|
|
|
From time to time, the Kirtland Community College English Department introduces various writing contests for the students to participate in. Please check this page to see what those contests are, and also to view the winners and their work!
From time to time the English Department of Kirtland Community College invites KCC students to participate in various writing contests. The most recent one was the LAND writing contest, featuring three categories: Fiction, Poetry, and Essay with a first, second, and third place winner in each. Please enjoy the winning submissions! I APOLOGIZE FOR THE SOMEWHAT DISORGANIZATION OF THIS; IT IS SIMPLY THE WAY THAT THE FREESERVERS WEBSITE IS SET UP AND THERE'S NOTHING I CAN DO TO MAKE IT LOOK NICER. SORRY. :(
|
|
|
FICTION
**FIRST place, Chelsea Fisher with "Two Encounters of Eric"**
Two Encounters of Eric
Eric Mowser strode down the pavement with his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, oblivious to his surroundings, the hum of headphones and the waft of cigarette smoke in his wake. He was full-on deep thinking about the mutilated chipmunk carcass he just passed. He was thinking what sort of stupid decomposer in this neighborhood would have just left those pieces of juicy chipmunk by the wayside. Eric began to think about the crack-heads downtown and speculated that one of them maybe made it to this run-down side of town munching on it and then decided to dig in the trash instead. He glanced at one of the overflowing trash bins and came out of his musing as he realized where he was.
The side of the road was in disrepair, as was the neighborhood he was entering. He came to the end of the pavement and turned down a graveled side street, paralleled by a rusty chain link fence that barely kept the weeds on the other side in check on one side and a wooden privacy fence on the other. Eric resumed his musing with the thought of the crack-head looking up from the trash and grasping he was far from the fast-food part of town where half-eaten burgers were abundant in the refuse bins. He went by Jehoozy, this crack head, and he was a skinny grubby man, with a stained grizzly beard, wearing a moth-eaten pink hat and a faded gray overcoat in his mind. He would jerk away from the trash and make his spooked way back toward what was hazily familiar, mumbling something about newspapers. In his paranoid rush, he would leave the pieces of chipmunk on the sidewalk, chicken tenders in old Jehoozy’s mind. The local fauna, the skeletal cats and crows lurking about, steered clear of the chipmunk because of the foreign taint. The chipmunk would be fodder for the flies, and the flies would die because of the bad medicine. If life was fair, Jehoozy would catch one in his frog-like mouth after getting his fix far away in downtown and then all would be balanced when he choked on the dying fly.
Flies were humming in his ears. He could hear through the blaring of his headphones the whir of a chainsaw. He looked up, flicked the butt of his cigarette at the chain link fence, and pushed the stop button on his CD player.
He pulled back his hood and headphones and shouted out, “Hey loser!” Eric’s blackish mop of hair tried to take wing in all directions and he frowned as he pulled his sleeved hand over the mop. The whirring slowed and droned to a stop even though his shout was barely audible over the chainsaw. A lanky figure with safety glasses emerged from a hole in the privacy fence. It was as if the figure had known at approximately what time Eric would show up. Fate, it seems, wanted Eric and his friend James to hang out today. Who was he to disagree?
“Man, you’d think with all the anti-money you’re raking in, you wouldn’t stop for any old casually throw out insult,” Eric smirked and jammed his hands in his hoodie.
The other man grinned and said, “Well, it’s about time for a break anyway. Bum me a cigarette, man.” Eric pulled out his pack of Smokin’ Joes natural cigarrettes and threw him one.
“James, I am appalled. Since when did you start smoking?” Eric asked with a half grin as he lit up another one. The two leaned with their backs against the fence and slid down to sitting positions. Both of the men were quite tall and as they stretched out their legs and then pulled them back to lean with their elbows, they almost looked like twins, except for the difference in eye and hair color.
“What, cigarettes? Never. I don’t inhale, especially these nasty cheap ones. It’s called oral fixation.” James was busy digging in his own sweatshirt pocket to return the grin, but he felt a lot better now than he had in weeks, it seemed. He was so busy lately trying to help his senile uncle pay the bills with his various odd jobs that he hadn’t had much time for his social life, or really any part of his own life. He pulled out a rolled cigarette, a trademark joint, and handed it to his friend. He sensed a weird relief. Smoking by yourself got eerie after a while; you start obsessing about dumb shit.
