo-
site direction. (He thinks hes cool or something.) Then we sit
down at one of the open, supervised tables and he asks me if
Ive ever seen Rescue Me.
Thats what started the fireman thing for him. I dont think
he understands the show but he thinks Denis Leary looks cool
in a firesuit so he wants to be one too. I always answer no,
which is something he cant believe. Long shakes his head and
raises his arms in disgust to the guys at the neighboring tables.
Like antagonized clockwork. When he calms down, we talk
about the show, which Ive never seen, so he talks while I nod
SHORT STORY | 238 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 239
and listen and shake my head and check my watch to see if Ive particularscare me more than Kareem, the violent hood re-
maxed out on my hours for the day. tard and unknowing drug-runner in his brothers gang. Their
Throughout our conversations, Long jumps into a set of ten complacency unnerves me.
pushups, ten sit-ups, and fifteen jumping jacks. Hes training There are, of course, others at the Julius Project, but they
for his career as a firefighter, he tells mehe even refers to dont really talk much (or try to). They stay in their corner and
firefighters as webut I dont think he knows that the FDNY I stay in mine.
doesnt accept applicants from the New York City Division for This happens:
Special Education. On Tuesday, Long rushes up to me in the lunch line and hits
The others in the group sometimes sit at our table or some- me with a fist bump of such force that it knocks me back a foot.
times at the other tables and often get up and switch during the Hey, bro. Eric. Man. He cant speak in full sentences and the
visit. Angela is colossal. She has huge flabby hands that swing pauses become fault lines between the fragments of his speech.
from her stumpy arms like shes a T. rex, these massive sagging He thinks hes cool. Have. You seen. Rescue Me?
breasts that look like U-boat torpedoes, and a loud voice that is No, Long. Not yet, man. Im cooler than he is.
too clumsy to form the words she wants to say. She cant pro- Scoff.
nounce a hard C, for example, so she says my name AAAriiii We cut to the front of the line and the hairnetted lunch lady
instead of Eric. Every time she sees me, she gives me a big, offers, Whatll it be, honey?
shaking hug even though I can barely stand to look at her. Pa- What day. Is it. You know? Long asks.
mela is almost the same. Shes always smiling and trying to say Uh, Tuesday, says the lunch lady.
something, but her tongue is too thick to get the words out. So Steak and eggs, Long says, because he always has steak and
she nods yes to everything. When I catch her cheating at Con- eggs on Tuesday. I get ditto and we shuffle through the double
nect 4, she breaks into a shrieking cinematic laugh that is more doors at the end of the line. Longs face, like his speech, is more
proud than evil. Carl sits in the corner, with big white tracks composed than that of the others. Just the part from below
on his tongue and mouth always hanging open kind of dead, his nose down to his chin has been crushed by a giant cartoon
rubbing his arms against his crotch, like hes masturbating anvil.
with his elbows. When he gets upset, which is often, he slams We sit down at one of the oval tables facing the Hudson that
his palms against his forehead and yells until he runs out of smells like its been quadruple-washed with high-strength am-
air. Almost anything can set him off: wind whooshing against monia. Long sniffs the steak and eggs. In the same way that
the window grates; a pebble hitting the floor. And Alfie I dont idiot savants have a genius for math, Long has a superhuman
know too well, but he says he likes war, and hes constantly sense of smell, a trait that he often reminds himself of. He
hunched over an imaginary assault rifle, going pew, pew, pew, sniffs the steak to inhale the little particles of blood and ash
pew at an imaginary villain. and the eggs to see if they are powdered or not. (They are.) I
For some reason, these fourand Angelas monster hugs in start the timer on my watch and lean in for the latest install-
SHORT STORY | 240 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 241
ment of Rescue Me reruns. The first few minutes of the conver- II. The Stretch
sation are always the hardest. Okay, Long. Lets hear it. Over the next three weeks and five visits, Long changed. He be-
Howre you doing, Long? gan to draw very abstract portraits of Ms. Chester embedded in
. . . wobbly red hearts or plastered against fire-truck color-ins from
Didnt catch that. Whats up, man? the Web. He tried to write to her or about her, saying things
. . . like: She. Is. Beautiful. He stopped eating on his schedule, and
One more time? increased his workout regimen, and wore ties and plaid shirts
Eric! on top of his FDNY crew, and poured cologne through his crew
Long? cut, and bowed low and painfully when she entered or exited
Im in love! Pause. You know? the room, and stuffed uncomfortable cardboard squares into
Really? Im only a little skeptical. Terrific, buddy. Whos his shoes so that his spastic limp (the swagger, I used to call
the lucky lady? it) became even more exaggerated, all with the desperate hope
Long giggles. Yeah. Hehehe. Ms. Chester. that he would be tall and beautiful and loved! I could tell you
Before becoming a guiding motivator at the Julius Project, about all of these changes in painstaking detail and repetition,
Ms. Lillian Chester taught math at my preteen alma mater, Ed- but would they even make sense to you? Would you regard the
ward R. Fleisch Middle School for Boys, where she was known irrational actions of this irrational kid with any amount of
almost exclusively as Ms. Chesty, and, as implied by her moni- gravitas or understanding? Would you understand him like I
ker, is a very ample object of Longs affections. Shes at least sometimes do?
ten years Longs senior, but through some strange regimen of What I mean is: Are you Harris or are you me? I cant tell.
fitness, diet, and wrinkle-clearing medical scrubs, maintains Ill tell you instead the biggest details, the obvious occur-
the same countenance and figure she proudly wore in her math rences that beg to be read:
teacher days.
How do you know you love her? 1. Long got a Facebook account. I think his cousin or brother
Errrrriiiiiiic . . . Eric! I know! I really. Really know! set it up for him, and he checks it pretty regularly. Now consid-
I nod with my post-adolescent understanding. This, I under- er the Facebook Ratio Principle of Happiness, one of the guid-
stand. I fall in love so oftenquickly, randomly, and obscure- ing rules of social interactions in the iEra. The FRPH states
lywith girls I do and do not know, that I was already in love that the ratio of ones own wall posts to ones posts on others
with Karen, my current girlfriend, a good two weeks before I walls is directly proportional to ones happiness, a sentiment
knew her name and some four months before I even saw her similar to that of Charlesbergs Theory of Sent vs. Received
naked. Text Messages, the runner-up for the 2009 Bell Science Award.
His only wall post is an emoticon from me: :-). Meanwhile, he
posts daily on my page or Harriss page or the FDNYs fanpage.
SHORT STORY | 242 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 243
With a ratio of 1:17, he is decidedly unhappy, well below the offenses against the English language. (But I have no problem
standard range and only slightly above the Joan Cusack Line with using nouns as verbsriver out, lets basketball, beer me,
of Misery. coffee me, ice him, are you uptowning, etc.because they are
creative and new and fresh.)
2. Long made a list of his favorite things to smell. (Superman 3. The following abbreviationsfml, omg, brb, nfw, omfg, l8r,
kept records of his escapades in the Fortress of Solitude; Bat- pce, ttyl, ttfn, g2g, etc.are, except when used in necessarily
man charted his intellect and strength on the Batcomputer; rushed text messages, inexcusable offenses against the English
Longthe Super Sniffer, the Great Olfactorwrites down these language.
scents as a record of his one superior ability.) After he dies, I 4. I hate white people who say Fo sho ironically.
find part of the List in the pile of his stuff we dissect at the 5. I hate white people who say Fo sho for real.
Project. Here it is: 6. I hate women who get offended when I tell them theyre
Apple Sause with ginger And cherry. It is sharp aNd sweet pretty.
in My nose. 7. I hate complainers. (Especially those of the female vari-
Paper on Fire. I feeL STrong. I smell it MiLes away. ety.)
Steak and EGGS. Tuesday. 8. I hate people who say Im sooooooo drunk. Or Im
Perfoom. Ms. Chesters perfooM. ByootiFuL. sooooo highhhhh, maaannn.
Me. I smell ME. Do yOu smell mE? 9. I hate people who say like too much without being ironic.
