Monday, November 14, 2016

2016 Met Awards: Honorable Mention Fiction

Editor's note: In addition to this year's first and second place winning entries in college fiction, we received many other stories that we felt were worthy of publication.  What follows are two of the selections: 


Backfire
Fiction by Bailey Crocoll, 
Honorable Mention Fiction--2016 Met Awards


They told us that they would change the way the world saw war forever.

"A weapon in a league of its own," they proclaimed, virtuous smiles plastered across their faces. Many bought into the idea, willingly throwing their support towards the proposed advancement. Others were skeptical, calling the weapons "immoral," "evil," unethical." Yet their shouts were unheard, buried beneath the pedestal of golden promises. They weaved their way into any crack they could find, aiming to convince the population that their cause was just. They brought the weapons into the schools; showed them to crowds of eager children, spoke of the glory our country would experience with the use of these weapons. "Brainwash," some accused, jutting fingers at the scientists that created them. The suits and ties shook hands, spoke words smooth as silk, and flashed artificial smiles at the hoards of flashing cameras. Eventually they lulled the country into a false sense of security. Those that opposed never even stood a chance.

"Beneficial advancements," the head scientist at Bellum Genetics proclaimed, sidestepping to let the audience and cameraman get a clear shot of the weapon. Lithe limbs, a frame curved with bulging muscles, two piercing eyes brimming with intelligence. Applause rippled across the room, praise for the animal that stood attentively on display. A German Shepherd—or what used to be one—pants gently, appraising the crowd with a cocked head and perked ears. "German Shepherds are used and preferred by the police force for a reason. According to Stanley Coren, a neuropsychological researcher, German Shepherds rank as the third most intelligent dog breed. With only five repetitions, 95% of the Shepherds were able to obey a command. Coupled with their exceptional strength, they are bred for combat," the scientist pauses to let the audience absorb his words, he licks his lips.

"And with the help of today's science, we are presented with the extraordinary opportunity to strengthen their assets." A hand pops up in the audience. Slightly annoyed by the interruption, the scientist clears his throat and gestures toward the woman to speak.

"You're referring to the modification of the animal's genes, correct?" She asks, staring at him with an undiluted doubt weighing in her voice.

"Simply put, yes," he responds dryly. The woman hastily scribbles on her notepad. "We can alter the mammal's genes before their birth. Making them stronger, faster, and more intelligent. They can be used for wars, you see. They breed quickly, they train and learn at a rapid pace. With these animals working alongside our soldiers, we will save countless lives." Several snickers rise up from the audience, skeptical whispers are exchanged.

The scientist purses his lips, "You doubt these animals?" The audience falls under a hush. He forges on unfazed, "you can see that this subject here is larger and more muscular than the average dog," he gestures to the animal. "His cranium has actually been enlarged to enable a stronger jaw, raising the force of their bite from a pound-force of 238 to a pound-force of 975, comparable to a grizzly bear, enough to crush a bowling ball."

No one is laughing now. On a cue the lights in the room dim, leaving a spotlight centered over the animal and another over a mannequin. The crowd shifts from foot to foot nervously. A single word is uttered over a loud speaker and suddenly the animal is bounding across the room at an unimaginable pace towards the dummy. Within seconds the mannequin's ballistic gel head is sent tumbling down towards the rows of agape spectators.

We live in a world of fear now, filled with solitude and uncertainly. They bred hundreds of them. Thousands of those modified beasts. At first they worked flawlessly, eliminating thousands of wartime enemies and saving the lives of countless soldiers. So naturally, that wasn't enough for the scientists at Bellum Genetics. They were hungry for more. The animals were bred across the country, for wars, for the police force, to stand guard out front of schools and social events. Crime rates dropped dramatically. Blinded by the praise illuminating the subject, no one suspected that the animals would turn. No one guessed that the animals would stop obeying orders. No one had anticipated that the animals would breed to be increasingly intelligent. No one suspected that the most dominant alphas would want to lead their own packs rather than be lead by humans.

