Nude

Fiction by Ashley Nicole Doerges

Honorable Mention for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

She picked the rosy red lipstick and then decided on the peachy nude instead. She grabbed the expensive lingerie from the pink striped bag and squeezed it on. She knew to wear this was truly only for the eyes before hitting the floor. It had only been a few hours since she had left his house covered in love when she had the idea. She spent the time she had to get ready perfecting her beauty for him. She wanted her hair to be nice even though she planned to be mostly in bed. She found a long thin cardigan that would wrap her surprise and completed her look with painful heels. She smiled at herself in the oval mirror before closing the door behind her as she went on her way.

Pulling into the driveway, the lights were all out and the grass was wet. Remembering she had perfume in her purse she searched for the purple bottle and then spritzed Love Spell on her neck and wrists before getting out of the car. She thought about how wild she was considering she never dared to do something like this before. Heading quietly into the house she left the jacket on the counter with her heels having decided the heels were too painful. She was already starting to turn slightly red in the face but excitedly walked through the dark of the home once hers. Suddenly, a woman’s bitter voice fired from the end of the dark hallway. Confusion rapidly pulsed through her mind and realization squeezed violently in her chest. She stood dripping in betrayal and then choked on her breath turning to leave. The sour woman was wearing closely as much as her in comparison to the sheer lingerie. The woman blared for an explanation as she darted through the darkness of the hallway. Without much thought, she decided it didn’t matter to expose the truth. Then he came down the hallway; she tried again to escape moving to leave. “Honey, she does stupid things like this trying to lure me; don’t be mad I would never do anything to hurt you,” he said to his sweet tarte.  She could feel her heartbreaking into jagged shaped middle fingers. Her body wanted to vomit profanities and lash out what he deserved. With a soft voice, “You don’t understand. You can’t come here dressed like that and throw yourself at me. Why do you have to be crazy!?” he said. With apology flickering in his eyes he looked to his sugary candy standing with triumph by the door and for a moment it was quiet.

Her mind circled with anger like sharks in this bloody situation, wanting to attack by telling him how stupid she felt for forgetting the past. She wanted to predict that he would always regret this moment. Her mind incinerated painfully through the things she wanted to say and do in that moment of silence. She decided it didn’t matter to anyone in that room. She smiled, shook her head and said, “Goodbye, you Fuckwit.”

About the Author

I am Ashley Douglas; I’ve trekked a long road at Cerro Coso taking only a few classes at a time being a full-time mom. I'm nearing my graduation and look forward to the next steppingstone. My piece is about a woman realizing she is betrayed by her significant other and coping with how to handle the situation.

To Sweetly Drown

Fiction by Crystal Schneider

Honorable Mention for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

Deeper and deeper he fell, yet it did not feel as though he was falling but instead drifting, drifting the way a golden leaf would glide on the fall winds. There is no control, no resistance he could muster. Like a leaf he was carried with no will of his own to stop this decent. Bubbles travel past him, up and up to the surface tickling and caressing his skin as they go, gathering like little moths to the light above that grew smaller and duller the longer he fell.

Was he dying?

Was this death?

He knows he should have been afraid; he knew as those precious bubbles escape between his lips that his time is dwindling. He had been a fighter at one point in his life, or so he would like to believe. He had been a man who survived twenty years in rat infested streets where a clever tongue and fast reflexes where more useful tools then pen and paper. He was a man who had survived seven years more on ships that rocked on tempest waves, with sails that bore black flags decorated with skulls and bones. He jumped onto decks burning with fire and fought men in red coats. He plundered riches meant for other men, men not capable or willing to fight to protect what was theirs.

He fought.

He survived.

Yet now when he should have fought his hardest, kicked and stretched out his arms to the surface that moved further and further way-- he could not. Not when, even in the distorted world that weakened his senses, he could hear the sweet humming melody that sunk its tune deep into his mind. He felt his body relax and betray him in its stupor.

The melody echoed in its distortion within the water and yet lost none of its honeysuckle like sound. With the wordless song came with movement in the darkened water, colors of hair he had only seen from the fairest of ladies drew his eyes away from the fading surface. From chestnut browns to marrown reds hair floated alop the heads of the creatures that bore human faces, each convaid lovely and fresh youthful smiles.

They circled around him, two then three, then four. Like dancers their fish like tails moved their bodies through the water in graceful motions alluring and deceptively sweet. Had they been sharks perhaps the fear of being eaten would have shaken him from his state yet, despite the predator eyes that watched him, inching closer and closer every time they made a circle around the descending man he did not feel his heart race nor his mind stirr from its clouded state.

It was not until he felt the pain burn in his chest and the bubbles that slipped from his lips stop did the graceful round movements of the creatures change. Jagged and fast in their motion they launched themselves towards him, teeth sharp and bard with claw like fingers steached. The closest with her onyx hair and stretched out her arm tearing through the water with no resistance slowing down her attack.

Yet the attack never met its attended target, instead the song’s melody fell away and so with it some of the fog that had covered his mind. Bursts of bubbles exploded around the area, blocking his view, yet he knew enough, even without his eyes, a fight was happening. From the scratches and hisses that echoed in their unhuman distorment the color of red burst and mixed with the curtain of bubbles. None of this mattered. Awakened from the spell, the man was no longer paid mind to the memory of the  melody and the lovely faces of women and their underworldly tails. None of that mattered to him. His own hands as if on instinct alone reached too his throat gripping at the burning crushing feeling that pulsed through his body.

He kicked at the waters, pushed at the invisible force that pulled him down. He was not going to die, he would fight. Posiden could have his graveyard of ships and other sailors but the ill tempered god of waves would not have him.

Yet the underwater world was deep and he had sunk so far into its embrace the will to fight dwindled.

A tug came to his leg and downward, this time with measured force, he was pulled away from the surface. Golden curls drifted before his face while his eyes fell on the face of the blue eyed woman, with her shimmering scales of blue and green that lined her jaw and cheeks, deep cuts of fresh wounds still bright red and bleeding. For a moment, in the hypnotic sight of the creature, the pain in his chest seemed to dull yet with it his vision began to tunnel blocking out the world around the femanin creature in a dark haze. It was only when the softness of lips touched his own did he feel his lungs expand and fill with the precious air that he had thought only the surface above the water could offer.

Latching onto the creature, to the woman, he took in all the air she offered him. When their lips finally broke so too did the water from around his head. Fresh air and heat from the sun's light fell on his drenched head while he took in as much air as his burning lungs would allow.

“Man overboard!” the call of a stranger fell through his ears ringing out over the sound of the turning waves. In a dull haze the man thought not about those on the ship that pulled him from the ocean's embrace nor gave any care to the blanket that was set on his shoulder nor did he pay any attention to the questions that were hurled at him from the various old sea men. His attention and his mind was lost, however, lost in the dark ways of the ocean and its melody.

About the Author

I am a single mother going to school at Cerro Coso Community college in Lake Isabella. I thoroughly enjoy writing and the creative process that goes into it. Fantasy is one of my favorite genres.  

When I Tell You

Poetry by Abigail Voigt

Honorable Mention for College Poetry - 2019 Met Awards

When I tell you “I love you,” it won’t sound like “I love you.”

When I tell you “I love you,” it will be in a glance I give you to make sure you are okay, only to find that you’ve fallen asleep next to me and “I love you” will be the gentle smile on my face because honestly I’m just thankful you can sleep.

When I tell you “I love you,” it will sound very similar to “did you eat?” and it will annoy you continuously for the next hour until you have succeeded to eat something, anything.

When I tell you “I love you,” it will be in the footsteps that follow you out of the slammed door and in the hands that I place on your back as I make sure you know you are wanted.

When I tell you “I love you,” it will look like fidgety hands and shifty eyes as I tell you the honest, uncomfortable truth that you have tried to ignore for so long.

“I love you” will sound like jokes on a bad day and stupid laughter at 5am after a long night of keeping you away from your thoughts.

It will look like a messed-up schedule. “I love you” will make me an hour late just so that you can tell me your fears and I can tell them to go away.

“I love you” will mess me up. It will leave me with tired eyes, annoyed friends, hurt feelings, and a bad reputation with time.

But, friend, you are worth that. You are worth everything.

Please though,

I beg that you tell me “I love you” too.

Blue Nail Polish

Fiction by Amy Cosner

Honorable Mention for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

The sky is gray above me. The lake is a mirror, reflecting the trees and mountains all around. There is a chill in the air, so I pull the wool blanket more tightly around myself. The woods are silent, as if all it’s inhabitants are waiting for the day to begin. It amazes me. That the sun still rises in the east. That the earth still turns on its axis. That life goes on for everyone else. My chest burns. My head aches. My heart throbs. I stare down at my bare feet, at the chipping blue nail polish. The knot in my throat won’t let up; I want to cry, yell, sob, but I'm too tired. Too drained to even stand. I need to sleep, but I won't. I wouldn't last night and I won't now. My sleep is tormented with nightmares and her face. Dreams of her voice and when I reach out for her, she vanishes and I wake more worn out than ever. Everyone is so worried. Avery begs me to sleep, pleads for me to eat. She doesn't understand that I can't. But how could she?
 
She means well. This trip was her suggestion. The woods have always cheered me before. I would eagerly anticipate our camping trips. Long for the smell of the trees and the soft dirt beneath my feet. We spent hours on the lake just the two of us. Gossiping about boys and giggling over the stupidest little things. This was my happy place, where I felt safe and free. I wish I could feel that way again. But I won’t. There are too many memories here. Too many campfires and too many hikes. Too many deer sightings and far too many nights spent stargazing.