10. I hate people who post pictures on Facebook while they
3. I also published something else. A list of my own that I sent are out so they can prove to the Internet-browsing world that
to an editor friend at The Punch, an underfunded lit magazine they do, indeed, have a social life.
in the Village. She liked it and stuck it in the latest bare-boned 11. I hate. . . .
issue. Its a list of things I hatemy superpower, I guess. An
excerpt: 4. Karen broke up with me. It was clean, really. She was tired
1. The following phrasesstraight up, no doubt, dead-ass, of me, and she said I was a freak and emotionally retarded and
nigger please, thats dirty (meaning good, and not covered in that it wasnt worth it for her. Freak because I didnt like her
filth), thats dope, word (or werd), filthy (meaning good, and friends or going to loud places or doing things that involved
not covered in dirt), etc.are pathetic attempts at conversation dancing or not having sex. I told her she didnt know what re-
and are inexcusable offenses against the English language. tarded was and that I loved her, but she didnt hear me, and she
2. The following words that are used to mean other words knocked over my trash can on her way down the stairs.
smacked, plastered, sick, Gucci, gay, gone, random, sweet, solid, I took a few days off from school for the Breakup Film Festi-
tight, beef, baked, bag, stoned (and filthy and dirty), etc.are valmy standard post-relationship cycle of nineties rom-coms,
disgusting idiosyncrasies of our generation and are inexcusable La Dolce Vita and Wild Strawberries and Citizen Kane hold-
SHORT STORY | 244 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 245
ing up my high-art backbone, and bizzaro horror flicks rang- Its not. A letter.
ing from Nosferatu to The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Oh, okay. Thats cool. Are you gonna give
Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies. Usually there Its a. Story. He says this without looking up.
is also a series of obscure Japanese mob thrillers, black-and- Oh? Its pretty short, I say.
white detective stories, and stoner favorites from the last few Its the. Shortest. The shortest. Short story. Ever.
decades, but I always end with Top Gun, the greatest and most Oh.
enduring bro-pic of the flaming eighties. Im okay now, really. Do you. Like it?
Im not a sentimentalist. Yeah, sure. Im not just saying it. I love it. He blushes
and claws at his arm. He hasnt looked up yet. But its not very
This happens: short. This makes him look up and stare me in the face.
It is Creativity Time at the Julius Project and Long and I work He chokes. Not. Short?
at one of our favorite ammonia-steeped tables by the win- Yeah, I mean seven words is good and everything, but I bet
dow. White cardboard paper, masking tape, and crayons are you I can write a lot shorter. I can write a shorter short story.
sprawled out on the table in front of us. I doodle sharks and The shortest of all time.
harpoons and weird figments of my imagination while Long Now he laughs. But this. This is the shortest! Hehehe.
works intently on something underneath the crook of his arm. Ever. You cant. Beat this!
The silence has been getting to me recently, so to break it I Ms. Chester is rolling an archaic dodgeball to a spread-legged
go, Whatre you working on, Long? Angela on the floor. Harris is playing hand games with Pamela
Just. Writing. Eric. Man. at the next table. The sun hits ours in a way that makes the am-
Oh yeah? Whatre you writing about, man? monia burn stronger. Its caustic in my nose. Oh yeah? I say.
Just . . . Writing. His cheeks are tense here, and with his You dont think I can? Watch me. This is the shortest short
weird chin he looks kind of like a frustrated blowfish. story in the history of short stories.
Oh, okay. Thats cool. I keep on drawing. A shark is about I turn over the cardboard and write something in purple
to be speared by one of the harpoons. I look for a red crayon to crayon. I hand it back to him and he reads it over. His eyes
draw the blood. Long is using it though, sketching ivied strands widen and he turns red and he shakes his head side to side and
down the sides of his cardboard. Hey, can I see that? I say. then, first as groan or a rumble, and then louder and chaotic, he
He hands me the cardboard. Written in his lopsided font is: begins to laugh. Hahaha. Louder and louder, slapping his hand
MiSs ChesTer. I LovE yOu. against his thigh, he cranes back his blockish head and bellows.
LovE, LoNG. HAHA. Hehehe. HA!
Wow, this is a very sweet letter, I say. Are you gonna give it And I start to laugh too, and were both laughing now, falling
Not. A letter. over our arms against the side of the table, brutally tickled by
Whats that?
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thousands of electric fingers. Heehee. Hoooo. HAHA. Laugh- dont say anything, he leans in. Im just swell too. Real swell.
ter pulsing down the sides of my arms, pulling out my vocal Longs nose is in the air and hes sniffing now. He pulls hard
chords, choking on hilarity! on his nostrils and the sound is sharp. Oh, look at him go!
And as we go off, he lets the cardboard drop to the floor, and says Harris. What a nose! What are you smelling now, Longy-
it bounces on its side before falling with the love letter faced boy? The eggs in the kitchen? Is there bird shit on the side-
down. If you were to look at the paper now, you would see, walk?
written in my steady, grade-school block print, in thick purple No. No eggs. No birds.
letters that fill the center of the page, in plain and non-elegant Just leave him, okay? I say to Harris.
prose, imposing with capital-letter/period and sharp measured Leave him? Long doesnt want me to leave him, right Longy-
lines, a single four-letter word, my short story to end all short boy? Were just being sociable. He winks at me. Isnt that
stories: right, Longy? Sociable enough for you?
Fuck. I smell. Something.
Oh, Im sure. What is it then?
III. The Punchline (i.e., The Fall) Ms. Chester. I smell. Ms. Chester.
Two days later, we are sitting in the same place. Im the only Harris laughs hard, and I feel something in my throat, like
volunteer in the room. Mr. Peterson shows up on Wednesdays its stuffed with a rag. Hahaha. Ms. Chesters right over there,
and Fridays and today is Thursday so he isnt here either. Ms. Longy, Harris says. Normally you can smell much farther
Chester and Harris are nowhere to be seen. Instead of acting than that, am I right?
as a general overseer for all the population in the room, I sit No. Not over there.
with Long as he colors in fire-truck printouts. But thats where she is, Longy-boy! Shes
Were not talking. I continue to work on my shark-attack Over here. I smell her. Here. I smell. Her perfume. Here.
doodles. The others just sit there. Complacent. The laugh is frozen on Harriss face. I stare at my sharks and
About twenty minutes in, Ms. Chester rushes through the spears and wont let myself look at him. Well, he says. Thats
double doors and sits down with Angela and Pamela. Long eyes odd, I guess. And he turns to me. I was right though. Some
her in his peripheral but keeps on coloring. I dont think hes real Meg Ryan shit. Infuckingcredible.
given her his love story. A few minutes later, Harris walks in I dig my nails into the crayon.
slowly and sits down at our table. Whats up, kiddos, he says. But, anyway, Harris goes on, fine spring day and were
Hows the bro sesh going? No more breakdowns? Haha. stuck inside coloring. Whats the deal with that, Long?
I can see that. Howre you doing today, Longy-boy? No.
Okay. Very okay. Whats that?
He keeps his face down. Swell, swell, swell, man. Thats real No. He doesnt meet Harriss eyes.
swell. He looks like hes searching for a cigarette. When we Theres no deal with that?
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No. She smells. Here. No. Pew! Alfie joins in now, firing his rifle at Harris. Pew! Pew!
I know man. It was awesome. But Im asking you about out- Pew! He doesnt even know what a rifle sounds like. ARGH! The
side, Long. What do you think about outside? cork in my throat expands and my guts start to twist, contort-
No. No. No. ing my intestines into a ball. NO! Pew! Pew! Angela bounces
You dont think about outside? Harris laughs. up and down, swinging her dinosaur arms together faster and
No. No. No. No. No. louder, the two torpedoes on her chest flailing about. Shut up!
Okay, dude, he frowns. Be cool. Be cool, dude. ARGH!
No. No. No. No. No. No. Harris looks at me but I am drilling NO! NO! NO! NO!
my eyes into the shark. I change crayons to draw its teeth. My Chris bangs his fists against the table now. Slam! ARGH! NO!
hand is stained with its blood. Relax, man. Come on, Long, its Shut the fuck up! CLAP! Pew! NO! Long hits the table, his face
okay, Harris says. is falling apart. NO! The screaming is animal now, chaotic, a
No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Longs face is twisted living thing of its own. NO! The shark is bleeding fast all over
again, the vein in his neck is expanding. He breathes fast and the page. NO! Pamela squeezes her ears and moans. Pew! My
stares at the table. He digs his hand into his leg. No. No. No. stomach is killing me. Pew! My throat is crushed. ARGH! It
No. No. thickens. NO! I dont look at Long. NO! I feel something run
Harris stands up, and Ms. Chester looks over. The other pa- down my arms and prick through my skin and sting at my
tients stare. Angela is clapping slowly, not looking at anything. veins. NO!