I'm jerked awake from a fitful sleep. I sit up, rubbing the haze from my eyes and strain to hear whatever it was that woke me. My younger sister is asleep on the couch beside me, buried beneath a pile of quilts. My mom, sister, and I fled the city at the first signs of chaos, heading towards the mountains. When Bellum Genetics' program started going south, their overly intelligent animals began escaping...overrunning neighborhoods, towns, and eventually entire cities. At first people waved dismissive hands while the bronze newscasters assured us that there was nothing to worry about. The death toll rose and the animal's population was increasing and still we were assured that, "humans are the dominate species, the top of the food chain, nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing at all, folks." The warning from the Emergency Broadcast System has been frozen on our television screen for almost three weeks now.

There's a scuffle from somewhere outside. I squint through the dim light of the room we all share. My heart stutters in my chest as I realize the mattress that my mom usually sleeps on is empty, blankets thrown back. Slowly, I rise and cross the room, my socked feet whispering across the scarred wooden floor. I try to peek through the boards that barricade our windows. I see only darkness. The rifle that is usually mounted above the door is gone, the front door unbolted. When did she leave? I never even heard the door unlock. Warnings thrum through my mind, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I glance back at where my sister lays, peaceful in her oblivion. Biting my lip, I pat my side to where my pocketknife hangs on my waistband. My only weapon.

Steeling myself, I cautiously rotate the knob to meet the frigid breeze that comes sweeping in. Eyes watering against the cold, I let my socks sink into the dewy grass outside. The darkness is suffocating, swallowing any signs of my mother. I tentatively call out her name, letting my words hang in the air, mingle with the chirp of crickets and the babble of the brook. I venture forward, farther from the comfort of the room behind me, and into the looming shadows of the trees. The moment I step into the tree line I know that I've made a mistake. I can hear their labored breathing, the stench of their breath, the ice of their eyes staring at me. Blood running cold, I hear their growls reverberating through my shivering body.

They were right. They would change the way the world saw war forever. ­­­­­



A Cloud of Ash
Fiction by Joshua GleasonHonorable Mention Fiction--2016 Met Awards


She went and did it again. He guesses he shouldn’t be so surprised, it’s not the first time. There was that time on Halloween she had promised to take him trick-or-treating. She didn’t She showed up at grandma’s when he was finished. She stayed only for a few minutes then decided to leave, but helped herself to his best candy because she knew he wouldn’t say no. Typical. Then, there was that time he got an award at school. His grandma made him call her and tell her. She acted excited. She promised she would show up. Unfortunately, she did show up this time. His stomach fluttered with embarrassment as she fell over chairs and talked over everyone. He pretended like he didn’t even know her but she kept calling his name louder and louder waiting for a response. Today is different though. He needed her today. He waited hours for her in the rain before deciding to walk home. It was unforgiving and relentless, just like her. He walk in the door soaking wet thinking today is the day I tell her how I really feel, but I know it’s going to make me cry. He can see her on the other side of the living room and his heart starts to race. For some reason he hesitates. He wants to scream at her so badly and tell her that she is a horrible person for treating me the way she does. He walks up behind her chair slowly as he built up the courage to say something, knowing it will be hurtful. Its time however. You know, this is why I live with grandma, he says, it's days like today when I wish I didn’t have to deal with you. He waited for a response but heard none. He figured he must have hurt her. For some odd reason his body is tingling with triumph. He now has the confidence to keep going. You are never there for me, never have been, never will be, he says. I will grow up and you will never see me again. I will never talk to you once I leave this place unless you can show me that you love me or at least care. Once again he hears nothing but the sound coming from the infomercials on the television. He says, is that it? Really? You can’t even say that you love me? What a worthless piece of trash you are he says with a heaving chest. His breathing so rapid he starts to see white spots. His emotions were pouring out his mouth like a bad taste that he couldn’t scrape off his tongue. It wouldn’t go away and he wouldn’t stop. I know you’re on drugs, I don’t know why you even try to hide it, and you looked so stupid when you came to my awards ceremony, he says. This is why I live with grandma, because your pathetic. And still he hears no response. In an instant, he grabs the ashtray off the table and throws it across the living room, creating a cloud of ash and breaking the television. As he stands there, panting like a ravaged dog when he realizes that he is better than this anger. His grandma had always raised him to be a bigger person and to always look for the good in people. He couldn’t find the good in her anymore though. All he found was constant disappointment. As he stands there, letting his blood settle, he looks for a broom to clean up the mess. He finds one, walks across the room to clean his mess, sobbing. He can’t believe that after all that she has nothing to say. She just sat there looking at the shattered television with no word leaving her. Only a blank stare. He walks over to her and can see that needle sticking out of her arm. He thinks to himself, she is too high to understand what I’m even saying. He looks back and with one final glance, a sense of peace comes over him as he knows only good things can come from a future without this horrid, self-destructive person in his life. I’m sorry it had to be like this he says, I hope you have a wonderful life. He left, never to see his mother again. And she never left her chair.