“You do the honors.” He tossed his safety glasses to his side and pulled out a beaten-up black eye-glass case and pulled from them an equally-beaten-up pair of eyeglasses. He blinked as he put on the glasses. His eyes were two different colors, one brown and one grayish blue. He could see just fine, if there were no such thing as far-sightedness. He lit up the borrowed cigarette with a match from a tatty matchbook also pulled from some pocket and made a point of making a perfect smoke ring in Eric’s direction. Eric just shook his head as he struggled with the joint. James could hear him mumbling, “Stupid lighter. Stupid wind. Come on, you dirty bastard.”
“Just because you are an inept stoner doesn’t mean that it’s the lighter’s fault.” James sniggered and traded one cigarette for the other. Eric played a turn for turn and puffed a smoke ring in his direction and coughed a little.
“So how’s tricks, old timer? Have you got another job after this one today or are you going to come skate later on? Oh, wait, don’t tell me. It’s the first of the month. Party time with Uncle Vic, right?” James waited until after he hit the joint a couple times to answer. He sighed and passed the joint back.
“Hey, you just shut up about that old timer shit. I don’t want to hear that until I turn at least 40, but then you’ll be pretty damn old too… And you should know my birthday was a week ago, not yesterday. Anyway, Mr. Can’t Keep Track of Time, it’s the 5th, and yeah, I’ve got another tree in Mrs. Johansson’s yard whose time has come.” He looked down at his Converses as he hit the cheap cigarette. He then blithely pitched a stone over the wooden fence.
“Are you serious?” Eric swung his head at James in disbelief, eyes wide. James frowned and looked confused.
“Yes, my birthday was a week ago, thanks for remembering, asshole.”
“Oh yeah… I knew that, sorry dude, I thought it was yesterday.” James threw his hands in the air and then crossed them, doing a crappy job of looking hurt.
Eric just smiled as he gestured with the joint-in-hand. “But I mean Johansson hired you? Are we talking about the same old purple dressed bat? The one who hated both me and you in high school? Maybe she got senile and forgot what a fiend you were 6 years ago. Man… what did she teach…?” Eric focused on a point in the distance as he hit the joint. His face wrinkled into a knowing smile as he turned slowly to James and croaked over the smoke “World Geography.”
“Yeah, yeah, well it wasn’t her that hired me, it was Mistah.” James jerked his neck out to enunciate the masculinity of the title and took the shortened joint carefully so as not to burn his fingers. His hands seemed to shake with the effort of concentrating on being careful as he brought it to his mouth. “So yeah. I’ve got that to do, and then it’s all smooth sailing.”
“Then, we’re talking, what? A few hours? Have you seen the sky today, James?” Eric took the joint and violently pointed upwards. “It’s supposed to storm like a sunuvabitch. And I know that as soon as you shut that tree-eating machine off in that jungle of Mizz and Mistah Johansson’s yard and start your merry way to the park, it’ll rain and you’ll give up on actually having fun at all this week and go drink yourself silly with Uncle Vic instead of hanging out with the only real friend you’ve got, who in no short words would love to hang out with the only real friend he’s got and possibly share a bottle and hang out at the junkyard, where said friend knows that there is no few windshields and other breakable things ready to be destroyed.” Eric frowned at the end of his speech and sat for a couple more seconds as if he forgot about the joint then finally inhaled hastily. James just let his face tighten and succumb to the inevitable perma-smile. He knew Eric probably better than he knew himself. Eric would pout silently after this little tirade until James said that he would make himself available like, now.
James just sat with that shit-eating grin he called perma-smile and that he, Eric, knew was silently laughing at him.
“Hey, want this roach?” James turned his vacant smiling face to Eric and looked down with his red eyes at the proffered roach. He stared, eyes vacant. It was his to take anyway. Maybe a roach would cheer Eric up, though. Should he let him have it, or take it and save it for later, when he would undoubtedly sit in his little cubby-hole of a bedroom at Crazy Vic’s and make use of it to then dwell upon his miserable existence? Great, now his thoughts were running full on into one another, just like Eric’s little tirade. I should probably answer, seeing as how I’ve just been sitting here looking like a nincompoop. Ha, that’s a funny word. Nincompoop. Heeheehee.