The funeral was a week ago. I sat in a pew, wearing a black dress and a pearl necklace that she left behind. My father sat beside me. Tall and ridged. His knuckles white from clutching the bible in his hands. The service ended and everyone offered their condolences. I didn't hear a word. We went to the cemetery and I watched as the woman who sang me lullabies and taught me to bake cookies was lowered six feet underground. I dropped dirt into her grave. I broke.

She was in a car accident. The other driver was on his cell phone. There was a collision. She was alive and then she just, wasn't.

Everything happens for a reason. That's what everyone keeps saying, but I don't I buy it. What reason could there be that my mom isn't here with me anymore? That she's going to miss my graduation? That she won't be at my wedding? That she'll never meet her grandchildren? The world is sick, and cruel. That's the only explanation that makes sense. It still doesn’t.

We sat on my floor that last night, on the green shag carpet that I was always begging to get rid of. She sat cross-legged, with her hair up in a bun on top of her head and a bottle of blue nail polish in her hands because “Everyone wears red nail polish” and I wasn’t everyone. She gushed about how grown up I looked in my dress and reminisced about changing my diapers. I rolled my eyes.

Avery’s mom picked me up in her SUV and I waved, calling a quick half-hearted, ‘I love you’ over my shoulder. If only I could go back. I would hug her so tight, the way I used to as a kid and never let go. She would have never gotten into the car.

If I had agreed to spend the night with Avery, she would have never had to pick me up. I wouldn’t have stood outside the school for an hour, furious that she wasn’t there yet. I would have never gotten the phone call that brought me to my knees, vomiting onto the asphalt. 
I never got to say goodbye.

Now I breathe in the scent of pine needles and the coming rain. I hear his footsteps behind me and his arm brushes mine as he settles onto the dirt next to me.

“It’s beautiful.” He states simply, and it is. The sun has begun to peak over the crest of the mountains. The clouds begin to part, reveling the pink and orange flames illuminating the sky.

My father isn’t the sentimental type, but he isn’t the stony, distant type either. He’s gentle and kind, and while his I-love-you’s are few and far between, they are warm and meaningful, like the hot chocolate my mother made every Christmas Eve. I don’t expect an elaborate speech or words of comfort. That’s not Dad’s way and he knows that it wouldn’t help me. Instead, he wraps an arm around me and I curl into him, resting my head on his shoulder. Here we sit, silently, tears dripping down my cheek, until the light streams through the branches above us. I’m struck again by the stillness of it all. The quiet serenity of the morning.

“You know.” my father says, finally breaking the silence, “She wouldn’t want this.”

I stare straight ahead at the ripples in the river.

“Your mom.” he explained, his voice thick and eyes rimmed with red. “She would want us to keep living.”

I gulp back a sob.

The image won’t leave my mind. Her still white hands folded carefully on her stomach. Blue nail polish on her cold fingers.

My dad’s right. It would break her heart to see me this way, this broken. But I can’t let go. I never will. I don’t want to. Maybe it won’t hurt so badly someday, but do I even want relief? Do I want this excruciating pain to end? It wouldn’t be fair to her. So here I'll stay, tear streaked and shattered, craving the sound of her laughter.

About the Author

I'm currently in the process of getting my English degree. I've always loved to read and always wanted to write, but I haven't had the courage to share my personal thoughts and fears in my work until now. 

Stone Setter

Poem by Jessa Roberts

Honorable Mention for College Poetry - 2019 Met Awards

They glitter,
Like crushed up bits of diamonds,
Scattered across the black linen bedsheets of the sky,
You are the setter who placed each one,
Every glittering stone,
Is Yours

Gently fluttering leaves,
Mountainsides, valleys, lakeshores,
You are the painter who colors them with the seasons,
At Your touch the aspens blush,
Their snow twisted limbs they bow,

White topped waves,
Prostrate themselves upon the shore,
At Your feet,
Regal sea foamed crests,
They offer,
As a path for Your feet,

We see evidence of You everywhere,
You,
The stone setter who trimmed the night skies,
Above my head,
You,
Who spared some of Your stardust,
To leave in his eyes,
As they twinkle at me in the dark,
Enjoying Your work together

Seasons in Memories

Poem by Angela Rose

2nd Place for College Poetry - 2019 Met Awards

Summer
Warm sun kissed skin with bright smiles
Click after click of an instant camera

Fall
Leaves crunching against shoes 
Roasted Marshmallows and cosy jumpers

Winter
Freshly powdered rooftops and crisp air
Joyous smiles among crinkling wrapping paper

Spring
Twinkling city lights in the distance below
Laughter filled air and starry nights

About the Writer

Angela Rose is a Cerro Coso student.

Alone

Fiction by Preeti S.

2nd Place for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

She heaved a sigh of relief, and collapsed into the chair by the bed. After a six-hour long struggle, the young man was finally out of danger. He had been in a multi-vehicle collision on the freeway, and nobody who saw him as he was wheeled into the hospital thought he would survive. But a team of surgeons led by her had proven them wrong. Now, as she listened to his even breathing and the rhythmic beeping of the cardiac monitor in the sterile atmosphere of the Critical Care Unit, a sense of calm spread over her. She felt her muscles relax, and her heart, which had been pounding like a jack-hammer, slowed down.

Somewhere in the distance, a clock chimed seven times. She opened her eyes — it was time to go home. No, not home. Only an empty apartment that greeted her with a graveyard-like silence every night. Pushing aside her thoughts, she got up and made her way towards the nurses’ station. After giving them instructions for the night, she walked to her room, picked up her belongings, and made her way towards the parking lot. She swiped her access card through the machine and smiled at one of her colleagues who was just arriving at work as she left the building.

But the smile did not reach her eyes. It had been a long time since she had really smiled. Those beautiful brown eyes that would well up with tears as she laughed had been replaced by still, muddy pools, no emotion ever disturbing their placidity. She walked towards her car, her gait that of a person who knew there was no one eagerly expecting her. She backed out of the parking lot and hit the road. The weather reflected her mood — melancholy and tired.

As she waited in one of the many traffic snarls on her way back, she stared out of the window at a flock of birds up in the sky. Suddenly, the alarm in her car clock beeped. She had set it to the time the flight left for her homeland. It had been a childish whim, but today it brought back memories of a native land thousands of miles away, and her real home.

HOME. The word hung in the air, and her thoughts flew back to a family she had left behind long ago. She was the oldest daughter of a rich, orthodox family that had never really learnt to respect women as individuals. But she had always been the rebel. When her wedding was called off at the last minute after the groom developed cold feet, she saw her chance to finally live her life the way she wanted to. After much coaxing, her parents allowed her to leave home for a distant land to study — a first in her family. Four years into college, she got married, leaving her parents dumbfounded. The last she had heard from them was when she had called to tell them that her marriage had ended in a divorce. Since then …

A sharp honking sound shattered her reverie and brought her back to the present. As she navigated through the city’s traffic, she reflected on the day’s events, like always. But today something was different. Maybe it was the day’s events, maybe it was the weather. She could not place her finger on it. But suddenly an unsettling feeling swept over her.

Out of the blue, a question popped up in her head. What is the purpose of my life? This question had arisen before. She had always pushed those thoughts away successfully. But today, everything had a startling clarity to it. Try as she might, she couldn’t get it out of her mind. It was like those toys with sand at the bottom, that came back harder the more you pushed them. It was as though someone were nagging her for an answer.

And then it dawned on her, that she did not have a purpose in life. 

She worked all day and spent long nights in her vast bedroom, battling the insomnia that had plagued her ever since she had started living alone. Even if she stopped working today, she had earned enough to live the rest of her life on her savings. But why she worked so hard and for whom she earned so much — she had no answer. Of death she was not afraid. As a trauma surgeon in one of the city’s leading hospitals, she saw someone die on her table every week. But the thought that scared her most was that she could not think of a single person who would even realize she was gone.

Lost in her thoughts, she did not realize she had reached her destination. She drove into her apartment complex, parked the car and walked towards the elevator. She unlocked her door, threw her belongings on the couch and sunk into it. Turning on the television, she raised the volume and allowed the noise to drown out the silence that filled the apartment. Not that she wanted to watch anything in particular, but she hated the way every little noise ricocheted off the walls and furniture, reiterating the fact that she was alone.

The news was on and anchor was talking about the stock market; then the weather report came on. But to her everything was a blur as she lay on the couch. Suddenly something that one of the news anchors said caught her attention. Her eyes flew open and she sat up with a start. Plastered across the screen was the picture of a three-year-old girl, her head a crop of disheveled hair, her face the epitome of innocence. But what attracted her the most was little girl’s eyes. For in them she saw the same gaze she saw in hers — relentlessly searching for someone to call her own.


A year later…

It was midnight as she lay in the tent under the stars, the little girl in her arms. It had been a special day for both of them. Exactly a year earlier the angel she now held in her arms had come home for the first time. She had decided then that she would celebrate that day as their birthday — for it was indeed the beginning of a new life for both of them. So today they had spent the day doing all their favorite things and had returned home exhausted. And they were going to spend the night camping out in the backyard, because it was something they both loved.

Her thoughts flew back to everything that had happened since the day she saw the news about foster children looking for forever homes; how she had contacted Social Services immediately and fought a legal battle to bring the girl home. And how much her life had changed since then. She was now happier than she had ever been.

As her eyes felt heavy with sleep, the insomnia no longer troubling her, she watched the little one sleep peacefully in her arms and promised herself that neither of them would ever be alone again.

About the Author

Preeti S. is a Cerro Coso student.

Imaginary Enemies

Creative Non-Fiction by Cali Hugelen

1st Place for College Creative Non-Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

They say it is inherited. The public shame the individual for their vulnerabilities. Everyone believes it is an imaginary enemy. No one knows they have no idea; unless you are the one fighting it. I don’t even know. But he does, all too well.