Monday, November 07, 2016

Trust

Creative Non-Fiction by Kaitlin Pearson
Second Place for College Creative Non-Fiction-- 2016 Met Awards



Silently she sat, watching as the land rolled by beyond the windows of the bus. The headphones in her ears blasted an eclectic choice of music – one moment country artists, the next rap or heavy metal, always bouncing between genres, no two similar songs in a row. Her foot twitched and bounced, picking up speed and intensity as the bus got nearer to its destination. Long before she arrived, her leg was tired and sore. She could feel the tears welling in her eyes, threatening to spill over. As the bus finally pulled into the station, she gathered her belongings, stuffing her headphones into her purse as she readied herself to disembark. As she glanced out the window, she felt the breath leave her body.

He was sitting on the bench, calmly writing in his notebook, seemingly unaware of the arrival of the bus. She took a deep breath, forcing back the hot wetness that began to spill across her cheeks. She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand as people pushed by her to get out of the hot, stale air inside the bus. She forced her breathing to even out as she stepped into the aisle, straightening her skirt as she prepared to step off. She vowed to herself that she would remain calm, cool, and collected, trying her best not to let him see exactly how deeply their time apart was affecting her. She took the first step with grace and composure… Not that it lasted. The moment the path between them cleared, a small squeal leapt from her throat and she launched herself headlong across the short distance.

She threw herself against him, tears in her eyes for the umpteenth time that day, emotion tightening her throat. She flung her arms around his neck, stifling a sob. Instead, she managed to choke out a single word – “Mine.” – as she buried her face against his neck. He gave a warm chuckle as he wrapped her in a hug, enveloping her in his warm embrace with a one-word, muttered response – “Hi.”

“Mine…” she murmured again, softer this time. Her purse slid from her shoulder, dropping to the bench beside him. He left one arm wrapped around her as he used the other to move the notebook from his lap to set beside her purse on the bench.

“I love you,” she choked.

“I love you, too.”

“I missed you so much…” This almost a whine.

“I know… I’m sorry. I missed you, too.”

She sighed contentedly, then buried her teeth in his shoulder. He inhaled sharply, but otherwise didn’t flinch. He knew better. Pulling away would only cause more pain and make it unpleasant. Besides, if he was being honest with himself, he had missed this expression of her love, too. He let her hold on for a moment longer before speaking again.

“Enough,” he said sternly. Then, softly, “Let go now, pet.”

She hesitated a moment, not quite ready to let go, but then obeyed the order with a quiet whimper. She straightened up, and he graced her with a smile. It was so genuine! It made her heart leap and race in her chest, once more causing her breath to lodge behind the emotion in her constricted throat. Had she been born with a tail, it would have wagged madly.

She took a step back to give him space to stand. He did, pulling her once more into a strong embrace. She nuzzled against his chest. She had never known what it was like to trust so fully, so completely in a partner; she reveled in it with every chance she could. She loved the way he always made her feel so safe, so warm, so cared for, but still knew how to play his role to perfection. She would want for nothing more in her life than his desire for her.

She gave a contented sigh. He smiled and kissed the top of her head – it was these little moments, when she did things she was entirely unaware of, that meant the most to him. For it was in these moments that she let her guard down and really became herself, allowing him to see who she really was – the sweet, loving woman behind all the trauma and fear, the one very few people were allowed to see. He knew she was far from perfect – she came to him with baggage dragging behind her. But to him, she was perfection, and he hoped to help alleviate some of the weight that her baggage dragged. For so long as he loved her, he would never let such things affect her again. He was determined to be her protector, her Master. He vowed to do whatever it took to earn that trust from her.

For now, they had all they needed in each other. They would worry about the future at a later time, when it became necessary. But for today, being together, just having each other, was enough.




