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 Those beautiful brown eyes that would well up with tears as she laughed had been replaced by still, muddy pools, no emotion ever disturbing their placidity.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.

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."

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 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.

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.

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.

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.

Letting Go

Fiction by Bailey J. Crocoll of Cerro Coso Community College
1st Place for College Fiction - 2017 Met Awards 

"I think you just need to fall," she calls over to me, her hands wadded into balls on her hips.

"I need to what?" I choke, pulling back on the reigns so that the horse will drop back to a stop.

"To fall," she smiles up at me, seemingly amused.

I wiggle my boots out of the stirrups and drop down into the dirt. I pat the side of my mare's neck, she's snorting after our little sprint around the arena. I walk over to where my trainer, Anne, stands in a sliver of sunlight that floats in through a gap in the tangle of limbs above.

The warm weather has slowly been dropping away, replaced by a cool breeze that sends goose bumps racing up my arms. Red leaves litter the soil and the grass is beginning to brown and shrivel. The cold air seems to invigorate the horses and they all stomp their hooves and flick their tails restlessly from within their stalls.

"What were you saying?" I ask once I've walked to where she stands.

"Nikki, have you ever fallen off of your horse?"

"No, never," I reply, looking back to where my horse affectionately nibbles around the loose fabric on the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

"You're stiff when you ride. Your shoulders are tense and your calves are too tight. You're afraid of falling," She appraises me with crossed arms.  Before I can respond she continues, "and Echo can feel that. She responds to your tension. She doesn't relax, her ears perk, and she won't drop her neck."

"She's huge, that would be a long drop," I say a little defensively, reaching back and burying my fingers in Echo's mane. She towers over me, all taut muscle beneath an ebony coat.

"Next lesson we'll take you over to the dirt lot, the ground is soft. I'll fix you up with a helmet, we'll get Echo into a trot and then have you slip off the side. The only way to get over your fear of falling is to fall. All you have to do is let go."

A little nervous tingle climbs up my fingers. "I'm not sure about that..." my words trail off into the crisp autumn breeze.

"Trust me, it's safe. I'll show you how to catch yourself before there's a chance of injury. I've had kids do it." I remain silent, my mouth feels like it's full of cotton. " Just think about it," she claps a reassuring hand to my back and gives Echo a scratch on the muzzle.

I drive home alone that evening with the windows rolled down and the heater cranked up. The lights from the city sprawl out across the hills in a glowing maze. I think about what Anne told me, about falling off of the horse, and shudder. To push the brooding idea down I turn the radio on, but I'm still alone with my thoughts. It doesn't take long for my mind to change tracks and start flickering with memories of him. I'm suddenly remembering the way he used to sing along to every song on the radio, even when he didn't know the words. I think about the navy baseball cap that was practically glued to his head and the way the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he was upset. I relive the way he'd whistle when he was focused – I suck in a shuddering breath to shake away the memories that dance in my vision.

It was nearly two years ago when I got the phone call that sent icy disbelief rushing down my throat. They told me it was a car crash.

"You need to let him go," my mother told me quietly after a year had passed and I still called his phone in hopes that he'd pick up. His line is disconnected these days.

I pull to the side of the road when I begin to cry, hating the hot tears that trail down my chin. I lean my head against the steering wheel, wondering when it will all stop hurting. I try to focus on nothing but sound of the motor purring gently. Mopping the tears away with my sleeve, I force my eyes to stop watering. Slouched in the dim light, hiccupping slightly, a slow wave of resolution washes over me.

The next morning, Anne sits atop a tree stump calling out, "start her off slow!"

The sky is a metallic grey and storm clouds hang low on the horizon. I'm sitting atop Echo in the empty dirt lot, a bulky helmet strapped securely beneath my chin. I give her sides a gentle nudge and she starts to walk. A nervousness clenches in the pit of my stomach.

"Push her a bit, just into a slow trot." Anne calls.

