Monday, October 27, 2014

Society of Last Hope

Short Story by Shari Allison of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction

This group sits in a circle. I hate circles; maybe it is because it’s the unhealthy mix of a childhood game combined with the intrusive familiarity of needy adults. Whatever the reason, the blend equals a cake made with tablespoons of salt and baking soda instead of teaspoons. Truly cringe worthy. Still, I take a seat because all my other options are gone.

A lot of people say that you earn a seat here, I feel more like I paid for mine. Based on the looks of the chair, I’d say I got ripped off. There is a slit in the plastic surface right in the center of the bottom cushion. The indentations tell me that all the butts before me didn’t appear to mind sitting on a chair whose stuffing had long ago escaped. Where ever that stuffing is, I’m sure it is in a better place than I am. Regardless, I take a seat. Instantly I’m reminded that the cushion is on vacation.

To distract myself from the others who are starting to gather I look at my hands. They are dry and cracked, I really should take better care of them. The hangnails are discouraging, but the real worry about my hands is that they are shaking. It is a movement I’ve become accustom to, and have learned to work around. I have coffee. It’s not in one of those Styrofoam cups built to withstand heat and unintentionally designed to outlive the human race. My trembling fingers would quickly distribute that cup’s contents onto myself, the floor, and any neighboring party who happened to walk by. No. There is no way I am going to embarrass myself by that potential. I brought decaffeinated coffee from home in a Bubba cup. A great big purple and stainless steel container with a spill resistant lid. They didn’t specifically advertise the canister for my particular ailment, but it works.

From the corner of my eye I can see the donated yard-sale type chair to my right has now become occupied. The intrusion begins. It is no longer me sitting in a circle of miss-matched chairs. People are moving toward the circle, it makes me think of the salty cake and I visibly cringe. I can feel the body heat of strangers pressing in on me. There is a rush of movement, smells, noise, all pushing in against my isolated musings. They move with purpose, and a desire to translate their time spent here as accomplishing an objective. My goal is more closely related to survival.

The neighbor to my right says something. A cloud of stench wafts by me. Bourbon, I think. It’s hard to say, my olfactory capacity is breached. The smell of coffee, old furniture, and perfumed bodies has drowned-out my identifying facilities. It doesn’t really matter anyway. A few drinks before coming here seems saner than coming stone-cold sober. Sadly I’ve missed the open window of opportunity to dilute my mental acuity to an oblivious state. I get to take it all in, including everything I don’t want.

“Okay everyone, it is time to get started. Please come in and take a seat.” Instructs a female voice.

I continue to stare at my hands. I’m not here to make friends.

“Now, you are all here for the same reason. You are probably thinking to yourself, that the last thing you want to do is make friends, but I will warn you—it is the people in this room who will help you to reach your goal.” I’m beginning to hate our mindreading leader already.

“We will take a break in thirty minutes. I will sign report cards at the break after you submit for the blood test. We test for drugs, alcohol, tobacco and alike. No blood test, no signature.”

There is mumbling in the room and several people including the guy to my right, get up and leave. Club rules state no alcohol. I abided.

“Okay,” starts up our leader after the brief interval, “now that those who are serious are left, we can begin tonight’s meeting of the Broken Hearts Club.”

I want to leave. To escape from this joke of coercive assembly. The problem is they hold my life in their hands, and my survival depends on any whim they set.

“You are here because your lifestyle puts you at risk. Doctors don’t like to give hearts to people who don’t take care of them.” I can feel her eyes sizing up the group. “This program will keep you on the donor list. If you stop attendance for any reason other than hospitalization, you lose your priority status.”

Determination forces me to adjust my butt in the cushion-less chair for the long haul.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Circa 2003

Short Story by John Schneider of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention

A supermarket parking lot
In Newbury Park was my office
I sat saturated with
Careless ennui in the morning sunlight
That warmed my car's interior
Looking at letters to send, counting my change

When I saw them
Two unselfconscious lovers
Cuddling nuzzling
Head to head, head to neck
Face to chest

Oblivious to many nearby
Walking or sitting or driving or existing
On foot or in clever
Wheeled or fixed boxes
Careless of the couples
Public, unashamed amour

A tree branch spanning high
Over market's wall
Was their lovers' perch
On swaying twig-tip they stood close
Two crows engaged in airy foreplay

Ignorant of us ignorant to them

In their bliss

Monday, October 13, 2014

The Rosary

Short Story by Amanda Taylor of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - 2nd Place for College Fiction

I think about death every day. I don’t know if that makes me terribly normal or just plain morbid. I guess neither of those reasons are anything to be proud of, so what’s the use in deciding? I don't care about what happens to me after I die-I’ll have to face it myself and find out for sure. What concerns me is the deadline. I wonder if I'll get snuffed out like a candle before I'm able to get married or see my children grow up. Will my good works add up in the end or will my wrong turns define my life? My great-grandfather died last October and his loss has barely begun to sink in. I knew him from his 70s on and although I knew he would eventually die, part of me felt he was an exception. He was the only father I’d known for most of my life and was a constant source of fascination. He had lost all his teeth in World War II and never wore a set of dentures for the rest of his life. I remember staring at him in disbelief when watching him crunch on tortilla chips or tear into a prime rib with nothing but his bare gums. I remember how he would kneel by his bed and pray for hours a day with his glow in the dark rosary and his prayer books, stained greasy brown by his crooked, wrinkled fingers. I thought that rosary was the greatest. Even though anything glow in the dark is a marvel when you’re eight-years-old, my grandpa’s rosary made me believe in God, the saints and maybe even Santa Claus. My grandpa was the one who took me to church as a child I remember how much I wish I could say my prayers with that rosary that lit up like my Jurassic Park poster at night. The first time I walked into his room after he died, I spotted the long forgotten rosary strewn across his night stand. I grabbed it in my hand and felt the beads shift between my fingers. I could feel the grit, deposited by years of feverish whispers and kisses, that was forever trapped between the joints between the beads. What used to be a coveted treasure suddenly lost all its former glory. It felt so utterly cheap because at that moment what I wanted more than anything was my grandpa, the person who drove me to school and played cards with me, to be alive. Instead, all I have is this odd relic of a life I will never fully understand. At that moment, I felt the full weight of his loss that I didn’t feel when I kissed his cheek as he drew his last breaths. I felt the full weight of that shame because at the moment he left this world, I was more concerned with my own life than his death. When I'm dead, will anyone hold my most prized possession and realize that I was the treasure worth keeping?

Monday, October 06, 2014

The 20th Year


Poem by Korinza Shlanta of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - 2nd Place for College Poetry

How my soul is filled with trepidation,
And my path seems covered by growth
Or perhaps it's the dilapidation
Or even just the loss of my own oath.
How I swore to be better and achieve
My dreams in quick strides, but my pace is slow.
In my twentieth year I shall not grieve.
I have time ahead, so little in tow.
A decade ahead, a decade behind,
Fewer seasons seem to pass before me.
Yet, I learn to shape my body and mind
From my thoughts into actions you can see.
I will clear my own path with my own thought.
A path for me I follow not for naught.