Monday, October 31, 2016

Time After Time Toys Break

Poetry by Devanne Fredette of Cerro Coso Community College
Honorable Mention for College Poetry--2016 Met Awards



Click Clack

Pieces Pieces

They break 

Crash. Smack



Are they toys?

Red Red

As sweet as strawberries

Fills them, eyes and hair.



I don’t understand 

Nor do they,

This is what mother wanted

And I won’t have it any other way.



Are they dead?

Toys they are

No matter how much they scream, no matter how much they break

This is what mother wanted 



And I won’t have it any other way.

Monday, October 24, 2016

Like You Said You Would

Poetry by Izabella Carter of Burroughs High School 
2nd place for high school poetry--2016 Met Awards


The smoke rose and the fire danced into the chimney.

Hot chocolate burned my lips, while brandy burned yours.

I watched your sweet face, aglow from the firelight,

A smile played on your features when you caught me staring.

An arm pulled me close, nestling me into your side,

I closed my eyes, expecting you to hold me close.


                    Like you said you would.


Like the smoke from the fire, you dissipated into the winter air.

Instead of tasting brandy on your lips,

I tasted vodka on my own.

I swallowed the last of my glass, and the last of my loneliness.

Tears pricked my eyes when I stood,

Teetering on drunken feet.

A bed awaited me, and I swear I could still smell you in the sheets.

The late nights of love making and drunken promises had passed.

I closed my eyes,

Expecting you to hold me close,

                    Like you said you would.


Moonlight passed over your side of the bed and I felt the absence of your presence.

Remembering the nights spent tangled together causes my heart to ache.

My lungs strained with the effort it took to breath,

I felt the ghost of your fingertips on my skin.

Feeling the effects of the vodka finally stir in my veins,

“How could you leave me?”

You told me you would love me, you told me you would stay,

How convenient that when I needed you most,

You aren’t here.

Your love was gone and so were you.

You didn’t stay,


                    Like you said you would.



Contributor's note: I'm Izabella Carter, better known as Izzy.

I'm 15 years old and have lived in Ridgecrest all of my life;

although I'm young, I've experienced tragedy but also, extreme

happiness (the tragedy in relation to the creation of my works).

I enjoy hiking, photography, writing poetry, and striving to meet

my goals.

Monday, October 17, 2016

Yes

Poetry by Jennifer Jones of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd place for College Poetry-2016 Met Awards

You bring up Colombia and Korea,
“Maybe we can go there together someday,
in five years or so.”
You talk about meeting the only girl for you before leaving
this country.
And I think,
I’d just get in the way.
Your messages sound too much like goodbye letters.
I say I’m so happy.
So proud.
Really.
You say a knight in shining armor will come rescue me someday.
You say you might be leaving
this summer.
You say it twice as if I’ll forget.
I say a knight will just get in the way.
I should have said yes.

Monday, October 10, 2016

Rot

Fiction by Ray David Morales of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd Place for College Fiction-2016 Met Awards

The damp beige brick wall with red trim was slowly numbing his buttocks as he dialed his brother again.

PLEASE LEAVE A MESSAGE AT THE SOUND OF THE BEEP. He hangs up angrily.

He sighs as he struggles from the wall and drags himself up the driveway to try the door again. Locked. Walking back down the drive he turns and stares at the two-story house that shares the same paint job as the low brick wall surrounding its lawn, the lights from his brother’s room and the guest room glaring from the windows facing the street. He looks around the cul-de-sac. All had the same color, same brick wall, and the same solitary dying tree planted firmly in the front yard. The street, like all suburban neighborhoods in his experience, was eerily quiet. He missed the constant flow of night traffic. Shivering as the mist brought on by the evening rain penetrates his work clothes, he is about the dial his brother again when something brushes across his leg. It dives under his sedan. Startled he gingerly walks to the edge of the curb and kneels. The faint orange glow of the street lamp does little to help him see under the vehicle. “What he f-” Suddenly a Rottweiler bursts out from under the car. “Son of a-” He jumps back, trips over the knee-high wall, and falls to the wet grass landing square on his back. Lying winded, the Rottweiler is at his face within seconds.

The door has a trick to it, if you shut it too hard you’ll lock yourself out.