No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. N I look around at them and feel empty. NO! I feel sick. NO! I
Hey! Just be cool, okay? Harris reaches out and grabs feel the bile in my throat. NO! I feel my brain NO! shaking in
Longs hand, but the kid pulls away. my skull. NO! My groin is crushed NO! my arms electric NO!
No. No. No. No. No! No! No! and all the population is screaming. NO! And before I can help
Ms. Chester perks up from her table and asks, Long . . . ? myself NO! before I think about what Im doing NO! I get up
NO! NO! throw back my head NO! and now I am screaming too.
This is what gets Carl going. Aaaargh! He screams. ARGH!
He pounds his fleshy nose and forehead with the sides of arms.
ARGH! Pamela covers her ears with her palms. ARGH! Angela
claps faster. NO! AAARGH! Pamela starts to cry. The whole
sound is painful, cutting, terrible. Lactic acid against my ear-
drums. Clap! The ammonia mixes with the air. Harris starts
shouting at Long. Be cool! Okay?! Be cool! Just shut the fuck
up and be cool! Ms. Chester doesnt move. ARGH! I stare into
the sharks eyes.
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They marched through the valleys and glens where the sun The Nomad leveled Steven at this . . . this Thing. It tried to
sliced through the treetops, illuminating every minuscule de- stop its approach, raising its savage arms.
tail of the woods in a strikingly sepia tone. But the Nomad couldnt let his kingdom become impure.
They decided to rest on a bluff not unlike any of the other And then Steven shouted.
bluffs. There was a great flash, and Stevens voice echoed through-
It stood tall, confidently overlooking a vast, clear patch of his out the forest, becoming the only noise in the world.
kingdom. Bits of Steven and the Thing lay on the ground, serenely mo-
But something was different here. tionless. The Nomad stared down at the two of them, feeling
There were noises coming from the forests at the edge of the nothing.
clearing. He and Steven had been through some hard times together,
Different noises. but Steven was no more.
These werent the usual noises of the Nomads subjects. I am all that is, the Nomad said quietly.
This something was moving with determination. Scanning the surroundings, the Nomad spotted a dejected-
And from the woods burst a creature that made the Nomad looking tree. Its bark had begun to gnarl, twisting its body in a
recoil from atop his perch. downward fashion. A sliver of a branch, having been viciously
It caught sight of the Nomad. ripped apart by perhaps lightning extended from the trunk.
It ran on two legs, its other set of legs flailing wildly in the Is that . . . Is that Henry? Ive missed you old boy! he hol-
air. lered and cheerfully ran toward the weak tree.
He hadnt seen one of these in longer than he could possibly With a deep, hollow crack, the branch was freed of the grasps
recall. of the graying tree.
Hey! it shouted. Yes, weve got so much catching up to do, Henry.
Down here! it continued on. The Nomad kept a firm hold on the branch. The side that was
Hey! Hey! HELP! torn from the trunk had a malevolently sharp point.
The Nomad made no effort to acknowledge the creature with The Nomad liked Henry very much.
anything more than a probing stare. But before they had time to discuss any personal matters,
The Thing came nearer and nearer to the Nomad and his more rustling came from the clearings tree line.
bluff. This time it was not just one Thing. These were the sounds
HEY! it persistently shouted to no success. The Nomad was of a whole pack of them, shouting the same nonsense the one
unfazed. that now lay gently still had cried.
The Thing was but 15 feet away recklessly running toward The Nomad held Henry tight.
him. He knew what had to be done.
It happened quickly and without hesitation. I am all that is, and all that will be.
Like a basic instinct.
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acting the thing out. Bob is stumbling through the words like a few oblivious children, whose mothers have taken the initia-
a chain being pulled up a stairwell. From the way he moves his tive of not telling them about the end, or the ticking 2-hour
rigid hands, you could almost think this sort of raving hes do- clock thats almost up. Theyve got to be catching on though
ing is completely impromptu . . . . . . drunks tend to shout what theyre thinking . . . and what
else are they thinking now?
30 Minutes
Its totally impromptu. Hes not even using real words any- 13 Minutes
more, and he doesnt know what hes saying most of the time. I am walking away from the window when the man plays a new
Whats come upon this man? Bob: the man who commentated song: one more upbeat. It sounds familiar, but Ive been tuned
on the fall of empires; the man who watched starving children out for so long I cant put my finger on it. Another voice besides
skittering on the floor, while telling the story of some kind of the mans chimes in. Its a little girls voice, which is strikingly
dictator. Bob: a genuine let-them-eat-cake kind of guy . . . now different from the mans. It is a mystical contrast, and a phe-
as crazy as the rest of us. Actually crazier . . . if you dont count nomenon that the song doesnt sound abnormal. Slowly, more
the guy with the gun . . . voices join in. They all know the tune . . . and the words . . . all
Actually, count the guy with the gun . . . of them but me. Who am I to not know this song? What is it?
They start to sway, and I am trying to get this song in my head!
25 Minutes The words, the words! With each one I feel a nerve in my mind
Bob just swore on live TV. The whole show is cut. Right there. ringing, crying out, as if it missed another chance. How many
Should it be canceled for that? I dont even know why the cam- will I get? Does the song repeat? Oh, I wish I knew what it was!
eras were still running after Bob told us about the nuke soaring It is killing me . . .
above our heads. I dont think anyone was watching in the first Its the national anthem.
place after that. Who would even care? The whole thing would be beautifully cinematic . . . if the
woman of my age wasnt bleeding out into the streets, right
20 Minutes next to the singers . . .
The old man with the guitar is back! Its a stellar, crimson-red
beauty! A flimsy tag is still ringed around it: Its stolen. But 8 Minutes
who cares? It hums as he plays it. The melody becomes sweeter Im standing at the door to the outdoors. I can feel the wind
with every note. Sweeter, and softer, and . . . sadder. I sit here seeping through the cracks in the door, running up my skin.
wishing the man knew some happier songs . . . when it hits me Its summer, but its the coldest day Ive ever known. I think
that he probably does. Im going to go to her . . . the bleeding woman. I dont know
A small crowd is forming around him now. The huddled mass why. I dont care why. I just cant ignore her. Is she alive? Yes.
is full of faces sticky with tears and alcohol, but I can make out She tosses and turns as if in an endless nightmare . . .
SHORT STORY | 258 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 259
tion but unsure if there was anything to be done. Many of his so . . . so fiery even bother talking to an icy old boulder like
conversations with the Moon, who too worked almost every me? the Moon would gush.
day out of the month, ended up being about their frustrations My friend, dont sell yourself short! Luke chuckled. The
with work. Ive been flying the same route for two years, Moon broke into his deeply dimpled white grin.
Luke complained one night, and I still only get one day off a I mean, shes so amazing at what she does. I wouldnt even
week. Hell, I still make less than a preschool teacher. I thought be able to do my job if she didnt leave a bit of light for me to
being a pilot was supposed to be glamorous. My life is like some shine. Shes brilliant, Luke! He turned his head forward, to
endless circle. the east, a contented shine on his face.
Youre complaining? the Moon would snicker. Ive been This was a regular exchange between the two. Luke had a
doing this job longer than I can remember, and I dont get a hard time imagining the Moon being so confident as to actually
single day off. It is hard work, and Im lucky to have lasted as approach the Sun, but, timid though he was, the Moon seemed
long as I have. to be getting more and more bold as far as Luke could tell. He
Wow, that is harsh. How do you stay, yknow, sane? was still taken by surprise when the Moon broached the sub-
Ah, thats a trick of the trade, my friend! Heres the secret: I ject of the Sun from a totally new angle.
take a nap during my new moon. Nobodys looking at me any- I have a plan! the Moon exclaimed, his excitement palpable.
way cause my face is in shadow, so theyre not gonna notice Huh, what was that? Luke said, somewhat surprised.
if Im slacking a little bit. Luke couldnt help but laugh. The A plan. For me and the Sun. His eyes were determined.
Moon was a clever one indeed. Luke had never seen him so sure of anything in his life.