I click my tongue, giving Echo the cue to speed up. Her hooves beat the ground, my body rocks with her movement. Without warning I'm thinking of him again and the way he used to tell me he'd buy me a horse one day or maybe a unicorn, and how I'd laugh till tears squeezed out from the corners of my eyes. I urge Echo to speed up, to help me run away from the memories. Her trot picks up faster and she slips into a run.

"Might want to slow it down a bit, Nikki!" Anne shouts.

The wind whips tears from my eyes and Echo grunts, shaking her mane out. We're flying, the dirt jumping up in clumps behind her hooves. I can feel Echo's heart beating, thrumming beneath me. I think of him as we fly, I think and think and then I know it's time to let him go. I slow Echo down just before it's time. I unclench my hands from their grip on her reigns, I slide my feet out from the stirrups, I lean to one side. And I let my body go. I let it all go.

Contributor's Note: I've been riding horses for a few years now, and I'm constantly astounded by the knack that horses have for connecting and teaching me through their actions. This piece was inspired by the healing that can be found through time spent in the saddle, or in this case, falling out of it.

Rot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hello, ummm, I found this dog, is it yours?”

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

“This your Dog?”

The next door had an exaggerated bell that the residents seemed to like to let ring to its completion. A hopefully grateful girl answered the door.

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

Awwww that’s sweet-”

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

“What’s up Babe?”

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

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

“Hello?”

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

“What’s up?”

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

“Holy Shit”

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

“Call 911, I am at the ravine.”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

The officer takes his place.

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

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

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

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

“Hey there, is this your shoelace?”

“Ummm, yeah it is sorry…”

“Don’t be, I’m Emma.”

“Hi I’m…New in town.”

Late

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No More

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. More.

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

Ambition

Short Short by Sydney Marler, 9th Grade, Burroughs High School
2015 Met Awards - Second Place for High School Fiction

Ambition. I spelled it out.

A-M-B-I-T-I-T-I-O-N. Ambition.

No, that wasn’t right. I promptly scribbled a note of it in my overflowing book of words. Most of the kids at my school had something of a mixed opinion about me. Jealousy was what I perceived most keenly. The other part was when they clapped for me when I won awards; that was the part I liked best. I had very few friends, mostly due to my inability to even entertain the superfluous thought of becoming ‘one of them’. After all, I would become their boss someday. It was best to see it from the other side; to reason that they all wanted to become me so badly, that they had given up all attempts to befriend me. It was better to look at it this way. So much easier. I couldn’t exert any energy on friendships anyway; I had a spelling bee to win.

I was something of a prodigy from the beginning. I was always tearing through stacks of books and my parents could never keep up with the demand.

“Laura’s going places!” my Pap would say. He was so proud of me. My mother would always take me to play groups and show all the other mothers what a smart little girl I was, and the others would complain about how their children were having daily tantrums. My mother glanced at me powerfully with a shimmer in her eye and in that moment, I became proud too.

The day of the spelling bee came and I was flipping through my notebook for the final time. The other competitors were sitting nervously on their chairs, facing the entire school. I wondered what they were thinking. Did they even prepare? This should be an easy victory for me. I remembered then that Charles was studying hard too. My heart sunk as I realized I had no idea where I stood.

My feet were twisted around the chair. One foot, delicately clothed in a flat shoe, made a resounding tapping on the cafeteria stage. It echoed anxiously across the cafeteria, somehow mixing with the dull hum of middle school children sitting below me. Suddenly the bow on my flat became entangled in the portable metal chair. The chair collapsed and I knew I was falling before I started falling. I made a frantic grab for the notebook; but it was too late and I wasn’t fast enough to catch it. The notebook splattered hard all over the stage and I was on the ground; tears quickly running down my puffy face. I wasn’t injured, although I was hurt.

The cafeteria was completely silent. I desperately wanted them to do something, anything. Laugh! Someone just start laughing! I’m begging you! I wished in those moments; but no one did.

Finally, after several excruciating seconds, several boys began to pick up the papers that had fallen out of my loose notebook. Noise gradually escalated into the cafeteria again and I indignantly set up my chair. I took a seat on its hard metal surface as the troupe of boys began to hand me the missing pieces of my notebook. One of the boys was Charles. I didn’t say a word.