Then the Rottweiler begins to lick him. He spits at the dog. He stands up, the Rottweiler licking him through the motion. After dusting himself off, he takes a closer look at the dog. The Rottweiler has a collar, an owner. He looks up at the house staring blankly back at him with its yellow eyes. Maybe I’ll look around for this guy…or grateful girl. He could get to know the neighborhood, interact with the neighbors. He opened his car and took a shoelace from a work boot he found in one of the cardboard boxes. He ties it to the Rottweiler and is about to close the door when he decides to get what he had originally come outside for.

With full comprehension of his own stupidity, he took a stick of gum from the pack he pulled out and walked down the hushed sidewalk, Rottweiler in hand. Immediately it tries to pull him down the block, but he decided he would be systematic about the process. He walks up to the first door.
“Hello, ummm, I found this dog, is it yours?”

“Yeah this dog was walking down the street, I was wondering if it belonged to you…”

“This your Dog?”
The next door had an exaggerated bell that the residents seemed to like to let ring to its completion. A hopefully grateful girl answered the door.

“Oh hey, I found this Rottweiler a couple blocks away, so I decided to look for its master…” Nailed it he thought.

Awwww that’s sweet-”

Then a man walks up from behind, embraces her and gives her a hope-killing caress.

“What’s up Babe?”

He walks home tugging on the dog, as he had throughout his search. The Rottweiler whimpered with each pull. He stops in his tracks. Stupid.

He lets the dog lead him. The Rottweiler takes him past the two story houses with hazel colored lights blinking from living rooms and bedrooms. He leads him past the small park where teenagers do drugs during the long summers. He drives him through puddles, down a concrete path past all the lights of suburbia. His phone begins to ring. It’s his brother.

“Hello?”

The dog leads him to a drainage aqueduct shining and trickling with rainwater on the side of the trail. A worn Reebok sits overturned on its edge.

“What’s up?”

He looks down as the Rottweiler gets away from him and runs downs the sloped wall of the duct, barking wildly.

“Holy Shit”

At the bottom of the ravine lay an elderly man half submerged in the cold current, shaking violently, reaching out with a weathered hand.

“Call 911, I am at the ravine.”
“What?”

He drops the phone and sprints, splashing furiously through the murk. “I’m Here…I’m Here…”

The ambulance and police lights spin and flash seemingly simultaneously. Their cherry shine burning the dead weeds rolled over from their entrance. He was wearing a ridiculous, itchy blanket as we watched the old man be wheeled away on a gurney. They smiled trembling grins at each other as the doors closed. His brother is standing a couple feet away dressed in a two piece suit that either saw a long day at the office or a long night out. He has a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He laughs.

“When you roll into town you really roll in dontcha?”

He slaps him on the back and walks off to get more complementary coffee.

The officer takes his place.

“You know if you hadn’t shown up, no one would have found this man till morning.” The officer beams. “Good job kid.”

“What are you gonna do with his dog?” he asks, gesturing to the Rottweiler entertaining himself with a plastic bag next to the ambulance.

“Granddaughter said she’ll take him in the meantime.” explains the officer.

Sure enough, a grateful girl walks up with the Rottweiler and a smile.

“Hey there, is this your shoelace?”

“Ummm, yeah it is sorry…”

“Don’t be, I’m Emma.”

“Hi I’m…New in town.”



Monday, October 03, 2016

Musical Musings of a Midnight Bosnian

Creative Non-Fiction by Alex Tellez of Cerro Coso Community College
1st Place for College Creative Non-Fiction - 2016 Met Awards

I’m going to write the greatest pop album that will be remembered and revered by music enthusiasts and historians. This grandiose statement is something I repeat to myself on a daily basis. Often, I’ll find myself listening to the Beach Boys’ seminal Pet Sounds album and I’ll always in awe by the way Brian Wilson was able to create a harmonious web of songs that have transcended and stretched the boundaries of the pop genre for fifty years. From the moment you put on “Wouldn’t it Be Nice,” you know you’ve settled on to something other-worldy for its time. Wilson took it upon himself, having listened to the Beatles’ Rubber Soul album, to create an album that would surpass anything the Beatles – or anyone for that matter – could ever have anticipated. The result was an album that inspired generations of psychedelic-rock groups that would eventually pave way to the neo-psychedelic movements of the late-1990s. The fostering of those seeds in the musical fragment of history is something that inspires and fuels my desire to bend pop music to my will in ways that will be remembered.

