Christine Curley Memorial Award 2024

The Christine Curley Memorial Award for Creative Writing has been established by Christine’s parents to be presented annually to the students who display interest and potential in creative writing.

During Christine’s high school years, she showed great promise as a poet, and the hope of her parents is that this award will encourage other students to pursue in their writing the spirit with Christine so beautifully demonstrated in her own.

A faculty committee has chosen

Tehreem fatima

Poettes’ Tale

I am not a poet
But a woman albeit
The earth is my page
Aged by existence
But its blank- nothing
Is untouched but the trees
Seized to write

The way of the world
Hurled me into a whole
Hole of conformation
Molded my cognation to believe
And perceive that the difference
Is an inference between women and girls

Dream and women don’t
Live in fantasies but
Face reality through silent
Understanding manning the being
Seeing but never freeing
The light in my throat
Matches the words I never wrote

To my daughter’s mother
Another letter to explain
That I am not a woman
But a poet peeling a persimmon
To reveal the golden core
Adored by girls around the world
Dare to dream it seems

That if to be a woman is to give
Up the most beautiful something
Than I’d rather have nothing
But my pen and paper
Taper but I am unfazed
And raised by the notion
Of never being a poet for
I am a poette.

interlinked

souls twirling in a dance
on chance- we met
our eyes the keys
unlocking the willow trees- perched

upon the hill- filled
a gap between us grows
apart from galaxies of light
gleaming citrine, mauve, azure- sure

shine upon skin- akin
flames burning blood
rushes through bodies not souls
in the stars- molten gold
hardens to keys

of maple
traveling far far away
to partake in a universal dance
on chance- upon continents
on opposite ends of the same string
interlinked.

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2023

The Christine Curley Memorial Award for Creative Writing has been established by Christine’s parents to be presented annually to the students who display interest and potential in creative writing.

A faculty committee has chosen

Cristiane Richardson

to receive this year’s award.

Bagged Oats

Inspired by “Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou

Some oats slide into a bowl.

They soak in milk and sugar,

Mixed with care and attention.

Their flavor and texture are delightful –

Sweet, creamy, and puffy –

As they pervade my mouth,

Claiming my admiration.

But other oats remain in the bag.

They crack from dehydration.

They are flat, thin, and small,

Their flavor lackluster.

They are tasteless and their skin is dry,

So they shuffle and dance around.

They dance,

They fly,

They jig,

They glide.

Never has a bag of oats seemed so energized.

Some oats dazzle with cinnamon.

They swell with love,

Cherishing their time in the spotlight.

They tan and warm up in the oven;

Toasty is their flavor.

As they cover a dollop of strawberry jam

They make the plate their own.

But other oats lie still in their bag.

They roll over each other and sag.

They sit, wanting the light.

They sit, wanting the warmth.

They sit, dreaming of their own flavor.

They are tasteless and their skin is dry,

So they shuffle and dance around.

They dance,

They fly,

They jig,

They glide.

Never has a bag of oats seemed so energized.

IN MY HEART

Inside my heart there is a sacred place. One can discover the candy red walls and high arches and be humbled. One can discover the deep red marble floor and feel grounded. One can discover the back rooms and center room (or the drawing room) saturated with warm, dim light, and feel at ease. One can discover the soft, candy red, velvet-covered lounge chases and enveloping egg-shaped chairs and feel comforted. One can see, almost at the wooden, burgundy, arching front door, the round glass table with flecks of various shades of red and a silver platter of jam cookies sitting in the middle of it, discover the chairs with backs of black-painted metal, configured into a soft diamond shape under an arch, with candy red cushions on the seats, and feel welcomed.

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2022

The Christine Curley Memorial Award for Creative Writing has been established by Christine’s parents to be presented annually to the students who display interest and potential in creative writing.

A faculty committee has chosen

JEremy laparl

to receive this year’s award.

EL Camino

I used to wonder what it feels like.

There were endless possibilities

on what it would be.

Was it at the coffee shop?

I wondered.

Was it to be found in a swirl of

endless artificial flavors which would

all add up to what you call a

“Venti American Pie Frappuccino?”

Now the flavors had tasted real at first,

but once I had a closer look, almost every flavor

that you promised me was real in this coffee,

turned out to be fake.