Another popular topic of conversation was the Moons love Really? Care to explain?
life; more specifically, his crush on his colleague the Sun. The Luke, its so simple that I cant believe it didnt hit me soon-
two didnt work intimately, but, during the two weeks that er. Do you know whats happening in a week? Luke shook his
Luke didnt see him, the Moon would be close enough to the head. Nocturnal as he was, he never really kept himself fully
Sun that they would be able to converse. Therefore, he would apprised of current goings-on. Its an eclipse, my friend. A to-
often greet Luke after their hiatus with news of his time with tal solar eclipse. Lukes eyes widened.
the Sun. Luke had listened to the starry-eyed Moons daily up- Oh! Ohhh. The Moon grinned at him.
dates for months, and knew the game well at this point. The You see? Well be really close during an eclipse, and, for
Sun was a flirtatious woman, always laughing brightly at the once, well be totally aligned, looking each other right in the
Moons hackneyed jokes, or throwing him a wink that could eyes. Its the perfect opportunity for us to finally connect. The
burn a hole in his composure, but the Moon was too unsure Moon began to babble enthusiastically about all of the things
of himself to interpret these signals as anything more than they would finally be able to do together.
vaguely promising. But what happens after the eclipse? Luke tried to ask, a
I dont know, Luke. Shes just so great. Why would someone slight disconcertedness punctuating the question, but the
SHORT STORY | 262 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 263
Moons earnest chatter drowned him out. circles; a deer leapt out into the road and stared at Luke as he
The Moon disappeared the next night, as usual, and a week swerved by, looking more puzzled than afraid. Luke continued
later he eclipsed the Sun. The eclipse was, as always, a huge on past the bay; waves were crashing haphazardly into each
deal for one hemisphere of the world; Luke slept through it. other in total disregard of any tidal organization. Luke was
After another week, Luke broke through the clouds to find the somewhat perplexed, but not being a particularly curious per-
Moon waiting, grinning his wide crater of a grin. Luke was un- son he just kept on to the airport. Upon taking off and arriving
able to open his mouth before the Moon burst with his news. above the clouds, Luke felt unsettled.
She wants to see me again! Oh, man, this is so great! The Moon was absent, as expected, so Luke was hearing
Wow, congrats! So youre gonna get together at the next only the voices of the stars. Tonight, though, they seemed to be
eclipse, huh? The Moon shook his head emphatically. whispering toward the Earth. Luke felt uneasy; normally, the
Are you kidding? Itll be decades before we get that close stars buzzed joyfully, albeit in a subdued manner, but tonight
again. No, I think Im going to go see her, the Moon stated they seemed almost concerned. Luke tried to put it out of his
matter-of-factly. Lukes jaw fell an inch. mind and continue his flight.
What? How could that even be possible? The next night, all initially seemed to be well. The animals
Im not sure. Its driving me crazy though. The sky filled were calm; the tides were neat; the stars had resumed their
with silent tension as Luke tried to figure out what to say. peaceful discourse. Upon arriving at his destination, Luke un-
Well, muttered Luke, dont do anything brash, at least. loaded his cargo and went into the lounge for a quick cup of
The Moon nodded absently. You are pretty important, you coffee. The lounge was empty at such a late hour, but the own-
know, but the Moon had already stopped listening, staring off ers left the dim lights on specifically for Luke. There was a
at the distant east horizon. fake marble countertop along the wall, equipped with a pot
The next two weeks were of little interest. Luke felt that the of lukewarm coffee and some snack for the pilots: tonight, a
Moon was somewhat more distracted than usual, but Luke was tray of stale biscuits. Of particular interest, however, was a ri-
not bothered; after all, hed spoken no more of going off to see fled-through newspaper from that morning lying on the table.
the Sun. Luke therefore had no reason to suspect that he would Lukes eyes were drawn to the headline: MOON DISAPPEARS
sneak off to see her during his new moon. OVERNIGHT; ASTRONOMERS PERPLEXED. Luke put his
The first few days were a typical Moon-less week. Luke cup down and picked up the paper, skimming the article.
would sit quietly in his plane, listening placidly to the muffled People the world over are mourning the sudden absence of the
chatter of faraway stars. Nothing of any real concern happened Moon. The Moon, known best as Earths sole natural satellite,
until the week ended. Luke left his apartment, and though at was officially declared missing last night . . . Luke skipped ahead.
first nothing appeared to be the matter on the sluggish two- . . . the tides were the first to report the incident; when contacted
lane highway, as he drove on he found the forest in disarray. for comment, they stated, We suddenly felt really listless, and
Birds were shrieking nervously and flapping about in confused we had no idea why. At first we didnt even consider checking
SHORT STORY | 264 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 265
the skyits not like the Moon had ever gone anywhere before! Look, Im sorry, but you cant take time off. Its not about
but sure enough when we did, we couldnt see him anywhere! fair here, said Luke with an air of finality.
The tides appealed personally to the Moon: We need you, Moon! Luke, why are you being so hard about this? The Moons
Come back! Social correspondent Sandra Stonington took to the eye shone with a sudden betrayal. I mean, Im in love. Isnt
streets to find out who else was affected. Well be out of a job! that supposed to be cause for celebration?
complained the astronauts. We cant eat dinners by candlelight Grow the hell up. Love is bullshit; you know you belong here
alone! cried the romantic couples. What are we supposed to with me.
howl at now? lamented the wolves . . . He skipped past a long The Moon stared at Luke in consternated disbelief. As a few
scientific discussion of potential causes. . . . clearly the Moons silvery tears began to leak from his eyes, he turned eastward
disappearance is affecting humanity deeply. The question is, will and did not say a word.
he come back? The next night, the Moon was absent from the sky.
Enraged, Luke took the paper with him and left at once. Ev- Luke flew through the great empty vault, pissed both at the
erything had seemed alright in nature today, so he presumed Moon for just walking off and at himself for pushing him away.
the Moon had returned; nevertheless, he was furious. He spent The stars were once again chattering toward the Earth, only
the next few days seething until finally the Moon was wait- this time they seemed to be directing their discussion toward
ing for him above the clouds, smiling a deep crescent smile. Luke himself. Luke began to tremble under the pressure of the
Before he could say a word, Luke slammed the front of the distant stellar susurration; after an hour of it, he could take no
paper against the windshield of his plane for the Moon to see. more, and shouted What are you talking about?! He heard a
Explain this to me. The Moon chuckled. faint static from above, not unlike cackling. Then, they spoke
Oh, man, I didnt think everyone would notice so quickly! to him.
You cant deny it was clever, though! Sneaking off to see her Your Moon has gone, no? Luke was taken aback. The stars
like that. He was still laughing when Luke began to yell. had never actually spoken directly to him before; they sounded
How could you be so irresponsible?! he shouted. The Moon like angels buried in gravel.
stopped laughing. Uh, yes. Its sort of an issue. The stars cackled again.
Wait, what? You need the Moon? they questioned.
You cant just take off for a day like that. Youre the Moon, Yes, desperately. Do you know where we can find one?
for gods sake. We need you! More cracked laughing from above.
Well what about me? Am I just supposed to ignore my de- Oh, yes, yes. You, Luke!
sires forever? You know I like this job, and Ive been doing it Uh. What?
longer than anyone else ever has, but that doesnt mean I dont You take the Moons place! they snickered.
need a bit of time to myself sometimes too. Thats only fair, Are you serious? Luke demanded, but the voices had al-
protested the Moon. ready retreated.
SHORT STORY | 266 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 267
Luke pondered the suggestion for three days, during which on the first day. He began his long trawl across the skys edge,
time he awaited the Moons return with the rest of the world. taking small steps at first, sheet billowing behind him as he
He had come back the day after the last disappearance, they slowly gained speed. The Sun was hurling her light at him with
figured, so hed probably be back soon this time as well. No the rapidity of a true professional, and Luke did his best to
such luck. Luke thought at first that the idea was deranged, toss some down to the Earth. He gained some confidence as
Sure, he could probably do the Moons joblord knows hed he went; surely he wasnt yet as luminous as the Moon had
watched him do it enough timesbut he couldnt imagine him- been, but he felt like he was learning the ropes pretty quickly.
self, Luke Loomis, ever being the Moon. Nevertheless, the job was far more challenging than the Moon
However, by the end of the three days, Luke was having sec- had made it appear, and Luke worked hard to prevent feeling
ond thoughts. He was flying his route, mulling over the situ- overwhelmed.
ation. It was the fourth consecutive moonless night, and the Luke felt as if he perceived everything differently as the
world was tripping all over itself trying to figure out what to Moon. His hunger had vanished, and his desire to sleep had di-
do. Luke had realized that nobody was stepping up to take the minished severely. Moreover, though his life had already been
Moons place. An image flashed in his head: billions of people somewhat of a hurried blur, time lost most semblance of mean-
cheering up into the sky, all praising Luke Loomis, the Moon. ing as he circled the Earth. Luke regarded these developments
He exhaled slowly, and considered what he had to lose. Then, with passive intrigue; after all, he had more important matters
hesitantly, he turned the plane eastward, toward the horizon. to focus on.