When I write a song, I’ll often confront an emotion so abstract that the only way I can express it is through surreal imagery and nonsensical writing:

I’m walking to the moon
July’s on my mind as I talk to the never-ending June
My mind’s in a clutter of jamborees in the city
It tells me of a conscious life that I’m desperately needing
It tells me of a vision it saw
A nautical, blue silhouette.

I don’t write this stuff for the sake of joining words together. At the same time, though, I’m confronting these emotions in a way that lets the listener know that I’m in no mental capability of describing these emotions through concrete or upfront imagery. The emotion being expressed isn’t explicit, nor is it one that makes sense, but that’s what makes the writing speak out to me. Surreal lyricism requires the appropriate instrumentation to fit the tone; therefore, I will often apply diminished chords, unconventional chord progressions, sudden key changes, and jazz-fused rhythms, all tucked into ballads that depict things I feel that confuse and make me feel alive. I’ve been inspired to take this approach after extensive listens of Brian Wilson’s song "Surfs Up," a song that has kept many musical analysts in confusion upon attempting to decipher the meaning behind its lyrics.

Other sources of inspiration come from the Residents and Animal Collective. In a time when musical pop icons were becoming a staple of the music industry back in the 1960s, the Residents became the world’s first “anti-pop” stars that flared in anonymity and avant-guard musical approaches to music. Through their elaborate attempts to maintain their identities hidden, the Residents, under the veil of their iconic eye-ball masks, have founded a school of music that requires very little musical background in order to express subconscious ideas. Their approach to music often sounds nonsensical and cacophonous, but after repeated listens, the music has a hidden layer of genius to it.

Animal Collective, Baltimore’s neo-psych legends, inspired me in a time where I felt all the colors of world had left me. I’d been struggling with depression for a while and completely hated the idea of waking up to the same old routines of each day. The band had been under my radar for a while now, but every time I gave these guys a listen, I’d been underwhelmed by what I was listening to. However, in this moment of vulnerability, I experienced a plethora of colors and hues upon listening to Merriweather Post Pavilion, an album that many would consider to be a classic in the neo-psych genre. The opening track, “In the Flowers,” instantly gives you images of being envious of a dancer boy that gets to express themselves among the flowers without the troubles and pressures of society. The song starts out soft, adding layers of guitar and synths that are pinched with tremolos and other psychedelic effects. Two-and-a-half minutes later, lead singer Avey Tare sings the line:

If I could just leave my body for the night…

Unleashing a world of distorted images through a heavy usage of synthesizers and tribal drumming that has forever inspired me to continue forth with my musical endeavors. The album ventures through many emotions and often reflects back upon those moments in life where we leave behind our childhoods in order to adjust to society.

I approach my music knowing very well that people will get turned off by the unconventionality of the traditional pop-ballad. Then again, I don’t write for those people. I’m lucky enough to surround myself in an environment where my creative outlets aren’t constricted. I write for those that have that innate willingness to discard conventional trends in pop music and see my writing as a nod to those past musicians that have experimented with the form in ways that have defined a generation. I’d often walk around as a little boy coming up with melodies describing the world in front of me, even before I picked up my first instrument. I write because I know I’m good enough. I write because I’ve seen my writing evolve, and so have others. I’m going to write the greatest pop album ever written because I’ve always felt a call to make great things out of myself in music. One day I won’t have to say this because the work I leave behind in this life will speak for itself.

Monday, September 26, 2016

I have Known Loss

Poem by E. K. Heflin of Burroughs High School
1st Place for High School Poetry - 2016 Met Awards

I have ached away
a thousand lonely hours

I have dismantled myself with hope

When I imagine this ruthless heart
quitting you
cold

Like an addict
with a lease on life
ten years overdue

I cannot bring myself
to ache properly
I cannot bring myself
to try.

Monday, September 19, 2016

Snapshots

Poem by Alex Tellez of Cerro Coso Community College
1st Place for College Poetry - 2016 Met Awards

alongside the springs, who foster the roots,
doves of hues & explorations are
always there,
always lingering,
always waiting to enrapture us all, if just for the night.
~
on the eve of the apex, 
i asked myself if i was special
(yet that tore my heart)
and if i would feel true warmth
(it hurts less to disguise our ideas with baseness)
and if this still would last forever
(one can never find that interior balance between right and) real.
~
To follow the love of the heart and the
          moon is the ultimate experience
                    (for the moon’s shied her way into
                              the heart many, many times).
                                        Perhaps they laugh at our breakups,
                                                            our compulsions,
                                                                                our regressive tendencies to idolize;
                                        they know the shtick all too well.
But often, after the peak of drunkenness, they envy us, giving us nothing but snapshots.