He lies in a stark beige bed, with basic bedding, in a virtually empty room. I sit, staring at absolutely nothing. The monitors occasionally beep, playing the rhythm of his heartbeat. A ventilator positioned next to the bed breaths the life into him. His vulnerability is heartbreaking. He was my superman.
I stare out the only window in the room. I notice the burnished silver fountain in the middle of the courtyard as I watch the water cascade down the levels. My mind wanders back to the surprisingly sunny day on the Washington beach. The officiant was rambling on about what it meant to become husband and wife, how we were two becoming one. Still, to this day, I don’t remember all of what she said. I was too busy watching him and looking into his eyes.

This man that was about to become my husband was so strong and insanely intelligent. He had high self-esteem, great self-worth, and was popular among his co-workers and our friends. Everyone thought highly of him. Our future looked so bright together.

I find it ironic that on that day, for a predominantly cloudy and gloomy location, the sun was shining, and the rain had subsided. I was certain that it was a sign of our future. However, the cloudy gloominess was still there. It just wasn’t visible for anyone to see.

The once outgoing man started to withdraw, no one noticed. The once happy man no longer smiled, no one noticed. His self-esteem was gone, and the sciamachy was starting to take over. The bright future’s light started to dim. No one noticed. But me.

He became a patient to several doctors, but he was clever and knew just what to say. The uncanny ability to deceive people was startling. Did I fall for the same tricks? No one would listen. Maybe I was going crazy, maybe all that I noticed was just in my head. It couldn’t be, though. Could it? I swear, some days he would talk nonsense, mindless babble, and when I looked in his eyes, he was not there. The man’s eyes I looked into on my wedding day were different; they were gone. Then again, I could just be talking drivel.

It was almost like watching a play at a theater; every day, the stories were different. The ups and downs and mood swings were like riding a wickedly out-of-control roller coaster. No matter how much I screamed, no one would stop the ride. Maybe I didn’t scream loud enough.

The urgent beeping brought me back to the cold, bare hospital room. I noticed his eyes, the ones I remembered, were open with a look of confusion. I screamed for the nurse; this time it was loud enough. After seven days of lifelessness, he woke up. Like the superman, I knew he astonished the doctors. Just a few days before, his doctor had sat me down and told me I needed to start making end of life decisions.

My body went limp, and now I was the vulnerable one. A nurse I didn’t even know held me as I uncontrollably broke down. I repetitively asked her why and how. I was so unsure of what to do. She just held me and let me cry. My tears flowed like water in the fountain of the courtyard. I never made a final decision. I couldn’t.

His actions seven days prior were not made by a stable individual, he was not in his right state of mind. He was not thinking about anyone that day; he couldn’t; he was lost. The roller coaster had derailed without the help of anyone. One severe and hasty decision nearly cost him his life. The once strong and happy man is still fighting the ride on the roller coaster. He is still smart; nonetheless, his brain doesn’t quite function like it used to. He will never be the same man I married on a sunny day in Washington because of the enemies he battles that no one can see. No one but me.

About the Writer

Cali Hugelen is a Cerro Coso student.

Childhood Memories

Poem by Spencer Riley Shepard

1st Place for College Poetry - 2019 Met Awards

Faded red changed to rust,
An empty spot where a seat once sat,
Tires cracked and dried out, unable to hold a breath.
Chains and gear petrified.

Only happy memories from this memorial of rust,
of a generation that played from sunrise to sunset,
of jumping off curbs in the neighborhood,
and the hum of streetlights flickering on.

Weeds knitting into spokes,
webs mingling with the frame,
dust clinging to all.
Rust fading red.

About the Writer

Spencer Riley Shepard is a Cerro Coso English major and Kern River Valley poet.

Morning News

Fiction by Jessa Roberts

1st Place for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

It began in a coffee shop
        On the corner of hope and despair
Where steam twisted up
        From mugs filled with leftover dreams
Set on tables carved out of nightmares

 “Hey Grey!” Joe yelled, sliding into the chair next to Greylynne, who frantically flipped the napkin she had been writing on over, “I wrote your number on someone’s cup!”

Grey gaped at her friend, “What?”

Joe beamed smugly, the day’s last rays of sunlight peeping through the shop's window running its fingers through her apricot colored hair sadly, “I wrote your number on his cup!” she repeated, flicking glowing strands out of her face.

“Who’s cup?” Grey tried again suspiciously.

Joe cradled her chin in her hands, “He gets a mocha, you get a mocha,” she giggled, hiding her face in her hands.

Obviously to Joe that meant they were soulmates. Or reincarnated lovers destined to find each other and fall in love. Grey rolled her eyes.

“Isn’t that abusing your power as a barista?” she asked wearily.

“Giving rude people decaf shots is abusing my power,” she smiled sweetly.

Grey sighed, “Good to know.”

“Okay, okay, okay,” her friend demanded, “look over there, in the corner.”

Grey let her gaze drift in the direction Joe had flicked her eyes conspiratorially.

A young man had tucked himself away in the darkest corner of the coffee shop. The hood of his crisp black hoodie pulled down over his eyes.

“His name’s Casper,” Joe twittered, “he comes in now and then. He is so cute!”

Grey watched him for a moment.

"Why didn’t you give him your number?”

Joe smirked, “He’s out of my league.”

The figure lifted his head, and Grey saw the flash of a large silver crucifix peaking out from his collar before she met his eyes. They were large and intense, deep set into his skull. Mournfully they watched her. He looked at once at home and lost. Grey dropped her eyes, needing to escape his look, and started folding her napkin nervously.

Joe, oblivious, pulled her phone out of her pocket and checked the time, “Kay, love you, my breaks over!”

She stood up, “Be careful going home. Text me when you get in!”

After Joe left Grey only stayed around for a couple more minutes before Casper’s sorrowful eyes chased her out. On her way to the door she passed the shop’s newspaper stands. Headlines screamed murder and flaunted barely censored pictures of local girls who had their throats slashed open. The gruesome killings had shocked Grey’s sleepy little town. Now fear hung in the cold air like a mist, clinging to your clothes and biting your exposed skin.

For the next week Joe became an overenthusiastic matchmaker, trying every sly and back handed way to get Casper and Grey to talk to each other.

Grey desperately avoided it. A fact that only inflamed Joe’s devilish scheming.

Wednesday the papers bled the story of another victim. A young girl found dead in a public restroom. Consistent with the previous tragedies, her throat had been mangled. Cause of death was blood loss.
Joe and Grey huddled together on Grey’s couch, trying to drown in re-runs of I Love Lucy. After a couple episodes Joe lifted her head from where it had been resting on her knees.

“I think Casper hates me.”

Grey snorted, trying to fight back a smile at her comically heartbroken tone.

“Why?”

Joe laid her head back down.

“I told him he looks like the actor that played Pennywise the Clown.”

Grey choked, “What?”

“The actor! He’s handsome in real life!”

Grey threw back her head and laughed.

Joe scowled at her, “I was trying to compliment him!”

“Oh Lord,” Grey gasped between laughs, “He must hate you now!” She smothered her face in her hands, giggling into her palms.

Joe pouted, obviously brokenhearted that all her matchmaking had gone to waste.

“He’s weird anyway.”

“Weirder than you?” Grey giggled under her breath, earning an evil look from her friend.

“He got into a fight or something the other day.”

Grey thought of those haunted eyes of his, “Really?”

Joe nodded forlornly, “His hands were all beat up, like he’d punched something. And his lip,” she paused, “it looked like he’d bit it. It was creepy.”

Grey patted her friend’s shoulder, “Well that’s what happens with bad boys, love,” she said consolingly.

“Greylynne?”

“Hmm?”

“Promise me you’ll be careful,” Joe looked up at her sadly, “you know, with all the girls being found"

“I promise, mom,” Grey leaned in and hugged her tightly.

No new headlines popped up for a while. But Grey noticed things were getting weirder and weirder around Joe’s work. Other young baristas started asking their male coworkers to walk them to their cars at night. Joe herself started to avoid later shifts.

“Whatever happened to Casper?” she once asked.

Joe clammed up, only commenting that he was “weird” when Grey pressed her.

The sun had finally stopped struggling against the turning seasons. After weakly shining during the day it succumbed helplessly to the ravenous dark. The dark drove everyone inside. The fear kept them there.

While waiting for Joe to go on break one day, Greylynne mindlessly began sketching a cross across the back of a napkin. It reminded her of Casper’s crucifix. For days afterward that crucifix had popped up in her poetry. She hadn’t thought about it in a while.

His displaced eyes, however, still haunted her dreams. Despite the hushed relief that had crept in after the absence of new murders, Grey could almost feel her poetic sensibility stretching taught, anticipating something big and evil was just beyond the quiet.

One night later her phone began buzzing frantically. Having nearly fallen asleep, Grey ignored it. It buzzed again. And again.

She sat up amidst the nest of blankets and grabbed her phone.

“Greylynne!” Joe’s mom yelled, “You tell her to come home this instant!”

“Who?” Grey drowsed.

“Josephine! Tell her to come home right now!”

Grey scrunched her nose, an inexplicably cold feeling was creeping up her limbs, “I haven’t seen her all day, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Silence on the other end.

“What’s going on?”

Nothing. Grey repeated herself, desperation creeping into her voice.

“No one knows where she is,” Joe’s mom whispered, “We can’t find her.”

Grey fell out of her bed, grabbing her car keys, offering hollow sounding reassurances as she started her car.

First she went to the café, which was closed. The parking lot was empty, aside from the swirling masses of dead leaves. The cold forced itself down her throat, making a nest in her lungs.