“Hey. Dude. Do you want this or not?” Eric was still holding the roach out and he had the look of one who is trying not to laugh.
James smiled wider; the freckles on his cheeks stretched to ellipses and he balled his fists, trying not to break into hysterics. “Nincompoop.”
Eric looked at James with a look of befuddlement, let his arm with the hand holding the still-burning roach fall to the ground, and let out his ridiculous bray of a laugh. James then started giggling and then realizing how stupid they must look, the two of them red-eyed against the fence, one laughing like a donkey, and he, James, giggly like a little girl. He too started laughing and tried to take the roach from Eric who would indisputably burn himself and bitch about it later. Eric simply let go of the roach and let it fall to the ground as he clutched his stomach, eyes shut tight, braying still continuing. James delicately pinched the nearly-destroyed piece of illegal substance and struggled to stand while holding his stomach and wheezing. Eric gasped for breath and struggled also to stand.
“Man, that felt good. Besides burning my fingers, but you know, what the hell?” Eric smirked and chuckled at himself.
James tossed the roach at Eric, who deftly caught it with a swing of his arms, and said, “Well, hey, tell you what, I’ll take my time with the last of these logs, cuz all I gotta do now is chop ‘em into smaller pieces. Then I’ll collect my fee and we’ll go get our drink on. I’ll just call the Johansson residence and tell them I’d rather not be in their backyard with a chainsaw in a thunderstorm. You take that roachster and go skate for a while and I should be over in no longer than an hour. Sound good?” Eric was wrapping the roach in the cellophane of his cigarette pack.
“Yeah, excellent. You want me to grab one of my brother’s bats from the house?” Eric pulled his hoodie back on and slyly glanced at James, who was putting his glasses away and putting the square safety goggles on. James beamed and also pulled out from his pockets a pair of brown work gloves.
“Yes, I deem I will be in requirement of one of the heathen’s bats. I do believe I hear the tell-tale tinkling of glass in the distance.” James theatrically posed with his knee bent and arm pointing straight into the sky. He was a sight with a dashing smile and his one eyebrow curved. “There will be great doings tonight in yon yard of junk!”
Eric pulled his headphones on and shook his head, trying not to laugh. “Alrighty, I will be back over this way in a couple hours then. Peace.”
James turned with his fists on his hips and chest pushed out, “Yes, good citizen, we will meet again, very soooooon!” He ended this with a mime of a cape flourish and turned to march back toward the hole in the wooden fence. Eric looked down, still smiling and began walking downtown.
The chainsaw started roaring once again and Eric turtled along the gravel trying to finger the play button on his CD player. It’s one, two, three, four from the top. It’s got the triangle. He went over the buttons almost compulsively 3 times and finally pushed play. His pace quickened as he now had a beat to follow. He lit up another Joe and took in the surroundings. Did he feel like skating now? Eric’s foggy head found its way back to the chipmunk even though he had thoroughly abused the creature’s memory. The way it was chewed on, in three distinct pieces, attached by strings of hide and fur, fascinated him. The skull gaped at him in his mind even though it was only the size of a plum. Aplomb. Ha.
Eric continued into the run-down part of town trying to remember something about world geography but all he could think of was a line from the song he was listening to: the universe is shaped exactly like the earth, if you go straight long enough you’ll end up where you were.
A blurry scene unfolded in his mind where the now animated version of the chipmunk was carrying a hobo bag and hopping over the railroad tracks on the other part of town, whistling the whole way. Jehoozy and a couple of other crack heads smiled their black-toothed grins as they feasted their beady eyes on the poor creature. Jehoozy pounced upon him first and he swirled around his comrades in a skittish dance of drug euphoria as his massive teeth crunched down upon the walking chicken tenders. The chipmunk screamed his last breath and wheezed as his eyes bulged and blood trickled out of his tiny mouth. Jehoozy was elastic. He walked sideways, into an alley and up the wall. The blood horribly bright red, spray painted the wall, a grotesque mural of bones. The old man’s spider-like limbs grappled the brick building to avoid the police car that rambled down the street. The way was hazy, all pink and orange and it must have been morning. The blue and white spotted hobo bag, forgotten spoils of the kill, spilled upon the cement like marbles fallen out of a pocket. A silver key, dull bent coins, smooth tiny pieces of broken glass, all the treasures of the chipmunk’s journey rolled insignificantly into the gutters where the sewer rats growled and squealed greedily over them.