Luke wasnt quite sure how long it had taken to reach the After a few days, as he was approaching his new moon, he
edge of the world, but he got there with barely any fuel to got his first good look at the Sun. She really was stunning, and
spare. He climbed out of the plane and looked upward; the trek Luke could see now why the Moon had been so obsessed. The
up the horizon would be arduous. He realized he was wearing Moon was a mere speck next to her, but Luke could see the
no kind of Moonly attire, so he went back to his plane to look Sun clearly laughing joyfully with someone; perhaps they re-
for something to put on. A white tarp-like sheet was tied over ally were meant to be with each other. Luke called out to them,
the boxes; he took it out, tore a hole in the middle for his head, trying his best to be chipper, but he was ignored by both. Up-
and put it on. That will do nicely, he thought. Sheet donned, set, Luke concentrated harder on his work.
Luke began to ascend the sky. After a few more days, a couple of astronauts arrived in
After endless hours of hand over hand over hand, Luke fi- Lukes vicinity. They told him he was doing well enough; the
nally reached his perch atop the heavens. The view from up tides were still grumbling dissatisfactions with his leadership
high wasnt as startlingly different as Luke had expected it to abilities, but he was better than no Moon at all. The astronauts
be, though he could definitely see a lot more. He did not feel told him to keep up the good work and started off on their re-
very planetary, to his surprise, though he expected that would turn trip. Luke plaintively watched them disappear back into
change with time; no moon could be expected to get it right the Earth. He received the occasional visitors from below, but
SHORT STORY | 268 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 269
never for more than a few days; for the most part he revolved
alone in his silent vacuum. As time wore on, he took the Moons
advice and began to nap in his new moon. His face in shadow,
he would close his eyes, restless images of circles spinning
through his mind. He would drift to sleep, the Suns jagged
rays pricking at his back.
Windigo
Ursula Grunwald, Grade 12, Age 18. Peak to Peak Charter School,
Lafayette, CO, Kristie Letter, Teacher
Hunger.
Hunger hunger hunger.
Empty woods. No people. Only squirrels and raccoons. Not good
eating.
Hungry. Hunger. Hunger hunger hunger.
Winter? No. No snow, no cold.
Summer. Yes. Warm. Lots of raccoons and squirrels for when the
eating is bad.
People?
Soon.
Cracking of sticks underfoot, gleam of moon on bloody,
sticky, silvery fur. Not his blood, no no no, not his. Too fast, too
clever. Smart him, too fast and too good for the humans who
come with their shiny sticks that reek of fire and spit sparks.
Stupid slow humanssmarter than squirrels and raccoons, but
not as clever and fast as him. Humans better eating, more fun
to hunt than squirrels and raccoons.
Eyes glow gold in the flickering of dying stars overhead.
Needs meat. Needs human meat. Once human, he was. Once
upon a time. Once upon a time, no fur and no golden eyes and
no endless hunger. Once upon a time, slow and stupid and
SHORT STORY | 270 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 271
easy hunting. Once upon a time, tangled black hair and bright Good eating.
brown eyes. Used a bow and slept on mats and cooked his meat No remorse.
before he ate it. Raccoons and squirrels were once upon a time Nothing left. No one left. Only hunger hunger hunger and
good eating. honey-iron-tears.
Hide in caves until hunger too much. Claws long. Feet long.
Hunger hunger hunger. Can run like the wind and climb like a cat. Hunt. Herd. Trick.
Long winters. Too much snow. His brothers died. Youngest Laugh as hearts slide down throat. Lick claws. Lick blood off
one firstblack skin on toes and purple on lips, glazed brown fur. Fur stained pink. Dont care. Sleep.
eyes and ice-caked hair. Made a good stew, sprinkled with pine Wait for the smell of honey-iron and add tears.
needles. No other choice. No other food. Long winter. Bad har- Miss brothers and girl once loved. Give in to the hunger.
vest. Not enough grain, nor prey. Needed food. Younger brother Hunt, herd, trick, laugh. Hide in cave. Repeat. Endlessly.
was food, saved him and his brothers until oldest brother died, Forget about once upon a times and black hair and brown
and then he saved them too. eyes. Forget when squirrels and raccoons were good eating.
No end to winter. Spring was late. Spring didnt have enough Forget everything but laughter and honey-iron-tears and run-
squirrels and raccoons. No good eating. Third brother died. ning faster than the hawks fly.
Then fourth, then alone. All alone, and no one to share the Forget, and hunt.
good eating with. Girl he lovedgirl with long braids and warm,
warm brown eyes and big, friendly smileshe died. Good eat-
ing. Stew flavored with the bitterness of tears.
Teeth. Getting longer. Animals coming back. Plants and
squirrels and raccoons. Dont want them, cant have them, they
are not enough. Human meat. Human blood, sweet as honey
and bitter as iron and as salty as tears. Hunger. Hunger for the
honey-iron-tears.
Teeth get longer. Cut chin if mouth shuts fully. Hair on back,
on stomach. Legs skinny, arms skinny. So tall. Runs faster than
the eagles and hawks can fly.
Hunger hunger hunger.
Eats a hawk. Not good eating.
Finds a girl. Eats her heart. Slowly. Shes screaming. Bright,
sweet brown eyes and lips that could smile warmly. Love the
taste of her blood on the tongue.
SHORT STORY | 272 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 273
The Doormen door. The ficus tree doesnt do much. The fish tank is empty.
And, after a century or so, watching a door just becomes bor-
Nathan Meyer, Grade 11, Age 16. Dixie Heights High School, ing.
Fort Mitchell, KY, Kris Gillis, Teacher My predecessor was a young man, like me, when he started
his shift. He didnt know why he did. What exactly made him
The first thing I noticed about the door was its ordinariness. decide to watch the door. All he knew was that, one day, he
It wasnt large. There were no locks. In fact, it reminded me simply did. He asked me why Id decided to watch the door. I
of a closet door. It didnt seem like something that men would didnt know either, truthfully. I simply did. Eventually, we all
devote themselves to. It didnt seem like something that would find ourselves watching the door. Theres not much to do be-
inspire hundreds of mottos and sayings. It didnt seem like sides watch, is there?
something you would even look at twice. It was just a plain My predecessor warned against the door. Said it robbed him
white and wooden door. And, yet, men had spent their entire of his youth. Robbed him of his life. But, then, he said he didnt
lives gazing at its white paint and protecting its lockless knob. know what hed do without the door. Gotta watch something, I
The door had been closed for as long as I could remember. guess. After a century or so, the door becomes that something.
I thought it would remain closed long after I was gone. The My predecessor died almost immediately after his shift end-
first man who watched the door has been dead for over 150,000 ed. Dont ask me how I know that. I just do. They all do, pretty
years. Or maybe 200,000. We doormen, we have a saying. It soon after the shift changes. We doormen, we have a saying. It
goes: Time makes its own pace at the door. goes: A doorman without a shift is like a flower without a pot.
Im certainly not the first doorman. Theres my predeces- Or a ficus tree, I guess. After a century or so, you forget how
sor. And his. And his. And so on. When my predecessor was to make jokes.
showing me my post, he told me that hed watched the door for Ive got no complaints about my chair, I guess. I mean, at
what seemed like centuries and that his predecessor had said least they give me one. Standing for a century, or even sitting
the same thing. And so on, so forth. I once asked my predeces- on the floor, would be tiresome. After a century or so, sit-
sor why the door was always shut. Wasnt anyone curious what ting becomes tiresome too. Anyway, I was just sitting when
was on the other side? He responded simply by saying that itd I noticed IT. The Crack. Creeping right up the middle of the
always been like that. I guess, after a century or so, curiosity door. After a century or so, you forget most of the words that
just dies.
SHORT STORY | 274 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 275
you used to say. I thought of the perfect words for right now, Those were the only options I came up with. After a century or
though. The Crack meant I was in deep shit. so, you lose your imagination.