The elderly teacher began calling us up one by one. Verboten. Colloquial. Intractable. Formidable. I knew instantly when my competitors were wrong and I visibly cringed. One of my competitors recognized this pattern and began crying when I cringed. Poor kid.

It was finally my turn. I carefully untangled my nervous legs from the metal chair. I wasn’t one to make the same mistake twice. In what seemed like forever, I made my way to the podium and pulled down the microphone. I turned to look at the teacher expectantly.

“Ambition”, she delivered. It was a dagger, my kryptonite, my silver bullet. I nearly sunk to the floor.

“A-M-B-I-T-I-T…” There it was. I saw my parents in the background; their eyes widened. I looked at my competitors and to my surprise they looked… indifferent. This was it. This is what death feels like, I thought.

“-I-O-N” I finished, nervous, shaking, and yet anew.

With the sound of the buzzer, I walked off the stage.

Donald

Short Story by Rey David Morales of Cerro Coso Community College
2015 Met Awards - Second Place for College Fiction

Foamy water swirls and crashes in the stainless steel sink. It washes over white porcelain as plates are heaved, one by one, out of their sudsy depths. Set aside to dry after inspection, the dishwasher contemplates a time when dishes were in fact made of pearl. Pearl diver, that sounds much more impressive. The Crew Cuts play on the radio. The cook, a man in his twenties with a short stature but athletic build, sings along to the hopeful dreams of ancient pop stars as he prepares the next meal. The front door bell jingles loudly.

“Looks like he’s here,” the cook says with a smile. “After this order I am going out there to the front to cover for you-know-who. Be on your best behavior with Big Chief, okay?”

Big Chief is actually the owner of the restaurant and the boss, and genuinely an easy going guy. Cook makes his exit out the Westernesque red double doors to the main dining hall to take on his new role as a waiter. The boss makes his entrance. He is a short, slightly overweight man of fifty-ish, wearing a signature trucker cap with the name of the eatery embroidered on the front. They exchange pleasantries and continue working.

After a few orders business dies down. The boss, in his idleness, strikes up a conversation with the dishwasher.

“¿Como Estudo?” he asks. The boss speaks no English. Though he can read and write it and somewhat understood when someone is trying to get his point across, his tongue never mastered it.

“Bien, mas o menos,” the dishwasher responds in his Chicano tongue. They then discuss other areas of life such as one’s condition both in health and romance. The dishwasher always says he’s doing well in both (a harmless half-truth). Another subject that comes up is family, particularly how the dishwasher’s two sisters are fairing since leaving his employment the previous spring. They were peaceful departures. The dishwasher says they are both fine. One has gone into business with a friend and the other now works as a social worker in the city. The boss admits that he misses them. They were good people who would never pull the “crap” his senior waitress—the woman the cook is filling in for now—pulls.

The boss asks how his studies are going. The dishwasher states (like a Catholic prayer) that he graduated high school last year, and furthermore, it’s now the middle of summer. The boss nods in remembrance and asks what he’s planning on doing now. The dishwasher doesn’t know.

Soon a big table arrives and the dishwasher is thrown to the front so that the cook can help the boss with the order, as the Cook puts it, of “Ronald Calderon” proportions. The dishwasher hates working the front. For some strange reason he feels a strange wave of embarrassment whenever he sees a familiar face. It’s not so much the individual that gives him shame but the blank smiles they give him, eyes that say they are but common restaurant-goers with no concern for anyone outside their booths, a look that the dishwasher had not experienced a year earlier. Maybe he had given it, too.

No faces today. The dishwasher works the floor efficiently and at ease. Eventually the customers leave and the day turns to night. The boss leaves early, telling them they did a fine job and to keep his share of night’s tips. The cook gives him some anyway.

A lonely stranger stumbles in toward closing time.

“Hey, can you handle this?” the cook says, “I’m going to start getting ready for clean up.” He heads into the kitchen.