Little roads spidered out around the edges of Grey’s little town. Sometimes her and Joe would cruise down one of them, enjoying the mysterious twists and turns that lead them into gentle hollows or meadowlike clearings. Grey desperately grasped at the idea that Joe had decided to take one of them home. For the sake of being Joe. Adventurous. Stupid.

Grey drove frantically down the little paths of asphalt that happened to lead away from the café. Maybe Joe’s phone had died. Maybe she was just star gazing. Hopeless. She was hopeless.

The headlights of Grey’s car raced over the gravelly road like hounds on the hunt. They ran for miles. Silence. A tear ran down Grey’s cheek and a sinking pit formed in her gut. Wrong. Something was wrong.

The headlights bounded onto an indistinct lump in the middle of the road a ways ahead of her. Grey’s foot slipped from the gas pedal unconsciously, and her car slowed. The hounds of her headlights surrounded the lump of quivering flesh.

Casper lifted his head. Lost. Lost eyes blankly staring into the headlights. Blood slid loosely from his lips, dripping onto the asphalt. Dripping onto the delicate white skin gripped in his hands.

The next morning, she was a headline. They both were.

About the Author 

Jessa Roberts is a Cerro Coso student. Being a barista is one of Roberts' passions; for the last two years she has had the opportunity to share what she loves with others. This profession is also a great source of inspiration for her. "I have heard somewhere that coffee shops are not supposed to have clocks," Roberts says, "because they are a place where time does not exist."

2019 Met Award Winners Announced

Congratulations to the following writers who have placed in this year’s Met Awards! First and second place pieces, plus select honorable mentions, will be published here in the 2020 edition of Met Online.

Thank you to all participants. Please watch for announcements as we approach the end-of-year award ceremony and reading.

College Fiction

First Place: Jessa Roberts for "Morning News"
Second Place: Preeti S for "Alone" 
Honorable Mention: Amy Cosner for "Blue Nail Polish"
Honorable Mention: Ashley Nicole Doerges for "Nude"
Honorable Mention: Crystal Schneider for "To Sweetly Drown"

College Poetry

First Place: Spencer Riley Shepard for "Bicycle"
Second Place: Angela Rose for "Seasons in Memories"
Honorable Mention: Jessa Roberts for "Stone Setter"
Honorable Mention: Abigail Voigt for "When I Tell You"

High School Poetry

Honorable Mention: Miguel for "A Poem (From a Drag Queen's Perspective)"

College Creative Nonfiction

First Place: Cali Hugelen for "Imaginary Enemies"

The Good Old Man

Fiction by Rey David Morales of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Fiction - 2017 Met Awards

Tom Dorsey plays over the radio. It is a hot July day. Carlos taps his fingers on the gun metal grey paint job of his car door as he rests in the driver’s seat. Five more minutes, he thinks to himself. He yawns and adjusts his old leather jacket in the passenger seat. Then he decides to toss it in the back, after all if that good old man was right the jacket would get covered in blood. Carlos had been suicidal for some time. When a blind old fortune teller he met on the street corner told him he would be dead by 3:48 this afternoon he couldn’t believe it. Carlos laughed. “I mean what was this guy on?” he thought to himself. But when the good old man told him, there was nothing he could do to stop it, he stopped laughing. Then he started thinking. Carlos had never had the will to end his own life, he just didn’t have it in him. So he listened as the old good old man foretold how it would happen and why. Carlos thought it was pretty silly that he was going to out for cutting someone off at the grocery store. Of course, he reasoned with himself, these things do happen.

He sighs and leans back in his chair. He feels the gray canvas upholstery on his neck and begins to rub it with his right hand. He looks at the radio, the glove box. He takes his left hand off the driver door as it grows numb and touches the ridges on the matching steering wheel.  It cost way too much money to restore this thing, he reflects. He smiles. Worth every penny. The Dorsey song ends and a Glen Miller tune starts up. Carlos’ smile becomes a frown. He was hoping the Dorsey number would last all through the whole “thing.” It will be very unceremonious to get blown away without being able to finish this current song. His frown quickly dissipates when he casually realized how trivial it all is. How trivial life is. However, as he glances at the driver’s side mirror and the color drains from his face. Although the sun’s glare made it impossible to see the man’s face, Carlos was able to clearly see the black Colt .45 he carried in his right hand. Panic suddenly swept over Carlos. That good old man was right, he was hoping he wouldn’t be but he was. He could run, staring at the door handle. He could drive, staring at the keys in the ignition. He could fight, clenching the keys on the steering wheel. Then he remembered it was no use. This could not be avoided. He would probably be shot coming out of the car or fighting back, or crash into an unseen car driving away. This had to happen. Instead Carlos reached in the back seat and checked the letter in his jacket. He tucked it back inside the inner breast pocket haphazardly. He looked at the clock. 3:48 in the afternoon. In the middle of a crowded parking lot near the end of July. Just like he said. Sitting back in the front seat, Carlos finally felt relaxed. He was finally doing it; he was finally doing right by himself. He put his arm back up on the door. He was going to look at the side mirror again, but the man was already at the driver’s side window. He now had a good look at the gun-wielder, he thought he would be older.

As the man raised the Colt, which gleamed in the bright sunlight, a funny thought pops into Carlos’ head that makes him smirk. Right before the triggered is pulled Carlos smiles and simply says to the man, “I am not ready.” Carlos made sure both the windows were down so that there would not be too much blood on the interior. The Good Old Man still sits on that corner, telling fortunes to any who will listen.

The Transformed

Poem by Anthony L McFarland of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Poetry - 2017 Met Awards

Where the keepers of light guide the way, under which
The lean shadows of learned men walk on.
Where blackened skies are pin-pricked with light,
Beneath these, flint-hard minds are made malleable.
Where brick buildings hinder the sun and
Spaces reserved for the sorters of knowledge hold solace.
Where specific volumes are kept on the ear and in the head,
Adjoining head and heart in earnest.
Where scripture is written from the pulpit of enlightenment,
Bearing witness to the wisdom of the ages.
Where the potter at his wheel implores rapacious minds,
There I am.

The Stone Collector

Fiction by Bailey J. Crocoll of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Fiction - 2017 Met Awards

Addison strolled along, lugging her backpack with one arm and shading her eyes with the other. Ahead stood Ruby's, a greasy little fish and chip joint perched along the splintering boardwalk. The sun beat down on her shoulders and colored her arms an angry shade of red. A network of ketchup-stained tables with faded yellow umbrellas stood out front, sheltering clusters of people. Red-faced kids chucked fries out to the gulls that cautiously bobbed between the tables, squawking and swallowing hunks of discarded food. The ocean swelled below the boardwalk, sweeping by in a rush of greenish froth.

Adhering to her favorite afterschool ritual, she ordered a side of popcorn shrimp and a large frozen lemonade to contest the heat. Shooing away a large spotted pelican, Addison moved away from the crowd to sit on a short wooden bench. From here, she could see out over the long stretch of beach disappearing in either direction. Blissfully, she scuffed her shoes along the boardwalk as she swung her feet and let the salty breeze float across her face. Her eyes drifted along the people on the crowded beach below, laughing and shouting as they sprinted in and out of the ocean spray.

Straw midway to her lips, she paused, her gaze catching on a motionless figure. Crumpled there  on the sand below, beside one of the thick legs of boardwalk was a small shapeless figure. Hurriedly shoving her drink aside, she rushed over to the railing to get a better look. It was then that she realized she knew the woman who laid motionless in the sand. The locals called her the Stone Collector.

On cool evenings you could often find the Stone Collector knee-deep in the ocean waves, colorful skirt drenched in the water, frizzy red hair sticking out from beneath a torn sunhat. She'd totter up and down the beach, head down, squinting with scrutiny at the water. Suddenly she'd lunge forward, plunging her hands beneath the current and pop back up with a fistful of smooth stones. Mud dripping down her arms, she'd sort through the rocks in her open palms, letting several splash back into the water. The select few that she kept were cradled in the fabric of her shirt. For the most part, people left her alone and she maintained the same level of distance.

Addison backed away from the railing, contemplating. She looked longingly at her untouched shrimp and then back over the railing where the Stone Collector laid below. Swinging her backpack over her shoulder, she tucked her food into the crook of her arm and began to hurry along the sweltering boardwalk. She pushed past sweaty bodies lathered in sunscreen and a group of chattering tourists that hogged most of the path. She clambered down the stairs two at a time until her feet sunk into the burning sand at the bottom. Weaving through the wooden pillars coated in clumps of dull grey barnacles, she found where the woman was, her face just hidden in the narrow beam of shade cast by one of the pillars.

She had a tie-dye jacket balled up beneath her head and a hot pink stroller with wheels jammed in the sand standing beside her. Several gulls were perched on her stroller, plunging their orange beaks into the various bags that were strung along the handlebars. In a frenzy, they ripped at a sleeve of crackers, trampling over the already-ravaged bags of miscellaneous items. Piles of smooth bluish stones spilled from one open bag. Addison waved her arms at them, stomping forward until they jerked back and flew away. She carefully began scooping the disheveled items out of the sand and placed them back atop the stroller. As she shoveled dozens of rocks back into a torn bag her gaze shifted upwards.

Two round black eyes blinked up at her from a sun weathered face. Addison straightened quickly, brushing the sand off her hands. She cleared her throat. "Hi. Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. I was on the boardwalk, I saw you laying here and I wasn't sure if you were ok... " she let her words taper off into the salty breeze.

Silently, the Stone Collector propped herself up onto her elbows, sending sand cascading off the folds of her clothes. Her inky eyes stayed locked on Addison, concealing any evidence of an expression. Addison cleared her throat, her gaze flicking over to where the Stone Collector's possessions sprawled across the sand from the invasive gulls. "The birds picked at your things," she gestured towards the stroller. "I think they ate your crackers. I have some popcorn shrimp, I drank the lemonade – but I didn't touch the shrimp." She plucked the bag out from under her arm and placed it at her feet. "Umm, alright. Have a good day," she muttered, shuffling away.