My predecessor didnt leave me with much advice on how to The Crack widened in the door. Truthfully, itd almost fallen
watch the door. We doormen, we have a saying. It goes: The off of its hinges. As The Crack opened, my eyes shut. We door-
door is just a door. So, of course, I knew how to watch a door. men, we have a saying. It goes: A doorman never has fear while
However, my predecessor did say that he heard, once, about his shift is still going. Sometimes our sayings are shit. After a
a doorman who let the door break. I figured that it was just a century or so, you wonder who dreamed them up.
fable. A boogeyman bedtime story. Anyway, this doorman that The last thing my predecessor did was my fondest memory of
let the door break . . . bad things happened to him. Thats why him. I barely knew the guy, but as he shook my hand, he wished
I thought it was just a fable. Every time Id heard it, something me luck. He looked me right in the eyes and said that he knew
different had happened to the incompetent doorman. Besides Id make him proud. Then, he was gone. Simple as that. We
that, why would the door be in perfect shape if it had broken? doormen, we have a saying. It goes: Believe in your brothers.
Doors cant rebuild themselves. But, either way, its our duty I wonder what hed say if he could see me now. I wonder what
to watch it. Even though I didnt believe in my predecessors Id say if I could see him now. Hell, I dont know if I remember
fable, I still feared the door. What would happen if it did break? how to talk anymore. After a century or so, you forget how to
The fable was almost a comfort. If it did break, obviously, it communicate.
wasnt the end of the world. But the door clearly hadnt broken. Doormen arent allowed to be cowards. This idea makes per-
The world could still end. After a century or so, you dont forget fect sense. Would you want a coward guarding something as
fear. You never forget fear. important as the door? But its hard for anyone to be a coward
And so I began to search for something to fix The Crack. when theyre just watching a door. At least, thats what I tried
Of course, there was nothing but the fish tank and the ficus. to tell myself. In reality, my eyes were shut and I was shaking.
We doormen, we have a saying. It goes: Simplicity in duty goes The Crack had almost destroyed the door. The Crack had
hand in hand with efficiency. Of course, that saying is over a spread throughout the door. One tap with a ficus branch, and
couple of centuries or so old. I know the doorman who came the door would be done. Id probably be done with it. Despite
up with it never broke the door. After a century or so, its okay the cool temperature by the door, I was sweating. But duty
to disagree with a few of the sayings. calls. So does curiosity. The doormen arent credited with pen-
As I scrambled, The Crack grew up the middle of the door. As ning curiosity killed the cat. That was some other guy who
I scrambled, my life flashed before my eyes. Of course, career obviously never sat in front of a door for centuries and was told
is probably more accurate. After a century or so, you lose sight not to open it. And so, I took a ficus branch and broke open the
of life. Duty dwarfs it. door. We doormen, we have a saying. It goes: Be resourceful,
I began to wonder how Id die. Death would probably come in even if your resources are just a ficus and a fish tank.
fire. Maybe choking. Noxious gas. Maybe Id simply cease to be. The door splintered apart with one swift tap. I was ready for
SHORT STORY | 276 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 277
the end of my shift. I was ready for the end of my life. And so, I About the authors
stared into the empty frame, wondering if centuries from now,
Melanie Abrams writes flash fiction because it forces her to
doormen would tell stories about me.
make every word of her story essential. She is currently work-
My eyes met a brick wall. Nothing but stone and concrete.
ing on a novel about a fourth-grader and her malevolent imagi-
Bare, minus an inscription of a single word.
nary friend.
Men had watched this for centuries. Lives had been wasted
on this. My predecessors life had been wasted. My life had Garrison Asma wrote his award-winning story after a trip
been wasted on this. Of course, I laughed. We doormen, we to the northern woods of Wisconsin, where he felt a sense of
have a saying. It goes: Find humor where it exists. My pre- complete isolation. In his next stories he wants to investigate
decessors fable had been right. Bad things had happened be- themes such as the subconscious and social inequality. When
cause the door had opened. Now, I couldnt shut it. And so, I sat Garrison writes, he feels he feeds a hungry monster that grows
down. And I continued my shift. Staring at the wall this time, very anxious if not fed again soon.
instead of the door. After a century or so, you forget how to do
Luisa Banchoff (Portfolio Gold) is a German-American writ-
anything else.
er who has spent much of her life in Arlington, Virginia, and
Bonn, Germany. She believes that young writers should sur-
round themselves with a supportive community, read the
works of others, and have their work read. Her favorite book is
As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. In the fall she will study
English and Creative Writing at Princeton University.
The most recurrent theme in Robert Bedells poetry is the Mckayla Conahan likes to write about words and their history
beauty of nature. Hes inspired by its ability to relieve pain and the important connection that exists between strangers.
and suffering in our lives if only we stop to listen to it. E.E. She doesnt think the best poetry necessarily centers on the
Cummings is his favorite poet because Cummings can strip a major events in ones lifesuccessful poetry can arise from the
poem to its bare essentials. observations made during a simple occurrence such as taking a
walk to a convenience store.
Richa Bijlani woke up in the middle of the night to write the
first line of this essay. This sentence initiated a difficult process Aaron Cooper-Lob wrote this story after being inspired by a
in which she was constantly faced with the question: Am I do- beautiful painting that depicted an oblong, wood-paneled,
ing justice to my grandfather in this memoir? In retrospect, homey-looking room with two windows opposite each other.
she regards writing this memoir as a liberating process that Out one window was day, and out the other, night. His long-
helped her deal with her anxiety. term plan is to keep learning.
Brianna Breaux prefers to write early in the morning before Helen Copp thinks of writing as a time in which she can liber-
anyone gets up or while hiding under the bleachers during gym ate her mind. She dreams of working in theater and has been
class. The best writing advice she has received is, We want to acting with a company since the age of ten. The flood and water
see them smuggling. We want to see them in the tunnels. At imagery of the Studio Ghibli films Ponyo and Castle helped her
the moment, her favorite poet is Rita Dove. write this piece.
Miranda Cashman writes to pull out a single clear voice from Janay Alexandrea Crane (Portfolio Gold) feels that writing
the worlds tangled web of noise. If she could pass a law in has given her an opportunity to learn about herself and share
the United States, it would be to make the arts a mandatory her story with others. In her future writing she wants to use
area of study. her craft to explore the lives of others. In the fall she will at-
tend Indiana-Purdue University to study English. Her life goal
Pooja Chandrashekar writes mostly about her personal expe-
is to be as confident as her mother and to never go a day with-
rience and finds her childhood to be an essential source of in-
out doing what she loves.
spiration. After writing this essay, she realized how important
and influential her grandmothers life has been to her own. Ashley Crutcher enjoys writing funny poems on random top-
ics. While writing, she thinks its important not to inhibit one-
Serina Chang is greatly influenced by the prose of Ernest
self or to think things over too much. She particularly enjoys
Hemingway. While writing, she hopes to imitate his minimal-
the poetry of Robert Frost.
ist edge and capture the way silences or omissions in dialogue
often speak louder than the characters words. In her future Anisha Dattawrote the first draft of this essay for an AP Lan-
work she plans to address the difficult topic of feeling discon- guage and Composition class. She thinks the best writing stems
nected from her Asian heritage.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS | 280 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 281
from honesty and that its most enjoyable to write from the achieve it, is a theme she would like to keep exploring in her
heart. She is inspired by weather, people, and photography. next stories.
According to Katelyn Davis, making people laugh is like pre- Parker Elkins loves to write about a cabin at Deer Isle, a place
paring a batch of Grandmas famous cookies. If you get the for- his family has been going to for generations. His favorite poet is
mula wrong, people will be left with a dry taste in their mouth, Brian Turner because he writes simply and with great candor.
but if you get the formula right, youll have a room filled with
Katherine Fangs poem is based on Stephen Cranes In the Des-
happy people. If the latter happens, one should never give the
ert. In her writing, she celebrates what it means to be hu-
secret ingredient away.
manto have limitless genius and a wellspring of flaws. Kath-
Akshan Dealwis wrote this piece as an elegy to his dying grand- erine writes where there is a breeze and a cup of tea.
mother, a woman who nourished her family with blessings and
Isabella Giovannini (Portfolio Gold) has lived in the same
books. The tree in this memoir is a symbol of Akshans cultural
apartment in Manhattan her entire life. Influenced by her par-
roots, which he came to truly appreciate after writing this essay.
ents, both journalists, she began to write at a young age. In
Anthony Desantis (Portfolio Gold) believes writing is an act September, she will begin her studies at Yale University, where
of careful consideration. I write to take a thought in my hand she will take Theater, Computer Science, Arabic, and Creative
like a rough little rock, and roll it . . . until it becomes a pebble, Writing courses. She hopes her life will be full of travel and
he explains. When people read his work, he wants them to lift long philosophical discussions.
their eyes from the page knowing that its OK to feel passion-
This summer, Stefania Gomez four other young women joined
ate about something that does not fit into the context of social
on a 45-day canoe trip in the Arctic Circle, somewhere west of
norms. At American University, he plans to study Internation-
the Hudson Bay. Together they hope to promote self-sufficiency
al Relations and hopes to become an advocate for democracy
and an appreciation of the natural world. In the fall, Stefania
and human rights.
will attend Brown University.