The more I drank, the more I realized,

and I wish I would have found out sooner

that everything you told me about how authentic

this drink was, about how good it tasted, about

how it was worth the money, was all a false

reality.

Since that day, I’ve never gone to a coffee shop.

It reminnds me of just how fake things in life can be.

Okay, so it definitely wasn’t felt in the coffee shop.

What about at that steakhouse?

I wondered.

We both got the “Top of the line,

Extra most-fabulous, Can’t beat it,

New York Strip Steak!”

Or at least, that’s what they

called it.

To be honest, it didn’t just live up to

the name, it exceeded it!

I thought it was perfect.

The seasoning was just right,

the taste was outstanding,

and it was cooked to a perfect

medium rare, just like I asked.

It was everything I had ever wanted

in a steak, and

I loved it.

But you; you didn’t love it.

You liked it.

Or at least, you said you did.

But most people usually finish

food they like.

They’ll even take it to go if they’re

not hungry enough to finish it.

You didn’t.

And the thing is, you were hungry;

just not for steak.

You wanted a burger,

a slice of pizza,

a pulled pork sandwich,

maybe even seafood,

and whatever else it was

that you said you craved.

Just steak wasn’t one of them.

I ended up paying a whole lot for

your uneaten dinner that night.

Now, at first, I’d never thought I’d

be able to find it at a car dealership.

Still in debt from the steakhouse,

I walked into the shop with little

to no expectations in

finding anything at all;

and then, I saw her.

El Camino.

Made in 1979.

Now, she wasn’t perfect.

Her once sleek crimson red color

had faded quite a bit.

She had bumps and bruises

all over her.

And I was told her windshield was

broken beyond repair,

yet the closer I looked at it,

it was just cracked.

Even I was hesitant to take

her for a test drive at first,

and for good reason.

The ride was bumpy, at the start,

and we hit a lot of roadblocks.

I almost went back to the dealership,

and thought it was time to give up

on her.

I was seconds away from the dealership,

and just then,

the wheel got a bit easier to control.

And so I thought to myself,

“Maybe she’s not so bad.”

So, I drove past the dealership.

All of the sudden, it was as if

the on cracks windshield slowly

fixed themselves, onne by one,

Making the view as clear as day.

And every time I put my foot on the

gas, the ride felt smoother and smoother,

so smooth that I floored it.

All the way home.

I used to wonder what it felt like.

But the day I took that car for a ride,

I didn’t have to wonder anymore.

I found out.

I know now.

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2021

The Christine Curley Memorial Award for Creative Writing has been established by Christine’s parents to be presented annually to the students who display interest and potential in creative writing.

A faculty committee has chosen

Eva Hymes & Veda Nandikam

to receive this year’s award.

I Believe In What Babies Laugh At

Eva Hymes

I believe in what babies laugh at 
The glance of a stranger
The peek of an eye behind a hand
The gentle passing of white dragons across the sky.

Nothing complex, nothing worthwhile,
Just the slight of a moment and the captivating air it possesses.

I believe in blowing away dandelions 
Sending wishes into the wind and taking moment to hope that something is listening
Letting fairies and dust and magic exist for mere seconds because there’s no reason not to.

I believe in early mornings and sunrises
Our center blending with the clouds,
Creating an irreplicable watercolor above our heads.
The silence of the streets and the groans of morning dew
Moments of solace, loneliness,
Like the world was created for you.

I believe in what babies smile about
The simplicity of not understanding
The touch of another
And believing that you, alone, can create the world

The Fog

VEDA NANDIKAM

poseidon’s horses gallop along the Jetstreams
         Waves breaking as their hooves hack against the hills
there is no holding back the overflowing banks like
                     rivulets of Lava meandering down to the streets

yet this new city stands stronger than pompeii
          the Fire threatens to blind but not to burn the souls
that gaze at this mysterious cadeau 
                     waiting on the cooling streets

the sky foam pirate ships sail through the murky Waters
          past towers that could block the Sun from kailash
only to be cut apart by the iron strings holding together the bridge 
                     connecting two sides of the Canyon splitting the streets

what would it take? for someone to surf those waves
          alongside the jockeys and the pirates
To fly in such an incandescent manner
                   that their jubilant cries would resonate through the streets