Eric shook his head out of the reverie and shivered as he thought what a cruel world it was where little woodland creatures adapted to the city and were wolfed down by the demons of drugs. It had been a half an hour, he gathered with a quick glance around. The Main Street clock, the arms bronze and old-fashioned, informed him.
Eric looked up at the sky from where he sat on a bus stop bench. It was still darkly overcast, no rain yet. An old woman with silver hair dozed on the bench. She smelled like smoke and grease. A mean gust wrestled with his hood as he stood up and looked at the woman. Her eyes were cinched up, like old lacing on a baseball glove. She mumbled incoherently and clutched her arms around a blue satchel, lumpy with treasures from her own journeys. He turned away and his thoughts drifted back to Jehoozy. He felt like he needed a hobo bag and a coat of fur. He began to whistle and pushed play on his CD player.
Eric was going for a stroll once again.
**SECOND Place, Jamie Carroll with "The Long Lost Big Brother"**
The Long Lost Big Brother
The ice in his glass made a clinking sound. They tended to do this when the cubes slid off one another. Like miniature glaciers amongst a sea of whiskey and sweet vermouth, they cracked and crashed. I found the scene beautiful. But what looked to me like diamonds surrounded by liquid amber was a normal sight for a bartender like him.
It was a Thursday night, a few hours after my brother got off work and a few days after my eighteenth birthday. My older brother and I sat in the kitchen of the townhouse he and his wife were renting. Placed right at the border of what was considered downtown Boyne City, the area outside my brother’s house was often found to be softly lit by the dim, orange glow of streetlights. The towering black posts bathed everything around in their gentle light. The sidewalks, the street, the porch—little evaded the watchful eye of the ever-present streetlights.
We sat atop the counter. He was perched in the corner of the room, and I was leaning against the cupboards above the sink. We spoke about everything there is and absolutely nothing at all. Our minds wandered as we shared intimate thoughts and personal observations of the strangest, most obscure things.
“I think Jar Jar was a funny enough addition to the new Star Wars movie. I don’t know why people are complaining about him,” I commented.
“I think it’s just a different kind of humor than they expected, is all,” he replied.
From science fiction, to film, to religion and then romance, the topics gradually shifted. Time seemed to fly as he sipped his Manhattan and I my Dr Pepper. He told me that he needed a smoke, so from the dark kitchen, lit only by the light above the oven we moved out to the front porch. Sitting upon the steps leading down to the sidewalk and street, we continued our ever-changing discussion of life in general.
“I don’t know what to do. I think I really like her, but don’t feel we’d really get along in a romantic way,” I explained to him.
“Don’t worry too much about how you feel for her,” he advised. “Let it play out as it will.”
He puffed that Camel Turkish Gold as the misty sign of burning tobacco drifted out and dissipated above the street before us.
“I love the sounds of night, especially up here: the cars, the people, the trees and trash and the breeze that blows them, everything,” I told him.
“It’s nice, but sometimes I wish we still lived out in the country like you do,” he admitted.
People would slowly stroll by the enclosed porch, seeming to forget that it was eleven, or midnight, or two in the morning. Cars would drive past on their way to who-knows-where, leaving little more than the smell of exhaust as evidence of their passing.
When his cigarette was gone, my brother stepped inside, and I followed suit like a pup at his heels. We returned to our counters, now cool beneath us as we talked, and talked, into the night.