The stranger staggers to the cashier’s counter and stops himself from slamming into it. He asks if they sell chile verde but wrapped in a tortilla. The dishwasher asks if he means chile verde burritos and receives a fervent “Yes! To Go.” He pays with a debit card and attempts to get cash back. The dishwasher tells him that service isn’t offered here. The man apologizes and sits down.

When his order is finished he grabs it with shaky hands, states, “The Misses thanks you,” and stumbles out. The dishwasher goes to the back.

“Geez, did you see that guy? He was on something for sure.”

“Yeah, I know him,” the cook says. “Name’s Donald.”

“Donald?”

“Yeah, went to school with my dad, I guess he was some kind of genius. Got a perfect score on his SATs, every university wanted him.”

“What HAPPENED?”

“Don’t know exactly. Stayed for some girl, girl got hooked on meth, he did too. Last I heard his ‘Sweetheart’ left a few years back and he shacked up with someone else.”

“A genius … he could have gone anywhere he wanted.”

“Where else would he go, this town’s awesome.”

The dishwasher refuses a ride home only to discover he can’t be picked up. He begins his thirty-five minute walk home. There are few street lights in town. Save for a few passing cars, the trek is mostly dark. Along the way he passes streets where old friends once lived, illuminated by dull moonlight.

He still thinks about her sometimes. About words unsaid and flesh that never really touched. But the stars are beautiful here. He takes a short-cut through a dirt alleyway lined with wooden fences. Halfway through the path one of the town’s only streetlights illuminates a familiar figure, a crushed Styrofoam container lying next to it. Heart pounding, he walks up to it. It’s Donald, apparently mugged, face stomped, a torn wallet at his hand.

He fought desperately for that wallet, not for the currency in it but the words stitched into it: To my Einstein. –B. Between his fingers is clutched a picture—of a younger man and a pretty woman.

The dishwasher quits the following month. He is gone by summer’s end.

Control

Short Story by Grace Kameyo Griego, 9th Grade, Union High School
2015 Met Awards - First Place for High School Fiction


I like to believe that I am in complete control of my life. The idea of destiny or that God has a plan for me is simply laughable. This is my life and I choose what to do with it. I chose to fall in love with my girlfriend, I chose to have sex with her to have a baby, I chose what career I wanted, and I will choose when I want to die. Yes, I am in control.

I saw something hilarious today. While driving to work, I saw a little boy trying to get a cat down from a tree. What a stupid boy. That cat won’t listen to you.

My boss fired me today. That’s okay though. I chose to slack off in my work, so it was my decision. I didn’t care for that job anyway.

On my way to an interview, I saw that boy again. The cat was sleeping and he still tried to climb up to reach it. Foolish.

I am choosing to drink alcohol. It is my decision despite what my girlfriend might tell you.

I go for drives now. Interviews are not my style and I could use something to take my mind off things. The boy got a ladder and tried to get the cat, but it scratched him and he fell. I smirked.

It wasn’t fate that made my girlfriend have a miscarriage. I think I wasn’t ready to be a father anyways. My girlfriend slapped me and cried when I told her this. She insisted I see a therapist for my “control issues.”

This is absurd. I don’t have any issues. I am just more in control of my life than she is. However, I will go to cheer her up. On my way there, I saw that the boy has given up on the cat. The cat still sleeps.

I told my therapist about that cat and boy and how funny it is to watch them and he looked at me worryingly. I hate that look. He asked how often I see these visions. I scoffed at him. How dare he suggest I’m crazy. Me, crazy? I’ll refuse to see that looney doctor ever again.

I’m not an alcoholic. I’m not. I like how it makes me feel. It makes me feel in control.

My girlfriend left me today. I shouldn’t say that. I’m the one who left her. While it’s true she’s the one who broke it off, I was the one who wasn’t happy in this relationship. It was my choice.

I haven’t seen that cat in a while.

My money is disappearing. I think someone stole my credit card. No matter, I’ll take care of that after one more bottle of whiskey.

I miss that cat.