Aline Dolinh writes to explore love, war, and identity. Aside
Gabriella Gonzales wants other young poets to know that they
from creating poetry, she writes sci-fi and fantasy. She believes
are each individuals who carry information no one else does.
its extremely important to find time to write every day, even if
She believes a good poet expresses his or her knowledge as
its bad writing: You can only get better with practice.
precisely as possible. Its easy to say you feel happy, she
Mary Elizabeth Dubois wrote her first book at age five on messy says, everyone says that. Not many people would think to say
scraps of paper. Since then, she has used writing to tackle im- instead that they feel as satisfied as a sun-baked tiger.
possible and mind-boggling subjects. The marching man,
Ursula Grunwald wrote this story to explore the windigo,
or a man who continually strives toward a goal but does not
a mythological creature that was originally human and trans-
ABOUT THE AUTHORS | 282 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 283
formed into a monster after indulging in his or her craving for Jacqueline Knight describes her writing as casual, fun, and de-
human flesh. What Ursula enjoys most about writing is coming pendent on an audience. She strongly believes the most excit-
out of the trance and reading what she has written. ing part of a story is what is not on the page.
Benjamin Haidt uses writing to reflect upon the things that we Jake Kuhn decided to write a profile on Edgar after he sensed
often take for granted in our daily lives. His favorite fictional something great and alluring beneath his serene demeanor.
character is Tom Sawyer because he reminds an older reader of During his free time he likes to cook food harvested in local
the passion and curiosity in children. farms. If he could have been a reporter during any time, it
would have been during the Salem witch trials.
Luke Hasss friends and family describe his sense of humor as
eccentric, ironic, and sarcastic, but Luke deems it logical and Much of Haley Lees writing is inspired by snippets of over-
instructional. When his friends read this, he knows they will heard conversations. She loves to write because it forces her to
disagree with him and label his statement as evidence of his look beyond the superficial aspects of daily life and to think in
obvious sarcasm. Besides writing, he enjoys tap-dancing and complex ways. Her English teacher gave her the best writing
singing a cappella. advice she has ever received: A first draft is never good, and if
you think it is, youre wrong.
Rachel Hargrave will write anytime and anywhere. She jots
down poems on the margins of her class notes or in her phone if Hana Lee has lived in four states in the United States and has
shes on the go. Tennyson and Byron are two of her favorite poets. moved into different houses at least eleven times. These ex-
periences have inspired her to write stories about heroes and
Emma Hathaway wrote this memoir intending to illustrate an
heroines who find themselves in disorienting and difficult situ-
important lesson she believed she had already learned. How-
ations. Binary Switch is the first script she has ever written.
ever, while writing she discovered that the grand transforma-
tion she thought she had undergone is certainly not complete. John Lhota constructed this story by rewriting the beginning
Emma is excited to keep maturing and improving herself. to a short story several times and finally coming to the realiza-
tion that each one of these little fragments could tell an entire
After writing her memoir, Elizabeth Heym was able to come to
story all by itself. He plans to study science and engineering
terms with the division between what I can and cannot con-
and hopes that his writing will be informed and influenced by
trol. She feels few aspects of life fail to inspire her but prefers
the discoveries he makes in those fields.
to write about the simple things, which often seem ignored.
Olivia Linn writes about her friends, her body, and what its like
Bailey Hwa is inspired by the latest scientific and technologic
to be born into a culture that makes being a woman and a
advances. DNA sequencing and cloning are subjects she finds
feminist so difficult and necessary. She advises young writers
particularly fascinating. If she could have witnessed and writ-
to be honest and never hide their points of view behind rigid
ten about any historical event, it would have been Benjamin
rhetorical techniques.
Franklins reaction to lightning striking his kite.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS | 284 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 285
Alison Liu writes whenever inspired. It could be at four in the India Nabarro enjoys writing flash fiction because she believes
morning after waking up from a wild dream or in biology class it helps preserve the novelty of a brief and exceptional moment.
after hearing an unusual and arresting word. She prefers to In the future she hopes to write a story about a mundane topic
write from personal experience. The ongoing process of grow- in an innovative way, demonstrating to her reader the beauty
ing up is a recurrent theme in her work. of everyday life.
Dylan Magruder uses sarcasm to make people laugh on a daily While writing this memoir, Alexander Nguyen came to the
basis. But while writing, he enjoys describing mundane situ- conclusion that he still has a lot to learn about himself. Theres
ations in an extremely objective way so as to highlight their so much more to me than what the world told me there was, he
absurdity. He mostly reads the works of Southern authors. says. Throughout his writing process he also learned that one
George Singleton and Dale Ray Phillips are among his favorite. can write powerfully without an abundant use of adjectives.
In the future, Gloria Martinez plans to use her writing to in- Sola Park identifies herself as a social activist writing for those
vestigate why peoples morals and values so often remain intact whose voices are dismissed and unheard. If she could imple-
when so much may dissuade them from acting against those ment a change in her country, it would be to revisit the Cana-
values. She writes best when sitting in front of a window offer- dian Aboriginal Law so as to correct the injustices committed
ing a view of the desert. against the aboriginal peoples of her region.
Robyn Mathews writes to find an answer to the question, What In her future writing, Alexis Payne will keep investigating is-
would happen if . . . ? In her next stories, she will investigate sues of discrimination and injustice. Her next story will be
the concept of humanity and what it takes for someone to be written in the perspective of a refugee and his or her jour-
called inhumane. ney to the United States. Oskar, from Jonathan Safran Foers
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, is her favorite fictional
Nathan Meyer came up with the idea for his story while watch-
character.
ing the clock tick during one of his classes. He decided to turn
his boredom into a personal challenge to write an interesting Kira Pelowitz classifies a good poet as someone who will draw
story where everything takes place in one room, with one char- and highlight connections between things that seem unrelated.
acter. His plan for the future is to be a writer forever. She thinks of poetry as a profound way in which strangers may
communicate. She is influenced and inspired by slam poetess
Elizabeth Miller describes her writing as freakish yet funny
Andrea Gibson.
semirealistic fiction. Her next story will be a sequel to Cow-
boys vs. Bear featuring a Kentuckian farmer who has been Kathleen Radigans (Portfolio Gold) writing portfolio, titled
digested by the Sasquatches. Love Songs, is an attempt to talk about love in a genuine and
intelligent way. She believes that the best writing is produced
by giving the world around you your undivided attention. In
ABOUT THE AUTHORS | 286 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 287
the fall she will attend Connecticut College to study English and poetry she prioritizes sound, focusing particularly on the
Social Science. Along with being a writer of fiction, Kathleen is a rhythm and flow of her words.
singer-songwriter with EPs available on iTunes.
Michael Sun spends several hours of his week reading articles
Caleb Rak writes in his bedroom late at night. His favorite poet on sports. He has found the writing on ESPN and Bleacher Re-
is Allen Ginsberg because even though he does not understand port inspire him to write about an array of topics. The most
Ginsbergs poetry, he revels in trying to figure out its mysteries. important step in his writing process is brainstorming.
Holly Rice thinks its important to write about contemporary Lydia Suttle wrote this piece late at night while taking advan-
and relevant issues so that large audiences can understand and tage of a rush of adrenaline. She considers writing to be an act
connect to her work. Someday she hopes to write about her au- of dreaming with eyes open. Her work is stimulated by music
tistic sibling to give readers a further understanding of disabil- and personal experience.
ities and the true ability that lies with those who have them.