**THIRD Place, Andrea Schreffler with "Heavy"**
Heavy
The windows were open again. They were too heavy for me to close. I lay shivering on the hard mattress, not wanting to get out of bed for another blanket. I was afraid that if I got out of bed, I might see it. It was in a glass case, and at this time of the night when the moon was high and bright you could see every detail on its porcelain face. I tried to fall asleep but the cold pricked at my skin and I couldn’t keep from shaking. Slowly I swung my legs onto the hard wood floor and tried to keep from crying out when the cold shocked my feet. I walked over to the closet, head down to keep me from seeing the case. A spider scurried across the floor and I jumped back, watching as it crawled underneath. The doll sat inside, staring at me with painted blue eyes. I stood looking at its perfect rose mouth, its polished white skin, and the small polka dotted bow holding its dark, curly hair. I was transfixed by its every flawless detail. Tears started to form in the corners of my eyes, and I brushed them unblinking with the back of my hand. A small wooden plaque was nailed to the wall beside the case. To Jacqueline Rose, my beautiful little doll. My heart fell inside my chest, and I sat on the floor, leaning my head against the cool glass as the tears freely fell. My little doll.
“Land-sakes Amelia, why can’t you sleep in a bed like a normal child?” Grandma sat on the floor and took me in her arms, fiercely rubbing my arms and legs to warm me. “Were you hibernating?” I absently nodded. She lifted my chin towards her face. “Sweet child, show some life. You can’t be ready to die at twelve years old.” I dropped my head back down and climbed out of her lap. She watched me with sad eyes then heaved herself from the ground. “Well if you want some breakfast, you best put some clothes on and pull a comb through that mop of yours. I’ll be downstairs.” I waited until she was gone and then took the doll out of its case. My grandpa used to lock it, but after waking him several times a night to open the lock so I could hold the doll, he decided to leave it unlocked all together. I ran my fingers over its tiny mouth and nose. “Momma”.
“Nobody can cook like your Grandmamma, huh, child?” I nodded at her, my mouth full of buttermilk pancakes. “Your Pappy got that milk you’re drinking fresh only yesterday. Only way to have it. You’ll have strong, lean bones, just like your…” she stopped and turned away.
“Louise, I’ll finish up these dishes. You go wash up.” My grandpa wrapped his arms around Grandma, holding her close. She offered me a feeble smile before escaping to the washroom. I could hear her sobs even after she closed the door and turned on the faucet.
“Pappy, I don’t want anymore.” I pushed my plate to the end of the table, almost knocking over my glass of milk. He stood staring at the sink, lost in thought. “I don’t want anymore,” I repeated.
“Sure honey,” he said, slowly picking up my plate. I counted the sun-spots on his right hand. Eleven. Two more since the last time I counted. “You run along now. I’m sure the bus is comin’ soon anyway.” I started to walk out of the kitchen. “Amelia?” Grandpa stood with a bar of soap and my plate in his shaking sun spotted hands. “I love you.”
It was my favorite kind of day. There were only four clouds in the sky. Two of them were shaped like cats. The other two were the typical torn pieces of cotton. I kicked the dusty gravel and watched as small mists of dust scattered and then fell, turning my yellow tennis shoes into a chalky white. Grandma would be mad, if she noticed. I was nervous. It had been one month since I had been to school. Why did I have to go back? I thought it was stupid. It made me angry. I felt so much older than the rest of my classmates. I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle the sounds of their laughter at recess or their petty whining when the teacher assigned homework. I didn’t know if I could handle the sad looks on the faces of my teachers when I walked in. I watched as an ant scurried past, carrying a dead spider on its back. I thought of the spider I had seen last night, and I felt the same old pain attack my heart again.
“Amelia!” I looked up at a girl in pigtails and a red dress running towards me. “Hey, hey how are you, huh?” She was breathing fast, her fat cheeks all red from the exertion. “I was wondering if I’d ever see you again!” She said with a smile, wrapping her thick arm around my small shoulders. I closed my eyes and kept on walking. “Hey, wait up!” I boarded the waiting bus and nodded at Patrick, the driver. He had more freckles since the last time I saw him.
“Amelia, girl,” was all he said in his soft Irish voice. I liked Patrick.
I sat down and the fat girl, Ginger, squeezed in next to me. I didn’t know why she insisted on following me. “My mom…”she stopped, hesitating before going on, “My mom said I should keep an eye on you. Just to see if you’re ok and all.” I closed my eyes again and sat motionless until we arrived at school.