Contributor's Note: This poem followed a heavy binge of e. e. cummings poems. The piece is modeled as a triptych depicting the moon and the heart in three realms of nature: the outer (physical), the inner (emotional), and the universal (philosophical).

Monday, September 12, 2016

Late

Flash Fiction by Erin "Ren" B. of Opportunities for Learning
1st Place for High School Fiction - 2016 Met Awards

I watch the clock, as it's hands reach up to touch the numbers. I wish that I could reach up to touch any part of you, but I can't.

The little hand passes the 2 for the tenth time since I've started watching. I'm reminded of all the two's I miss about you. Like your two eyes that sparkle when the sun hits them, or twinkle with the moon. Your two hands that hold tightly onto me, as if I was your only hope. Your two arms that entrap me, like a blanket. Your two legs that walk to me, or if needed, that run to me, when I feel alone.

The big hand moves closer to the 10. You were supposed to be here by now. But, I know why you aren't. Your ten toes don't wiggle anymore. Your ten fingers cannot grasp onto me anymore.

The clock strikes 12. Midnight. It's been a whole day since I lost you. Ironically enough, the prince lost Cinderella at midnight. The only difference is that I'm not a princess. And you aren't a prince. So, unlike prince charming, I won't get you back. There is no magical glass slipper to cure your absence. 

It's 1 am. It's funny how we call it morning when the sun is too sleepy to rise. I met you at 1 am a year ago. I would ask if you remembered, but I know you don't. You can't. After a long night of travel, I met you at the only coffee shop open. Your hair was too long, your body too lanky, and you were too forward with your behavior for me, a grumpy and weary traveler. But I gave you a shot anyways. And now, I'm not sure that I'm glad I did.

It's 2 am and I'm thinking about your two eyes, two hands, two arms, and two legs. I'm also reminded of your two tumors you never told me about. Or the two seizures you had in the hospital the night you left. I know it's selfish to hate those gone. But, I do.

Because, with all these numbers, you had, you had a multitude of chances to tell me the truth. And now I'm here picking up all the pieces from a boy who didn't give me enough minutes.

Contributor's Note: I like writing (especially fiction), reading, and playing piano. I wrote this piece, somewhat from experience, somewhat from imagination. I wanted to feel moved by what I wrote. I wanted to fall in love with my character and hate him all at once. Losing someone is hard. Losing someone unexpectedly can be infuriating. I wanted to incorporate those emotions into my work.

Monday, September 05, 2016

No More

Flash Fiction by Jessica Surgett of Cerro Coso Community College
1st Place for College Fiction - 2016 Met Awards

Life is messy. I get that. I know that nobody is perfect, people make mistakes, and forgiveness is a virtue. But as I stare at my boyfriend’s bare ass laying passed out drunk on our bed once again, I begin to see the gray areas in these statements. People make mistakes, but how many times do we have to forgive the same mistake? My normal mantras are no longer working. The more I try to grasp at them, the more they slip through my fingers and float away. I want to float away with them. I peel my eyes from his prone figure, and they settle on the vomit covered clothing sitting in a pile on the floor. The ones I wrestled him out of before he collapsed into his blissful darkness. Life is messy, but I’m sick of being his maid.

Very carefully, I pick up the soiled clothes and make my way to the washing machine in the hallway. I pour in the detergent and watch as the water rises, slowly covering all evidence of his latest “setback.” He’ll wake in the morning and tell me how sorry he is; how he didn’t mean it. He’ll use sweet words and those big blue eyes to convince me not only that he is fine, but that part of this is my fault, too. He’ll tell me how I can help prevent this from happening again; how it was something I said that set him off. He’ll nurse my wounds so sweetly, covering every bruise with kisses and every insult with proclamations of love. He’ll lay out each word so carefully I won’t be able to see them twisting until the noose is already wrapped around my neck, choking out the last of my arguments.
Except, this time will be different. This time he’ll wake in the morning to nothing but an empty house and clean clothes. This time I’ll be gone before he has a chance to change my mind. I return to the bedroom and take one last look at his sleeping form. He’s completely naked, one leg hangs off the bed, and there’s a puddle of drool the size of his fist gathering on the navy bedspread. He looks so innocent in this moment; so helpless. I quickly turn and head for the living room before the guilt can set in. I’ve made my decision. No turning back.