Nicholas Teague is inspired to write whenever he hears about
Meggie Royers favorite writing subject is love, because its a the ordinary people who are able make a difference for causes
topic she can treat uniquely in each poem. When she began that they feel passionate about. Although he is happy the Su-
to write about her vulnerabilities, she noticed that her poetry preme Court overturned DOMA, if he could change any law
began to improve. She suggests to other writers that they use in the U.S.A., it would be to legalize gay marriage in all states.
their words to explore what disturbs and frightens them.
Niklas Theorin wrote this story after reading through several
Adam Schorin wrote this story after spending a few of his lunch shallow Facebook posts and asking himself, What would these
breaks working with special-needs students. He values writ- people be saying if they only had two hours to live? He be-
ing as a cathartic experience and truly loves reading. I can lieves the best part of writing is the unmaterialistic and sim-
read To Kill a Mockingbird four, five times and still shiver when plistic qualities of it. It doesnt require any fancy equipment,
Scout says, Hey, Boo. Very few other things have that sort of just imagination and a knack for the bizarre.
power over me.
Marley Townsend characterizes her writing as darkly whimsi-
Rebecca Scurlocks memoir is a collection of the most vivid ex- cal. She likes to take readers thoughts down strange and un-
periences she has had so far. Writing this essay has empowered known pathways. Her next story will be about a young woman
her to reflect on her mistakes and appreciate her childhood. San- whose mother raises her to believe she is a mythical monster.
dra Cisneros The House on Mango Street motivated and inspired
Jackson Trices stories are character-driven. I started writing
her to complete this essay.
because I was in love with the people I made up, she explains,
Francesca Sedlacek enjoys writing about the faltering wills and I still write for that very reason. She is currently working
and ever-changing feelings of human beings. While writing
ABOUT THE AUTHORS | 288 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 289
on a longer piece that revolves around the lives of conjoined A Teachers Guide to The Best Teen Writing of 2013
twins and a girl addicted to Adderall.
1. Short Story
Most of Lucy Waingers writing deals with the emotional tur- Discussion on characterization and argument
moils of adolescence. She will write anywhere, except in hospi-
Goal: Students explain how authors use characters to make
tals, and anytime, except when nauseated. The poetry of Sarah
an argument in a text.
Manguso both fascinates and terrifies her.
Activity: Introduce the concept of a storys argument by
Mary Rose Weber writes exclusively about historical events.
having students discuss popular folktales, stories, and mov-
She wants to tell all young poets of the world to be spontane-
ies that have a moral or special meaning behind them. Ask
ous, because without spontaneity we simply cant be fantastic.
students to describe how the characters help the author make
Samantha West (Portfolio Gold) describes her writing style as his or her point. Share responses with the class.
minimalist and clear. She enjoys playing the piano and watch-
Next, choose a piece with highly engaging characterization. As
ing movies and TV shows so she can analyze the script writing.
youre reading out loud, have students mark any points in the
Her advice to young writers is, Dont be afraid to start over.
text where we learn important things about the characters.
Even if you wrote three hundred pages, its okay. Take time to
After youre finished, have students discuss the following:
figure out your characters and treat them like real people. She
will attend Linfield College this fall. What does the author wants us to know, or understand,
after we read this story?
Anna Xie (Portfolio Gold) describes her portfolio as being
full of nostalgia, soliloquy, and the observations of a wander- Who are the most important characters in this story?
ing heart. When people read her work, she would like them Have them return to the text and find specific details (charac-
to speculate and contemplate the obscurities of her writing so ter appearance, action, speech, thought, and interaction with
that in this way, her thoughts will interact with theirs. Her others) to illustrate the characters personality. Share student
favorite books include The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides responses.
and White Oleander by Janet Fitch. In the fall she will study
Next, ask the class:
English and Creative Writing at the University of Massachu-
How does the author use these characters to make an
setts Boston.
argument in the story?
This essay is one of the first creative pieces Hana Zeric has
ever written in English. She now believes genuine and heart- 2. Short Story
felt emotions can translate into any language. Her memories of Writing with focus on characterization
summers spent by the Adriatic Sea served as her main source Goal: Students creatively interpret the way a character pres-
of inspiration. ents an argument.
A TEACHERS GUIDE | 290 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 291
Activity: Ask students to write a story with two characters, 5. Personal Essay / MemoirWriting with a focus on
each representing an opposing set of morals. Once they have structure and pacing
completed this task, have a class discussion about their writ-
Goal: Students will write an organized and coherent memoir
ing experience and how they individualized the characters so
imitating the format of a BTW piece.
that each would represent certain ideals.
Activity: Read Reflections by Rebecca Scurlock out loud with
3. Poetry your students. Talk about the format in which her memories
Discussion with focus on sense details are written. Discuss the length of each section, the way a
single moment can say so much about a person, and the way
Goal: Students explain how specific sense details excite the
in which brevity is beneficial.
readers imagination.
Ask your students to write their own memoir modeled
Activity: Select a poem with strong sense details from BTW
after hers.
and replace specific sense details with more general language.
Pass the doctored poem out to the class and have them read The first section should be about what their names mean to
it out loud. Ask them what they think the poem is trying to them, the others may be about an important family holiday/
express. Next, hand out copies of the original poem. Read it event, a moment of hardship or sadness, and a moment in
aloud and have students mark the differences between the which someone told them something about themselves that
two. Ask students how they responded differently and why they did or did not agree with. The last section can include an
they think the author chose to include those details. epiphany or an important lesson they have learned and wish
to share with others.
4. Poetry
Writing with focus on sense details 6. Persuasive Writing
Discussion with a focus on Ethos, Pathos, and Logos
Goal: Students write using sense details that excite the
readers imagination. Goal: Students identify the types of evidence used in persua-
sive writing and write counterarguments.
Activity: Have students write a poem that describes their
walk to or from school. They should use as many sense details Activity: Introduce the concept of Ethos (credibility), Pathos
as possible and be as specific as possible. Have those who (sentiment), and Logos (logic) and ask students how they
would like to share read their poems to the class and discuss might use each of these concepts to get something specific
how the details enrich the poems. that they want from their parents (extended curfew, spending
money, reduced punishment, etc.). Record their responses on
the board using a chart for each type of appeal.
A TEACHERS GUIDE | 292 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 293
Next, read one of the persuasive pieces from BTW aloud and Acknowledgements
have them mark examples of each of these concepts. As a
The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers gratefully acknowl-
class, discuss which appeals are stronger than others and why.
edges the thousands of educators who annually encourage
Have students write a response to the author in which they
students to submit their works to the Scholastic Art & Writing
refute at least one of each of the different types of appeals.
Awards and the remarkable students who have the courage
to put their art and writing before panels of renowned jurors.
Abdel Shakur received his M.F.A. in creative writing from
We would like to especially recognize the National Writing
Indiana University and was editor-in-chief of Indiana Review.
Project for its far-reaching efforts in the writing community
His work has appeared in 2 Bridges Review, Glint Literary
and its continued commitment to our program. In addition,
Journal, and others. He teaches English at the Chicago
our mission is greatly furthered through special partnerships
High School for the Arts and blogs at misstraknowitall.
with the National Art Education Association, the Association
blogspot.com
of Independent Colleges of Art and Design and the NAACPs
ACT-SO program. As a nonprofit organization, our ability
to annually recognize and honor creative teens across the
country is also made possible through the generosity of our
supporters: Scholastic Inc., the Maurice R. Robinson Fund,
The New York Times, the Institute for Museum and Library
Services, the Presidents Committee on the Arts and the
Humanities, Command Web Offset Co., the AMD Foundation,
Blick Art Materials, the National Endowment for the Arts,
3D Systems, New York Life, Bloomberg L.P., Ovation,
Amazon.com, the Jacques and Natasha Gelman Trust, the
Bernstein Family Foundation, Duck Tape, the New York City
Department of Cultural Affairs, and contributions from nu-
merous other individual, foundation, and corporate funders.
294 The Scholastic Art & Writing Awards | 295
South Central Pennsylvania Art & Writing Region Sarasota Art Region
Commonwealth Connections Academy Sarasota County Schools
Tennessee Hawaii
Middle Tennessee Art Region Hawaii Art Region
Cheekwood Botanical Garden & Museum of Art Hawaii State Department of Education
Washington Kansas
Snohomish County Art Region Eastern Kansas Art Region
Schack Art Center Wichita Center for the Arts
www.artandwriting.org
978-0-545-66366-3
Cover art: Bird Man, Guannan Liu, Grade 11, Age 16,
Chatham, IL. 2013 Gold Medal and American Visions Medal.