Everything was just the way it had been except for the awkward silences that settled on everyone whenever I walked past. I didn’t have any friends before I left and I didn’t have any now, but now I was different, like a Negro in a southern Baptist church. My peers didn’t know how to handle being around me, and for that matter, neither did my teachers. I could tell the adults felt they needed to say something, but whenever they did they quickly closed their mouths and patted my shoulder, as if that small act of comfort was all I needed. I tried not to care, but a part of me wanted someone to say the right thing. The one thing I had needed to hear in a month that would make me feel right inside again.
At the end of the day I was walking home because I had intentionally missed the bus. I knew Patrick would understand. I was watching a wren build a nest when I heard the sound of tires behind me. A black sedan pulled to a stop where I stood. “Amelia, it’s a long walk.” I stared at the man inside. Mr. Sanders. “I’ll give you a ride.” I started to say no when he reached over and opened the door. “Please.”
We drove in silence for a few long minutes before he broke the quiet. “Amelia, I’m so sorry.” He glanced over at me. “You’re a smart girl, so I’m going to be straight with you.” He waited, and when I offered no response, he continued on. “I loved your mother. Nothing can change that. I loved her more than I can ever imagine loving anyone else.” His hands started to shake, and he pulled to the side of the road. He turned off the car and faced me. “She was so amazing. Like a fire that never went out. Every time she looked at me, I felt like collapsing at the knees, and when she laughed Amelia…” he stopped to wipe the corner of his left eye, “Good God, when she laughed…it was like the first day of spring. New. Pure. Refreshing…I can’t even tell you how much I loved her.” I bit my lip to keep from crying. He didn’t love her like I did. “I just want you to know that, ok? I don’t know why she did it. But I don’t want you to think it was me. Please don’t think that, ok? God, Jacqueline!” He broke down and started bawling, tears falling down in huge drops and wetting the collar of his carefully ironed shirt. I opened the car door and started running. Images of my mother, images that I didn’t want to remember, started rushing through my head. I had gotten an A on my math test and was skipping through the door, waving the test paper, excited to show my mother. She had worked so hard the night before the exam to teach me the right way to figure out long division. I opened the door to her room and saw her asleep under the covers. “Momma, look!” I said, excitement keeping me from letting her sleep. She had been sleeping a lot lately. I climbed onto her bed. “Look, Momma, look!” I nudged her gently. She didn’t wake up. “Momma?” I said, nudging her again. And again. “Momma!” I rolled her over and then jumped back. Her face was bluish white and cold. “Momma! Momma! Wake up!” I screamed and screamed. I had never seen a dead person before, but there was no way she was alive. No way. On the nightstand by her bed was an empty bottle of pills. Underneath the bottle was a note. Amelia, read the top, in mom’s perfect cursive. I picked it up, shaking all over.
"Amelia, you are my sunshine. You are what I love most. I’m going to heaven early baby, just so I can get it ready for when you get here. Don’t be mad, sweet babe; I love you more than life itself. Thank you for always being my sweet baby girl.
Love, Your Momma"
Five hours later, Mr. Sanders found me asleep next to my mother’s cold body. Next I remember I awoke in my trembling Grandmother’s arms. She had been holding me too tight.
I ran into my room, dusty and sweaty from the road and sun. The doll was lying on my bed where I had left it. I picked it up and squeezed it against my chest. I wept, my body shaking with sobs. When I felt like no tears could possibly ever fall again, I placed the doll in an old shoebox. Then I took her outside, back into the woods behind my grandparent’s house, and dug a hole as deep as I could. I put the shoebox in the hole and packed the dirt tightly around it. I laid wildflowers on top of the grave, and then walked home. When I got there, Grandpa was waiting. He hugged me close and kissed the top of my head. “Amelia, my precious little doll.”
|
|
|
POETRY
FIRST Place, Susan Bryant with "Wild Turkey"
(not shown here).
