Sitting in my well worn office chair, she stares at her half-empty room and what’s left of her bed. A few old blankets left on the end. The pillows they couldn’t take with them left to collect dust until she comes back for the holidays. They fiddle with Garlic, a white goat their dad bought them when they were eight. His legs shriveled from the years of make-believe and pretend adventures. A yellow eye lost to one of the cats. Though they would eventually sew the eye up they never stopped feeling guilty about it.
Tomorrow she’ll be at college, 186 miles away from home. Away from the safe confides of their bed and her weighted blankets. Where they drank their mom’s hot chocolate. Where they collected bugs like the ones in her mother’s office. Where they found Nymo and Oscar and where their dad taught them how to crochet. They twist Garlic’s ear and their bottom lip quivered. Fighting back tears.
9Th & 10Th grade writing/art contest: A single place
eva berglund (winner)
Dozens of gray plastic desks line the room in rows and large round tables line the back wall. Hard blue chairs matched neatly with each one, metal baskets underneath the seat. The squeak of whiteboard markers on the board, notes written from period to period. A large desk tucked securely in the front corner of the room with dark wooden drawers and nicked table top. Sunlight streams in from the windows, illuminating dust specks that float through the hazy afternoon air. Faded maps decorate the walls, showing the world in shades of every color in the rainbow. Afternoon class.
neko lin (runner up)
Kőbánya cellar system
josiah mo (runner up)
The looming vaulted arches, uniformly situated, perpendicularly casting their shadows upon the pathway below. Eerie torches allocated at the base of the wide arches, humming gently as they give off their radiant glow. The moist ashen limestone walls, their insalubrious contents infested with mold, their dilapidated quality quid autem pulchritudinous. A well trodden passage, saturated with water on both sides, as if they contain the souls of those who walked here of yore. Gloomy shadows, looming over the path, all is quiet bar the gentle pitter patter of loose water drops.
HONORABLE MENTIONS
sriman iyer
THERE’S AN EERIE SILENCE ON TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN
hannah berkun
There’s an eerie silence on the top of the mountain.
I’ll see you next Sunday, kiddo, his father says. He doesn’t know why it has to always be Sunday. Why couldn’t it be a Friday, or a Monday, or a Saturday, even? Calvin didn’t understand. He didn’t understand a lot of things. He didn’t understand how to tie his shoes, and he didn’t understand what a bunny had to do with tying his shoes either. He didn’t understand why Santa only came once a year, and why he couldn’t get presents every day so he could have all the stuff the other kids have at school. He didn’t understand why his mom cries at night after they see his dad every Sunday.
Only on Sundays, she sits on the edge of her bed, her face in her palms, elbows on her knees, and sobbing uncontrollably. Only on Sundays, Calvin is awakened by her cries, shoots up from his bed, rubs his eyes, takes his blanket off, and walks down to the end of the hallway. Only on Sundays, Calvin paces towards his Mom’s room, her sobs silencing out the low creek of her bedroom door as Calvin slowly opens it. Only on Sundays, Calvin looks at the back of his heartbroken mom, asking her, “What’s wrong, Mommy?” causing her to startlingly turn around, her dark brown hair whipping in her face, only then to hastily push it towards the back of her head, ushering over to Calvin, picking him up with a forced smile as she says, “Nothing. Nothing at all, sweetie. Now let’s get you back to bed.” Only on Sunday’s, she brings Calvin back to his room, tucks him in, and kisses him on the cheek, wiping tears away from her eyes as she says she loves him, then slowly exits the room, this time closing Calvin’s door so he wouldn’t be awakened by her heart-aching cries. Calvin never understands why all of this happens only on Sundays.