"I'm not crazy you know," her voice suddenly rasped. Addison turned back towards her, silent. "I know that they call me things. Beach Bum. Psychotic Sandy. Rocky." She pursed her dry lips. "Thanks for the shrimp," her veined hands reached for the bag.

"I've never heard anyone call you that," Addison shifted from foot to foot.

"But you've heard something," she popped a shrimp into her mouth.

Addison shrugged, glancing away, "the Stone Collector mostly."

The wrinkles etched along her face jumped when she barked out a dry laugh. "The Stone Collector, eh? I actually like that one. Not bad. Not bad."

"Why do you do it? Collect the rocks, I mean," Addison asked suddenly, unable to help herself.

She hiked an eyebrow up, licking a grease-coated finger. "I imagine for the same reason most collect money."

She didn't quite understand, but she nodded anyway. Felling her cue to leave, Addison raised a hand in departure. The Stone Collector didn't say anything, but as she hiked up the beach, Addison turned back to see her wading into the waves, hands already fishing beneath the water.

Contributor's Note: I came up with the title of The Stone Collector before I thought up the story. I just worked around the idea of the name and this is the resulting story.

Flying Free

Creative Nonfiction by Bailey J. Crocoll of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards

I remember my first time flying. Not in the elbow-to-elbow jam-packed rows. Not in the seats with the grimy fingerprinted windows. Not squished between two strangers, jostling about from the turbulence. No, my first time flying was beneath an April sun, soaring through the nippy mountain air. With the earth falling away into a blur of green and the wind rushing by with insistent pressure. I didn't need an airplane to fly, not on the back of a horse.

Harley was a stocky horse with light cream  fur and a wild mane of flaxen hair. He had huge brown eyes that were in always held in patient appraisal. A short neck and a deep sloping chest gave him a friendly little stature. His velvet pink nose was constantly prodding beneath my arms and wedging its way into my pockets, hopeful that a treat had somehow found its way into my possession. He was a Halflinger, a breed made for pack work and driving carts. Compared to Thoroughbreds, his long legged counterparts, with their slim frames and athletic build, he was a slowpoke. Harley would trudge along in circles to his heart's content, meandering along the pasture nibbling through weeds. He rarely had any motivation to move any faster than a walk and it took a miracle to bump him into a trot. So I was feeling particularly optimistic the day I decided to run him.

That morning I brushed him down while he lazily gnawed on a piece of alfalfa. I cradled each thick hoof in my hand, picking out the rocks stuck there and admiring the sleek silver shoes that hugged along his curving foot. My stiff leather saddle was lugged up onto his back and slid into position where it fit like a puzzle piece against his withers. I tightened his saddle – then tightened it again, the last thing I wanted was a slipping saddle. I let Harley steal one last mouthful of hay before he begrudgingly allowed himself to be pulled away.

Sitting up in the saddle was the easy part. He felt safe, comfortable and steady in his movements. He walked along, letting his head bob and his ears swivel happily as he stepped. We trotted along a fence line, warming up the brawny muscles hidden beneath his glossy coat. Dogs jutted out from yards, yapping and nipping at his legs. Harley didn't spare them any attention, he merely cocked an ear in their direction and idly stepped on by. A few cars slowed and waved, as Harley was a favorite of the neighborhood kids.

After a short trot across the street, we made it out to where the crops of lettuce and carrots sprouted from the ground in long tidy rows. Here, the air was heavy with the earthy scent of damp soil and the sprinklers sent water arching through the air. In one row, the earth was freshly plowed, the previous crop harvested and gone for the season. The ground was soft and stretched out far into the distance. I positioned Harley in the empty lane of soil, pointed towards the steep snowcapped mountains rising in the distance.

With a little flutter of excitement, I urged him forwards. He took a few casual steps and still, I pressed him onwards. In smooth rhythmical movements he picked up speed, moving from a trot into a rolling canter. I clicked my tongue at him, swinging my legs to encourage him. I let my reigns hang loose, giving him full leeway. I could almost feel the moment the realization washed over him; that he was allowed to plow ahead as fast as he could. It turns out that Harley could run after all. He let out one loud snort and then shot ahead, breaking into a charge.

And then we were flying. Tearing up the dirt, chunks of mud flinging into the sky behind us. The wind surged in my ears and tore tears from my eyes. Harley shook his head, that flaxen mane whipping around behind him. Thrill squeezed tight in my stomach and sent a rush of goose bumps up my arms. The fields blurred by in a confused cascade of colors. Tears streaked along my temples and gathered in my hairline as a laugh built in my chest. His hooves collided with the ground, a beautiful thundering sound that sent birds scattering. His body was thrumming beneath me, surging with life as he sucked in breaths. I stood slightly, leaning forward on my knees like a jockey and suddenly I could feel the air pulsating all around me, flapping my t-shirt and sending my hair back in a wild tangle.

There was a part of me that was terrified. A part of me that screamed and cautioned me to slow down. Warnings and red flags. A reminder that I was high up, going fast, and one wrong move away from slamming into the ground. And then there was the part of me that was electric, urging me to go faster. That part of me was surging with energy and a thirst for that feeling of freedom. Together, those parts made an equilibrium. A perfect balance of liberation, and I found myself flying free.

Contributor's Note: I was a little apprehensive about entering a piece of nonfiction, just because it's a bit out of my comfort zone. Although I've had many adventures, I had a hard time choosing a true story that I thought people would like to hear about. I haven't had any crazy trips to foreign countries or faraway places, but I decided that perhaps the beauty in an everyday event would inspire an audience.

For The Small Town

Poem by Jenna Daugherty of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd Place for College Poetry - 2017 Met Awards

For just a moment,
It blurs.

The lyrical drops of a leaky spout
The strained voices of the tired congregation

Just for a moment,
It stirs.

The nostalgia for rain whiffs
The memories of smells after changing locations

For a moment,
It brings.

The clumsy sensation of overcoming a chain link fence
The déjà vu thought of identical wanderings

These moments experienced
Cause a


Hesitation


A pause

A Remembrance of that small town and
the girl who grew up there.

Rain

Fiction by Cindi Aseltine of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Fiction - 2017 Met Awards

The rain was coming down so hard on Ana’s windshield she could not see. It was like a thick dense mist was covering the glass both inside and outside of her car and nothing seemed to help. She had tried to focus on the dividing lines on the freeway even turning off the once blaring radio, but something happened. It wasn’t something she could see or hear, but something she had felt. Not a movement, but a gut instinct. Screaming and yelling to no one, all that managed to escape Ana’s lips was “what the hell” as the car began spinning around and around on the freeway out of control. Her mind was racing, it seemed, as fast as her car was spinning. “I know there were two big trucks in the slow lane I just passed and cars behind me,” her mind screamed as she gripped the steering wheel tighter and tighter, spinning faster and faster. And then suddenly, it was as though time suddenly stopped and her life flashed before her eyes.

Today had started no different for Ana than it had for the last two years: Stay up half the night tossing and turning in her bed until her alarm went off at 0430, her mind never turning off. After the third time of hitting the snooze, her husband, John, whose snoring was part of the reason Ana didn’t get much sleep, would grumble and then nudge her, “Ana, you need to get up”. Reluctantly, she would turn the alarm off and literally crawl out of bed, grasping in the blackness of the room for her fuzzy black robe. Ana had tried to figure out why she could never sleep at night, wondering if it was her relationship with her husband that was going downhill on a daily basis or her extremely demanding, never satisfied boss.

The house was dark and cold as she quietly made her way to the coffee pot for her morning ritual before getting into the shower. It didn’t matter how dark the house was, the aroma of the deep roasted coffee waiting for her was all she needed as light to find it. “I am just too old and exhausted for this anymore”, she mumbled to herself as she opened the front door, coffee in hand, to see if the morning paper was in the driveway.

“Great, just great”, she said under her breath as she surveyed the wet driveway in front of her and flooding flowerbeds. The sky was as black as coal, yet, the lightening streaking and crackling across the sky revealed the large grey clouds above, followed by an almost deafening, roaring thunder. Hoping the rain would let up for her drive she grabbed the newspaper, ran back into the house and turned on the shower.

Always in a rush, Ana grabbed her coat ready to leave, but once again realized her shoes were still in her darkened bedroom, with her sleeping husband. “Damn,” she grumbled knowing that once again she would have to feel around in the blackened room like a blind person to find her shoes, all the while trying not to wake John up.

“Ana, what the hell are you doing? I am trying to sleep!” John said gruffly with an irritated tone in his voice.

“Sorry, just trying to find my shoes, again!” Ana replied, in an equally irritated tone.
In a voice that inflected his irritation and ‘it’s all about me attitude’, John yelled, “Don’t you think you could have done this last night!”

“That’s it,” Ana thought to herself. Always the one to have the last word, Ana replied, “This is my house too. I am tired of tippy toeing around you just to make you happy! How about me!” as she purposely turned on every light in the bedroom so to blind John in the light and make her point.
She could see the anger in John’s blue-grey eyes as he turned to glare at her, but she did not care. The last two months, he had been putting her through hell. Often, while she lay awake in bed, listening to the roaring snore of John, she wondered if she still loved him. She wondered if he still loved her.
Was it that they had just been together so long it had just become a convenience rather love? Ana did not know. It seemed everyday was just a routine; she’d get up and leave for work in a pissed off mood in the darkness of night; John, would stay in bed until seven or eight in the morning, get ready for work and leave a giant mess in the house, that waited for her to come home and clean it up. She would hastily cook John dinner and clean the dishes afterwards. No words would be spoken during dinner or conversation about each-others day. They would just eat in a silence that was deafening and then head into different parts of the house to watch television.