SECOND Place, Andrea Schreffler with "Terror"
Terror
flashes of skin
too much skin
suffocating and seeping through
the cracks of my own flesh
hurting ripping tearing invading
me
sobbing
i cry for it to stop
rape is worse than death
death is a beautiful dream that
can’t be remembered when you awake
you try so hard, catching
fading glimpses before it’s gone forever
rape is the decay
of a pure childhood
no more laughing without
feeling the stones
at the bottom of my soul
pulling me farther
and farther to the ocean’s floor
rape is what is happening through
my pores
tearing out my hair, absorbing my tears
all that’s left is dried semen and dark nightmares
THIRD Place, Chelsea Fisher with "Drowing In Juice"
Drowning in Juice
sipping peach juice
from styrofoam coffee cup
she accepted 3 more glasses quietly
and tugged on her silver hoops
new and shiny
much larger than i would ever wear
angry words billow
from the hallway
mom and dad fuming
she chokes
more juice
sips gratefully
hugs her ears
underwater as she escapes
gulp after gulp
|
| |
ESSAY
**First Place, Carrie Petkus, with "Through His Eyes"**
Through His Eyes
His eyes stare at the camera with an expression of confusion and fear. His arms are folded across his chest in a defiant manner of self-protection. His dark hair, wild and uncombed, reminds me of a horse’s mane blowing in the wind. His face is streaked with dirt and brings to mind a savage Indian ready for war. The clothes he wears could hardly be called clothes at all; what was left of them hang limply from his sickly, thin frame. As I look at the picture for the millionth time, I wonder again, as I do every time, what he was thinking the very moment when his face was captured onto that picture, frozen forever in time.
I remember four beds places side-by-side on a green tiled floor. On each, there is a teddy bear placed gently across and inviting pillow. Children’s clothes hang motionless and expectant on a nearby rack. Everything is ready.
I remember headlights shining in a dark and misty night. A bonfire glows and burns in the background, and there was a feeling of extreme nervousness in my stomach. All of our eyes were pivoted on the truck entering our yard as if it were carrying the world’s most precious cargo. With a feeling of breathtaking expectancy and nervousness, we waited as the truck pulled to our front door and stopped. After a moment of death-like silence the doors opened, and the night became confusion. There were people everywhere, and yet somehow I can only remember “them”. They were the reason to this madness, the nervousness in my stomach, the answers to our questions and prayers, and suddenly they were there in front of us. Dark and dirty they stared into our eyes as if they were daring us to hurt them and at the same time pleading with us to love them. We stared back, and suddenly we felt like we were kings and queens welcoming paupers into our court. We stood there in front of them, knowing no real pain or hunger that could ever compare to what they had already suffered. Camera lights flashed in the night, and I noticed their thin arms were shivering with cold as well as fear. I thought of the clothes waiting inside, and I wondered if I should go get some for them to put on. Then a baby cried, and he was shoved into my arms where through his tears he looked at me, and I am sure, wondered who I was. His arms swollen and weak, reached out for his brothers and sisters, pleading with me not to separate them. I talked to him softly, whispering words of comfort and warmth.
Finally everyone else was gone and we were left alone with them. We held the small ones in out laps and put our arms around the older ones. He sat alone, unblinking and silent as a rock, his arms still wrapped tightly around his chest. His eyes, pools of haunted memories and pain, seemed to be memorizing the patterns of the floor, and yet he saw everything around him. He was an old man hidden in a nine-year-old’s body.
Time passes quickly and soon they were ready for bed. We took them to the bathroom and watched amazed as a torrent of black filth was washed off their hands and away into the sink. Their feet had been scrubbed of many layers of dirt and their new pajamas hung proudly from their backs. When the light was out, the baby cried and reached out his arms for me to hold him. I laid down beside him and started to sing. They listened as if they had never heard music before in their lives. I sand in their language, and I sang in mine until, finally, they succumbed to the music and fell asleep. We talked long into the morning about every detail of the night. We all peeped into the bedroom, at least once, to make sure that they were sleeping soundly. We were unsure of everything except for the fact that we could love them.
Today he comes running into the house at full speed, singing a song he learned in Sunday school. I grin and try to pretend like I don’t hear him sneaking up behind me. He peeps over my shoulder and laughs at the boy that was him in the picture.
**SECOND place, Andrea Schreffler with "The Guide of the Moral Conscience"**
The Guide of the Moral Conscience
Statistically, in the face of chaos, order rises to pacify the pandemonium. I think that this is a law of nature pervasive in the universe; order will eventually always rise above the disorder. This is why I side with Henry David Thoreau in his philosophy regarding law when he says, “[If the law] is of such nature that it requires you to be the agent of injustice to another, then, I say, break the law.” For the individual to betray himself is more detrimental to society than for him to blindly follow the law without allowing his conscious to be affected by the moral consequences. If every man throughout history had remained silent when injustice occurred, then the world would never have experienced any kind of reform.