As I grab the duffel bag I packed earlier from the couch, my sleeve moves up and my eyes catch on his fingerprints painted in purple on my wrist. I pause. The violet blooms are almost beautiful, much prettier than the ugly yellow-green color they’ll become. I pull down my sleeve and shake the thought from my head. It’s not beautiful. It’s a bruise. A physical reminder of his rage and my fear. I squeeze my eyes shut. This is not beautiful. Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I’m surprised by it’s weightlessness. This bag holds everything I own, do I really have so little to my name? It’s so light, yet it feels heavy with the weight of my decision as I carry it out the door. I imagine my guilt and confusion tucked inside next to my socks and underwear.

The steps are slick with ice, and I worry that my beat up hatchback won’t start as I carefully pick my way through the frosted patches of weeds. Saying a prayer, I climb into the car, close my eyes, and turn the ignition. It takes three cranks and a moment of panic, but the engine starts. I release the breath I was holding and realize I’m shaking. It’s cold, but that’s not the cause. My heart pounds in my chest, and though my breath swirls from my lips in little white puffs, I’m sweating. I feel terrified and exhilarated all at once. I’m really doing this— finally doing this. Taking deep, measured breaths, I wait for the car to heat up and focus on the trailer in front of me. In. Out. My head spins as my lungs struggle in my chest. When did breathing become so difficult? When did everything become so difficult?

This will be the last time I ever see this place. I’ve never been so sure of anything. My resolve clears some of the fog from my mind and gives me strength. I look at the fingerprints on my arm again, the dark stains cast in sharp relief against my pale skin. No more.

No. More.

I squeeze the steering wheel as I let the refrain seep deep into my bones, the marrow thrumming with determination. From the safety of the car, I stare harshly at my former prison. The screen door is more holes than screen, and the bug zapper on the porch casts a green hue through the multitude of insect carcasses. I relate so much to those damn dead bugs. Lured in by beauty and extinguished by the same light. They’re trapped in there, but I refuse to stay trapped. I feel my anger rise, and then suddenly it’s as if all the emotions I’ve been burying for the past eight months are screaming to be released. Tears fall freely from my eyes and my shaking becomes almost violent. I want to release the scream tearing up my throat, but he’s still too close for that. I’m not far enough away from my fear yet. So I bite my lip and sob as quietly as I can, letting out a sliver of the anger and sorrow I’ve been hoarding. It tastes like copper. All the while the thrumming never ceases. It continues to pulse through my bones and give me the courage I need. I hold tight to it as I put the car in gear and give one last glare to the trailer before backing out onto the gravel road. No more.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

2016 Met Winners Announced

folded
Fiction

Cerro Coso
First Place
Jessica Surgett for "No More"

Second Place
Ray David Morales for “Rot”

Honorable Mentions
Bailey J. Crocoll for "Backfire"
Joshua Gleason for "A Cloud of Ash"
John L. Hunger for "Bottled Betrayal"
Anthony McFarland for "The Longest Day"
Ragen Shallock for "A Night to End All Nights"
Alas Tarin for "The Human Garden"
High School 
First Place
Erin Brown for "Late"

Poetry

Cerro Coso
First Place
Alex Tellez for "Snapshots"

Second Place
Jennifer Jones for "Yes"

Honorable Mentions
Jenna Daugherty for "Between the Pages"
Devanne Fredette for "Time After Time, Toys Break"
Nolan Havig for "Banana Leaves"
John L. Hunger for "Tattoo Tears"
Alas Tarin for "The Gravity of Gold"
High School
First Place
E.K. Heflin for "I have known loss"

Second Place
Izabella R. Carter for "Like You Said You Would"

Creative Non-Fiction

Cerro Coso
First Place
Alex Tellez for "Musical Musings of a Midnight Bosnian"

Second Place
Kaitlin Pearson for "Trust"