In the last few days, while sitting in numbing silence of dinner, she had caught John looking at her. It almost as if he was gazing at her like when they were high school sweethearts. She had seen what she thought was tenderness and love in his eyes, but the silence always remained. “I just don’t have time to deal with this anymore. Do I even want to deal with it?” seemed to always be her last thought before the mundane routine ended and she would finally drift off asleep.

Spinning and spinning she thought about her life with John and what had happened in the last few days between them. Memories of the happy times, the laughter they shared over even the most stupid things, the tears they shed when they lost a pet or worse a loved one like John’s mom. Ana and Mary had always had a stressful relationship while she was alive. It wasn’t until that day John’s dad had called and said Mary had suffered a heart attack and died that Ana realized how very much she had loved Mary in all those turbulent years between the two. And the realization or rather finalization that Ana would never be able to tell her that now that she was gone.

It was in that moment as she saw her life flash before her, spinning and spinning around the freeway, she realized she loved John; truly, deeply and totally loved him. John was her sole-mate and she couldn’t, she wouldn’t lose him because of the unspoken words between them. As the tears began to fall from Ana’s eyes, she whispered in a hushed voice, “I didn’t kiss you good-bye this morning or tell you I love you. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, Ana felt a tremendous jolt knocking her into the drivers’ side window. Not knowing if one of the big trucks had finally hit her or if the car was now rolling, Ana could do nothing but cry. The tears of fear and reality began to flow uncontrollably, burning her cheeks as she sobbed wanting this to be over. Realizing her car had hit something causing it to stop she rolled down the window to see what had happened. It was still raining so hard it was as though someone from heaven was dumping buckets of water on earth, but at least she could make out something beside her. There, wrapped around her still running car, was a chain link fence covered in thick green weeds that stood almost five feet tall, protecting Ana and her car. “I love you John,” was all that consumed her mind as she dialed his phone number.

The Fluttering Heart

Creative Nonfiction by Sarah Horne of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards

Spring was always the most beautiful time of year for me in little Ocala, Florida. My childhood home was a three bedroom, brick and wooden house that looked far less grand on the outside than the inside. Mustard trees framed the house at each corner with a shrubbery accenting the front lawn. There was a bay window that captured the sunset and sent rainbows across the sandy walls and cherry wood baby grand piano in the evenings. But it was the mornings that I loved the most.

When the sun finally rises over the neighboring rooftops, the rays pierce the windows illuminating the swirling dust motes over tile floors. The birds sing and flit from branch to grass, hunting insects and arachnids for breakfast.

One exceptionally beautiful spring morning, I heard a soft, pronounced thud on the west-facing bay windows. I padded over to the window in my pajamas after admiring the dusty swirls in the kitchen. Peering through the pane, I saw a little tea wren laying on its back. It’s little chest heaving. It must have hit the window. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Birds often hit the windows and, after a moment, continued with their daily lives.

I wanted to take advantage of his temporary paralysis to observe him closely. Birds rarely sit still long enough for anyone to truly observe their beautiful features. I quickly and quietly exited the front door and sidled closer to the little bird. He was still laying on his back, breathing furiously. I crouched over him for a moment, absorbing all his beauty and the wonder of how such little wings could carry him so far.

But within a few seconds I began to realize his wounds were worse than I thought. He wasn’t recovering like other birds. I began to panic. I didn’t want this precious, tiny creature to die. I carefully reached out and whispered fruitless reassurances and picked him up. I held the little thing closer to try to find where the break was and prayed it was just a wing and not the spine. But alas, as I turned to bring him inside to a safe, warm bed until I figured out what to do, I saw his last breath shudder through his slightly open mouth. I could see his little tongue through his orange-yellow beak, and I could see the light in his beautiful eyes fade.

I was so taken by his death, I stood there, profoundly still. Now I wasn’t observing the beauty of life as I was just a few short minutes ago, now I was observing the beauty of death. He was just there and then he was gone.

After giving him a brief burial in my back yard, I went back inside and pondered what I had just witnessed. I considered how tragic it was to lose such a peaceful little creature.

It wasn’t until many years later that I held death in my hands again, but this time, he was far more precious.

I was in Pennsylvania on business, when I got the phone call. My mother called and she sounded a little stressed out. She had always been worrisome so I wasn’t alarmed. She told me my grandfather was sick and I needed to find a way to go to him immediately. I figured she was overreacting and when I arrived beside his hospital bed in the intensive care unit less than 24 hours later, I was certain the whole mess was a misunderstanding.

I greeted him and held his hand and gave him my warmest smile to let him know how much I loved him. My Aunt had arrived the day before and my grandmother explained the situation to us. He was short of breath a few days prior and the doctor discovered scar tissue growing in his lungs. They gave him steroids so his body could fight off the growth, but no matter how much they gave him, nothing was working. His lungs were turning into solid tissue and he could no longer breathe on his own.

I couldn’t believe it. He looked fine. His eyes and smile were as bright as ever. He was cognizant and was maintaining a healthy diet, but within two days of my arrival, he could no longer think straight due to lack of oxygen and he could no longer sustain food. They hooked up an IV to him which turned the urine in his catheter blood red. The nurse assured us this was normal but she also urged us to decide quickly what we wanted to do. My grandfather’s discomfort was increasing every day. His mouth and throat were becoming more and more dry as air was forced into his lungs by the cursed machine incessantly beeping next to him.

The time came when my grandmother could no longer bear seeing him in pain. After taking him off the air pump, he didn’t last long. My Aunt and grandmother held his hands as he started gasping for air. My grandmother started crying and since they had taken him off the air supply, they no longer monitored his heart rate. We all knew what was coming.

My grandmother asked me to track his heart rate for her so she would know exactly when his time had come. I grasped the back of his head, my thumb resting on the pulse at his neck. I didn’t cry, I didn’t shake. My Aunt and grandmother said their good-byes and told him how much they loved him. I was silent. I concentrated on his pulse. I stared at his face, tensed with pain as he gasped. I couldn’t feel his pulse. I thought I lost it. I scrambled to find it again. That’s when he gave one final attempt to breathe. His eyes flew open and he opened his mouth in a silent cry for his beloved wife of 50 years. He raised his arm, reaching out to her before collapsing back on his hospital bed. He was gone.

Just like the bird, he was right there in my hands as I watched the light leave his eyes. I felt his last breath. Death had taken one of the most precious creatures in this world away from me. He was gone. I would never see his warm, loving smile again. Just like the innocence of the little bird would never be witnessed on a peaceful, spring morning.

Like a Phoenix

Poem by Bailey J. Crocoll of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd Place for College Poetry - 2017 Met Awards

Misery is felt in the lament of a mother,
the weight of raw grief,
an emotion unlike any other.

Light slants through stained glass,
throwing soft hues of color along the floor.
Hulking oak beams vault along the ceiling,
strong and unyielding.
Rows of  burning candles flicker,
silent.

Loss can be heard through the words gone unspoken,
the stutter of wounded breaths,
the sound of hearts that are broken.

The cavernous room echoes with
the patter of rain and the shuffle of feet.
Stifled sobs and a whisper of sadness,
ripple along the somber pews.
Grief prowls along the rows,
predator.

Despair is seen in the guests that stare,
unblinking in shock,
nursing an ache like a tear.

Trembling fingers trail slowly,
over a bleak wooden box.
Clouds of incense float,
unbothered by the audience that stands.
Eyes that are burning,
stricken.

Hope can be found in the words of the priest,
a guarantee of safety,
a promise of peace.

Voices are uplifted sweet,
united in song.
Reflections are shared,
about the son that was lost.
Slowly, there are smiles,
rising.

Love can be sensed in hands held tight,
whispers of "I love you" and
"It'll be alright."

The fragrance of flowers,
settles gently in the room,
worn bravely on shoulders
of those who were torn.
Secure grips that hug around shoulders,
healing

Life can be found in memories that spark,
unseen in their eyes,
 free of the ashes, they rise from the dark.

Like a phoenix.

Contributor's Note: Last month a friend of mine from high school, Phoenix, was killed at the age of nineteen in a motorcycle accident. This poem was written for him and the fond memories that we'll always relive.

We Could Be Like the Actors on T.V.

Fiction by Jennifer Jones of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd Place for College Fiction - 2017 Met Awards 

It’s funny how much someone’s voice changes when they’re going on about their new favorite thing. Yours goes higher pitched, and the words start sliding into each other. It’s almost like when you’ve had just a bit too much to drink, but with less laughing.


I’m thinking of this because you’re pacing in my living room, waving your hands around and smiling. I’m still standing here, holding your cup of coffee I made a few minutes ago. You take the cup with a quick “Thanks,” before resuming your back and forth. Perhaps I should be listening if you’re this worked up. Couch it is.

“-and, she’s just amazing, you know? Well, not that you could know since you never met her.”

I should’ve been paying attention because you’re staring at me now, waiting for a response. I sip my boiling coffee, for caffeine and not at all as a stall tactic.

“Okay, you kinda have to slow down. I’m still half-awake. Who is this girl?”

“This girl in my philosophy class. Her name’s Suri. I still can’t believe that she’s from Jeonju, too.”

“What a coincidence.”

“Yeah, she just moved here. She’s a music major, piano I think, but she’s just taking this class for fun.”

“Philosophy for fun, huh? I’m more religious theory, myself. But to each their own, right?”

I earn a nervous chuckle, but nothing else. At least, I think you’re finished as I reach for the remote.