Contrarily, Justice Lewis F. Powell poses an
interesting thought in his statement that “an ordered society cannot exist if every man may determine which laws he will obey…” that I think is rooted in the deeper issue of absolute truth. He seems to favor the idea that there is no gray area when it comes to the law, either one follows it, or they do not. A rule broken is nothing but a rule broken, despite one advocating that is was for the “greater good”. His argument for him thinking that way is that, like in the case of absolute truth, if every man is left to himself to decide what is lawful and what is not, then disorder will ensue due to the diversity of opinions. Therefore an institution must exist that defines what is “just” and “unjust” so that society will remain ordered.
Yet where in this does Powell allow for injustice committed by the very institution supposed to enforce justice? Any institution founded by human standards will inevitably be fallible, and because of this one truth I find Thoreau’s ideals to be more fundamental to the question of an individual’s responsibility to law. Take, for example, the current situation in the country of Bhutan. Public worship, evangelization, and proselytism are illegal for non-Buddhists. Buddhism shapes politics, and it is illegal for a Buddhist to convert to any other religion, specifically Christianity. Only Buddhist religious texts may be introduced into the country, and no alternative religious instruction is permitted in the schools. 15,000 Hindus have been expelled from the south of the country into neighboring India, and the government has begun a program of forced settlement of Bhutanese Buddhists in the region. A defender of Powell’s position would argue that non-Buddhists, despite their persecution, have an obligation to obey the Bhutan’s laws even if they (obviously) are not in favor of them. Yet I would side with Thoreau in saying that it is moral injustice to try to force a person to reject their own beliefs—the very things that define them—in order to contribute to the existence of an ordered society. Freedom of the individual advances society more than oppression of the individual. Like Thoreau, I believe a moral human being will resist the laws of a corrupt government in order to push the government to reform: something that will do more to better society in the end
**THIRD place Susan Bryant with "A Family Tradition**
A Family Tradition
It is early spring, March, in Northern MI and the sap has begun to run. We have our work cut out for us, after staying inside our toasty warm home the majority of the last three months of what always seems like a winter that will never end.
It is a welcome time, we finally get to stretch our legs and the air is crisp, cool, and clean. The days are above freezing, so we don't need as many layers of clothing and the icicles are dripping as the sun gleams off of them brightening our spirits as well after many so many cloudy days.
We gather our supplies: hand augers, buckets, pieces of copper pipe, nails, and a hammer. As we ready ourselves, there is about two feet of snow on the ground and as we have learned from the past, although it is getting warmer, we still need to wear two pairs of socks and bread bags inside our snow boots.
We're finally off on what will be the first of many long days. We start early and as we enter the wooded hills, our breath looks like tendrils of smoke and the wet snow on the blanket of fallen leaves, branches and twigs impede our progress. The first Maple tree that we come across is about 12 inches in diameter and with our hand auger we drill into the tree, at a slight angle, about 2 inches. Below that we tap a nail into the tree and hang our bucket. We then tap our copper pipe into the hole we drilled and almost immediatly the slightly sweet sap begins to drip into the bucket. We continue winding our way across the hillsides and through the ravines until we have tapped about 20 trees in about a 2/3 mile radius. It is time to head back home.
We get warmed up with a hot lunch and have put our coats and boots next to the fireplace so they will be warm and dry later this afternoon. In the late afternoon as the sun descends, we head back out, with 5 gallon buckets, on our trek and empty all the buckets we hung earlier. The first day they are already about half full. From now on they will be emptied twice a day until the sap slows.
We dump the sap from the 5 gallon buckets into barrels that have snow packed around them, to keep it fresh. When we get our first barrel full of sap it is time to start cooking it down into syrup, it takes a full two days on a campfire with a bed of red-hot coals and steady flames, in a pot that is almost big enough to fall into. After filtering and bottling we have a little over one-gallon of homemade Maple syrup, the best syrup especially on pancakes and sausage the next morning right before you head back on that trek though the snowy woods in the brisk morning air, to collect more sap.
|
|
|