Nothing like some daytime television to break up the awkward tension of this moment. But you’re blocking the screen now.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” I say while trying to look around you. Ah, not just daytime television. It’s one of those courtroom shows. The wife always wins on these things. And I manage another slow sip of coffee, because I’m trying not to burn my tongue, before you continue with,

“Do you think I should ask her out?”

My tongue feels like it’s on fire, but I can’t focus on that fact. Not right now anyway. I clear my throat before attempting to answer you.

“Out of all people, everyone you know, you’re asking me for dating advice.”

“Not advice really. Although I should take advantage of that, you being a girl and everything.”

“Congratulations. You finally noticed,” I smirk, “but still. I haven’t even met Suri. I can’t help.”

“Oh, okay. I-“

“Wait, wait. Okay, do you like her like her?” This earns a real laugh, but then you get this smile on your face. You’re looking down at your shoes, but I don’t think they’re the reason for the blushing.

“So, you like her. Do you even know if she likes you? Or if she even likes dudes?”

”She likes guys, I’m sure. At least I think so. And I think she likes me as more than a friend by now. It feels like we’ve known each other forever. Even the first day I talked to her.”

“Wait, how long have you actually known this girl?”

“I’ve known her for a while. I’ve just been too nervous to talk about how I- well, this. I’m just afraid that I might lose her to someone else, you know?”

“Okay, I’m still wondering how I never met her. But anyway! If you wanna ask her out, then do it. It doesn’t sound like anything is stopping you. Right?”

“I guess. It’s just that, I don’t really know one-hundred percent that she’ll say yes. She’s not exactly the romantic type. I don’t think she’s even had a boyfriend or whatever. At least not since I’ve known her.”

“Well, some people are like that. Maybe she’s like me and got sick of parents always going on about how important marriage is. Not everyone wants to be chained down.”




I grab my coffee, to give myself something to do. It is too early for this serious of a conversation, but you are looking at me right now with an expression I don’t recognize. I want to say something brilliant and insightful, but part of me just wants to walk away because I have never been good at discussing silly things like feelings. You’re back to staring at your shoes. I feel like a terrible friend right now, but I can resolve that. I walk the whole five feet from the couch to where you are standing and wait for your staring match with your sneakers to end. It does.

“Steven, I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Who wouldn’t like you? She’s probably just waiting for you to show up with some flowers and a cheesy love letter. You’ll see.”

“Oh, is that what would work for you?” You grin, back to your normal self. “If I just showed up with some red-no, pink tulips and a letter proclaiming my unrequited love of all these years? Handwritten, of course.”

“Yeah, and then we’d ride off into the perfect sunset. But to be honest, that would totally ruin my plan of having like, ten cats and living all alone in a cabin on top of a mountain. You can still visit me when that happens, by the way.”

You shake your head and smile, but it’s more of an attempt to smile. I don’t really know why you seem so down. You act like this girl is already set on rejecting you. I am really not good at this kind of stuff. Seriously. I walk back over to the couch, but stop before sitting down.

“Listen, if you really like this girl, you should just ask her out. The worst she can say is no, right? But if you do get her flowers, don’t go for tulips. Even though those are the prettiest. A lot of girls like roses for some reason. Got it?”

You have that look on your face again, and I still can’t read it. But it’s only for a second. You sit down next to me, a little too close as usual.
“Don’t worry. I’ll remember.”

Contributor's Note: This is a story that I wrote for an English class forever ago. It's always been a favorite of mine, so I thought it would be a good choice.

The Fluttering Heartbeat

Creative Nonfiction by Sarah Horne of Cerro Coso Community College
2nd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards

Spring was always the most beautiful time of year for me in little Ocala, Florida. My childhood home was a three bedroom, brick and wooden house that looked far less grand on the outside than the inside. Mustard trees framed the house at each corner with a shrubbery accenting the front lawn. There was a bay window that captured the sunset and sent rainbows across the sandy walls and cherry wood baby grand piano in the evenings. But it was the mornings that I loved the most.

When the sun finally rises over the neighboring rooftops, the rays pierce the windows illuminating the swirling dust motes over tile floors. The birds sing and flit from branch to grass, hunting insects and arachnids for breakfast.

One exceptionally beautiful spring morning, I heard a soft, pronounced thud on the west-facing bay windows. I padded over to the window in my pajamas after admiring the dusty swirls in the kitchen. Peering through the pane, I saw a little tea wren laying on its back. It’s little chest heaving. It must have hit the window. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Birds often hit the windows and, after a moment, continued with their daily lives.

I wanted to take advantage of his temporary paralysis to observe him closely. Birds rarely sit still long enough for anyone to truly observe their beautiful features. I quickly and quietly exited the front door and sidled closer to the little bird. He was still laying on his back, breathing furiously. I crouched over him for a moment, absorbing all his beauty and the wonder of how such little wings could carry him so far.

But within a few seconds I began to realize his wounds were worse than I thought. He wasn’t recovering like other birds. I began to panic. I didn’t want this precious, tiny creature to die. I carefully reached out and whispered fruitless reassurances and picked him up. I held the little thing closer to try to find where the break was and prayed it was just a wing and not the spine. But alas, as I turned to bring him inside to a safe, warm bed until I figured out what to do, I saw his last breath shudder through his slightly open mouth. I could see his little tongue through his orange-yellow beak, and I could see the light in his beautiful eyes fade.

I was so taken by his death, I stood there, profoundly still. Now I wasn’t observing the beauty of life as I was just a few short minutes ago, now I was observing the beauty of death. He was just there and then he was gone.

After giving him a brief burial in my back yard, I went back inside and pondered what I had just witnessed. I considered how tragic it was to lose such a peaceful little creature.

It wasn’t until many years later that I held death in my hands again, but this time, he was far more precious.

I was in Pennsylvania on business, when I got the phone call. My mother called and she sounded a little stressed out. She had always been worrisome so I wasn’t alarmed. She told me my grandfather was sick and I needed to find a way to go to him immediately. I figured she was overreacting and when I arrived beside his hospital bed in the intensive care unit less than 24 hours later, I was certain the whole mess was a misunderstanding.

I greeted him and held his hand and gave him my warmest smile to let him know how much I loved him. My Aunt had arrived the day before and my grandmother explained the situation to us. He was short of breath a few days prior and the doctor discovered scar tissue growing in his lungs. They gave him steroids so his body could fight off the growth, but no matter how much they gave him, nothing was working. His lungs were turning into solid tissue and he could no longer breathe on his own.

I couldn’t believe it. He looked fine. His eyes and smile were as bright as ever. He was cognizant and was maintaining a healthy diet, but within two days of my arrival, he could no longer think straight due to lack of oxygen and he could no longer sustain food. They hooked up an IV to him which turned the urine in his catheter blood red. The nurse assured us this was normal but she also urged us to decide quickly what we wanted to do. My grandfather’s discomfort was increasing every day. His mouth and throat were becoming more and more dry as air was forced into his lungs by the cursed machine incessantly beeping next to him.

The time came when my grandmother could no longer bear seeing him in pain. After taking him off the air pump, he didn’t last long. My Aunt and grandmother held his hands as he started gasping for air. My grandmother started crying and since they had taken him off the air supply, they no longer monitored his heart rate. We all knew what was coming.

My grandmother asked me to track his heart rate for her so she would know exactly when his time had come. I grasped the back of his head, my thumb resting on the pulse at his neck. I didn’t cry, I didn’t shake. My Aunt and grandmother said their good-byes and told him how much they loved him. I was silent. I concentrated on his pulse. I stared at his face, tensed with pain as he gasped. I couldn’t feel his pulse. I thought I lost it. I scrambled to find it again. That’s when he gave one final attempt to breathe. His eyes flew open and he opened his mouth in a silent cry for his beloved wife of 50 years. He raised his arm, reaching out to her before collapsing back on his hospital bed. He was gone.

Just like the bird, he was right there in my hands as I watched the light leave his eyes. I felt his last breath. Death had taken one of the most precious creatures in this world away from me. He was gone. I would never see his warm, loving smile again. Just like the innocence of the little bird would never be witnessed on a peaceful, spring morning.

Perversion of Dreams, Love, and Faith (Or Sonnet 1)

Poem by Brandon M. Biggs, 12th Grade, California City High School
1st Place for High School Poetry - 2017 Met Awards

Do not dreams hang suppressed upon the mind?
Sunken pressure upon sad men seeps out
Onto those around them. Pressing their binds
Like shackles, seeking to sink in the drought.

Does not love drown the senses of victims?
Each willing, sail'd their hearts across channels
To another. The pleasure leaked symptoms
Of lust, as they sunk their ships with scandals.

Does not faith strangle the eyes of its zealots?
A tsunami paranoia floods
After all who differ from them. Helots,
Bound by beliefs, like drink with acid suds.

Dreams, love, faith-all inspire men with purpose-
Become toxic poison when in surplus.

Contributor's Note: I enjoy writing poetry, and stories; drawing, painting, and sculpting when I can; creating small programs, and learning. My poetry is often depressing, covers heavy subjects, or is quite long, but this time I have tried to make it more profound than heavy and depressing. This is also my first try to do a sonnet-styled poem.

I Won't Leave

Fiction by Jessa R. Roberts, 10th Grade, Homeschool
1st Place for High School Fiction - 2017 Met Awards

Golden toes tip across the rumpled bed sheets. Warm fingers tickle my ears. I crack my eyes open and yawn at the invading sunlight. My old bones creak and complain when I stretch, trying to work a couple cricks out of my back. Days like these I want nothing more than to curl back up on my warm pillow and fall asleep. Beside me he thrashes suddenly, turning onto his back and throwing an arm over his face. And I remember.

My shoulders bend suddenly under the weight of my life. I turn and look at him. The sheets are tangled around his legs, and sweat plasters his t-shirt to his skin. His jaw works, and I can see his eyes flickering desperately under their lids. His expression breaks my heart. No one should look that sad and scared, especially not my gentle little boy. What happened to him?

I look away, unable to look at the labyrinth of lumpy white scars disfiguring his skin. After his mother got sick he started to lose that joyful light that had played in his eyes since he had first lifted me out of that box under the twinkling Christmas tree. He had cried himself to sleep for weeks after she died, and I had been curled up in his arms the whole time. His tears had soaked into my fur, and I caught a chill, but I never left his arms.

He had left, for so long that his scent had leached from his bed, and I couldn’t recall his face anymore. I think I lost that twinkle in my eyes then, too. When he finally came back, dressed extravagantly in brown camo, he seemed to have forgotten me. He didn’t smile at me, or coo over my kitten antics anymore.  He had scars, and his eyes were cold and grey.  They still are.

Beside me his breathing becomes more uneven. I sit up on my haunches and turn back to him. Waking him up is dangerous. The first morning he was back he had flung me across the room accidentally when I poked my nose into his ear, like I had so many times when we were little. But I can’t bear the look on his face. So I stretch out a paw and touch the tip of his nose gently. His eyes would have crinkled at the corners before opening, but they don’t do that anymore. Instead he jerks upright and scans the room frantically with wild eyes. When he finally looks at me they only calm a little bit, settling into the unsteady look of a caged animal. I look into those eyes, wondering if this really is my boy.

Had he ever really come home?

He rolls to his feet and groans. I jump off the bed and follow him into the kitchen. My joints are stiff with sleep, but I move with all the feline grace I can muster.

My food bag crinkles and the cupboard door slams shut. Kibbles rattle into my bowl. I jump onto the counter next to him and poke my nose into the bowl.

“Hey! Do you want me to get fat or something?” I yowl complainingly, “That’s way too much!”

He brushes me aside with one big hand, “Move, Paula,” he says tiredly and finishes filling my bowl.

I crinkle my nose and sniff. That doesn’t make me sad. I sniff again, not at all. When we were little he would have giggled and meowed back mockingly. I watch him pour cereal crisps into his own bowl, followed by milk. I would have knocked my bowl onto the floor and lapped up some of his cereal while he cleaned up the mess. But I don’t do that anymore. Instead I nibble at my food and watch him.

It’s the same every day.

We have a routine. After breakfast he will go sit in his chair, and I will go sit in mine. Most days we skip lunch; maybe he’ll flick on the tv, or pull out one of his many sketchbooks. Today he just sits, head in hands, staring blankly at his feet.  He doesn’t cry anymore. But right now, I think he is on the inside. I curl my tail around myself as a feeling of urgent unease begins to curl itself around my heart. I want to do something. I want to help him. And more than anything I want my little boy back.

My paws land heavily on the soft carpet, and I pad across the floor toward him. His eyes stay unfocused and distant when I look up into them.

“I love you,” I purr, trying to form the words he had whispered into my fur so many times before he had left. He seems to rouse a little. His grey eyes focus on me, and soften. For a moment I think I can see a warm echo of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. I stare at him unbelievingly. Then I look down and rub my cheek against his big stinky toes.

Suddenly I know something.

I know that someday he’ll come back to me. My little boy isn’t missing, he’s just sleeping. He’ll wake up, when he’s ready.

I look back up at him. His eyes have dimmed a little bit, the small spark of hope I feel reflected in my own eyes is almost crushed by fear and pain. But it’s there.

“I won’t leave you,” I meow, reaching up toward his face with a paw and staring into his eyes, “I love you,” I try harder to form those words in my garbled voice.

This time a fragile smile passes over his face, crinkling the corners of his sad eyes, and he picks me up gently. He presses his face into my old patchy fur.

“I love you,” he whispers, and I feel a tiny wet spot soak into my fur.

    

Contributor's Note: I live in Big Pine, only a few minutes from Bishop. I have lived there most of my life, which I have been homeschooled the entirety of. Telling stories that people can think about days after reading them is my life's goal. I have always been fascinated by those who choose to serve our country. With this piece I wanted to touch people and honor those brave men and women. I didn't go into specifics, and chose to keep things subtle. But I wanted to tell the story of the unsung hero, and I hope I accomplished that.

A Body's Betrayal

Creative Nonfiction by Deidre Nehr of Cerro Coso Community College
1st Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards

I’d never felt passion for any one specific thing. Sure, as a child, there were many careers I wanted to pursue, but I never felt particularly set on any of them. I never even considered that my calling would be motherhood. And then I got pregnant. The two pink lines on that test changed everything; the only thing that mattered was the little life rooted to my own. Chris was ecstatic. Everything in me and around me felt so right I became terrified something bad would happen; I could lose this baby or the devotion I felt for the tiny life blooming inside of me would wane like every other passion I’d had. I vowed I wouldn’t let this happen; I would protect the being inside me with every breath. I ate well, stayed active, I did everything I could to give this child—my child—the best start possible. So, when I started spotting around 14 weeks, I panicked. We were shopping, and I insisted we go home, I changed into pajamas immediately and got into bed. Thinking surely the baby was scared, I hummed the German lullabies my mother sang to me. The spotting stopped by morning and all was well.

The first time I heard the heartbeat I was ten weeks at my first appointment on December 18th. I couldn’t help smiling. The first time I felt her move, I was four months along with an awful cold, only made worse by not being allowed to take any medication. I was sitting on the couch eating a burrito with extra jalapenos when she started doing somersaults. She moved so vigorously Chris could see it from across the room and asked if it hurt. Yes, I thought because I wanted so badly to hold the baby watching their chubby arms move. I remember the first time I saw her: pink and slippery, angry as all hell, perfect. The doctors marveled at her health. The first time I held her, I looked at her face wondering where the wisdom I saw came from; she was only minutes old after all.
I’d had the easiest pregnancy imaginable. I worked in a meat department, lifting 100 pound boxes daily, 48 hours a week until I was eight months pregnant with no complications. I was dilated four centimeters before I even went into labor. The only complication came when the doctor realized she was coming out face up. Every time I bore down, her heart rate dropped drastically. The doctor wanted to perform an episiotomy. I refused and pushed so hard the next contraction she slid completely out at once. I burst every blood vessel in my face and shoulders.

For the next two years as I watched her grow and learn, she convinced me I had actually found my purpose: motherhood. I didn’t want to have 20 children or anything. I told Chris I drew the line at four and even that was excessive. So naturally I was excited when I found out I was pregnant again. It would be another spectacular event. I tested positive on a home test on my one year wedding anniversary. Amalie had just turned two. Our families were as excited as we were. My sister-in-law told me she could tell by my face. For the next five weeks I didn’t have any morning sickness, or sore breasts, or anything. My only complaint was the heartburn. I started spotting at about ten weeks. Having been through this before, I wrote it off as implantation bleeding. When the spotting continued for four days, I decided to ask my doctor about it at the next appointment. Little did I know I’d be in an operating room that day.

The last Sunday of September, the weather was starting to get cooler, and I could smell autumn approaching. Amalie was taking a nap and I was tired enough to take one too, falling asleep as my head hit the pillow. A ringing phone woke me an hour later; Chris told me he was coming home for lunch. After I hung up, I went pee and noticed bright red spotting straightaway. I struggled between hope and logic. Never very good at hope, I logically called Chris back and told him we had to go to the ER. We waited in the ER four hours before Chris took Amalie to a sitter. In the exam room, I stripped from the waist down, only to see the spotting had turned into light bleeding. The technician did an internal ultrasound. He took forever measuring, peering at the screen with a look I still can’t put a name to. As he finished, he still didn’t speak. I broke the silence, “Is everything ok?” His answer tore at me. I cried uncontrollably, hoping the sound of my voice would deafen me so I’d never hear anybody say no again. The doctor discharged me with Vicodin and said to expect labor-like contractions. Every medical professional kept telling me they were sorry; I just wanted them to shut the fuck up. They couldn’t possibly know how sorry I was, how badly this hurt. I would never be whole again. On my way out, a man in the waiting room—a man in far worse physical pain than me—said “I hope you feel better.” He was the only one that got it right, not because he didn’t apologize. He had hope, something I was all out of.

I cried for the rest of the evening and even harder when Amalie hugged me asking what’s wrong. I was just sitting down to check my e-mail when the gush of blood and tissue the doctors told me to expect scared the hell out of me. I ran into the bathtub, Chris, at my heels, rattling off questions. I stood cowering in the tub and requested a plastic bag. When he returned, I pulled down my pants and red stained the entirety of my panties and pants. I was just about to step out of my pants when the mass of the pregnancy fell out of me and landed on my underwear. Stepping out of them and looking down, I’m sure I saw the twist of the umbilical cord. Chris quickly grabbed my underwear by the waist-band and threw it into the plastic bag. We made eye contact as we realized that was the baby we would never hold. The baby I would never nurse. The baby we would never name. I almost told him, WAIT!!! I need to hold it…if only for a moment. Instead I sank into the bathtub, knees drawn to my chin. I looked past Chris at Amalie standing in the doorway, close to tears, asking what’s wrong, wanting so badly to help somehow, my sweet, sweet girl. “Get her out.” I said, “She shouldn’t see this.” My body had betrayed me, everything I wanted. I was horrified, devastated by my loss and pain. Embarrassed by my body’s betrayal, I spent the next hour in pain like I’d never felt, bleeding in the bathtub, thinking that I was supposed to take care of that new life, nurture it, and protect it. And I had failed.

Contributor's Note: This was written in 2010, about 4 months after I miscarried. I was struggling to reconcile how my pregnancies could end so differently and how my mind could be at such odds with my body.