I was evicted from my apartment today. I shouldn’t say that. Considering the situation and my lack of funds, I decided to seek shelter elsewhere. It was my decision. I’m in control.

My ex girlfriend came to see me today. She wept when she saw me and insisted on taking me to the hospital. On the drive there I saw that cat again. It looked frail as it stared at me with those bright red eyes.

The doctor stuck a needle in me and I stared at my bright red blood. I felt vulnerable and I hated it.

The doctor told me I was suffering from alcohol poisoning.

I yelled at my ex girlfriend for taking me there. I took a taxi home. It was my decision. I am in control.

After a morning of vomiting I decided to go on a walk. I went to see that cat. It looked so calm. It was barely breathing. It turned to me and spoke, “You are not in control.”

I was enraged.

“I have made every decision in my life. Me. No one else but me!” I screamed at the creature. People passing by stared at me. Mothers shielded their children’s’ eyes.

“Oh? You chose to be born? You chose to lose your love and job? You chose to have your first-born die before birth? You chose to be controlled by mere alcohol?”

I screamed and punched the tree. The cat fell.

“Yes! I am in control!” I cried out. The cat looked up at me and died without another word. I picked up the limp creature in my arms. I began to stroke its fur. Raindrops fell to the cat’s lifeless body. I wiped them away as I looked up with blurred vision at the clear, sunny sky.

We Are Gathered Here Today

Short Story by Jennifer Jones of Cerro Coso Community College
2015 Met Awards - First Place for College Fiction

Uncle Dewey is crying as he talks about how much he’ll miss Mom’s terrible jokes. Julie remembers the one about the used car and chokes out a laugh. Her fiancé doesn’t say anything. He just quietly reaches for her hand. It’s when he begins rubbing his thumb across her engagement ring that Julie remembers what exactly she’d been considering before getting the phone call about Mom.

It’s not that she doesn’t love him or anything. She does. Well, will eventually. She does really like him. Just that morning, before they got dressed in these clothes they’ll never wear again, he brought her coffee. It was made with just enough creamer. But those small moments of domesticity are outnumbered by something else. No amount of perfectly made coffee can help her when she is overwhelmed with that unnamed feeling that constricts her lungs. Like now, as she contemplates making a human-shaped hole in the cream-colored wall behind her mother’s casket. Her staring contest with the wallpaper is interrupted by Uncle Dewey clearing his throat.

“Gloria is …was a great sister and friend. But she was also a wonderful mother. I remember when she first had little Julie. She was so happy. Being a mother was all she wanted.”

Julie bows her head, feeling the room’s attention being directed at her. She doesn’t risk looking at Uncle Dewey right now. Her mother was wonderful. She was lucky to have had the mom that made school lunches and led the P.T.A. But Uncle Dewey is telling everyone the version of the story that has a fairytale ending. Behind the smiling and warm hugs was a woman that gave up her dreams for her husband that didn’t want to leave their hometown. Her mother gave up her hopes of an acting career so she could make honey hams and scrub the linoleum sparkling clean. Julie remembers every time her mom’s façade broke. She remembers every single time her mom had a bad day and talked about what she could have been. But the next morning she’d be making a full breakfast for Dad and singing along to the radio as if nothing had happened.

Her fiancé’s hand on top of her own feels like a lead weight. Sometimes, when they are sitting at home and watching television, Julie feels like he’s taking all the air out of the room. She imagines he’s taking deeper breaths on purpose. As if he’s conspiring to turn her into a shell of herself. Or maybe into a pretty corpse that’ll follow her future husband around and drive a big, red S.U.V.

“Julie. Hey, are you okay?” Her fiancé is gripping her hand, and the movement pushes the engagement ring on her finger sideways. The flawless diamond is stabbing into her skin. It’s enough to put a stop to thoughts of being a smiling, Stepford-zombie.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Do you want to go up and see her?”

Uncle Dewey is already finished with the eulogy and sitting down. Julie looks around and sees everyone is hugging, crying, or a sad combination of the two. And she realizes that she’s doing neither. Julie nods and lets herself be led by her fiancé out of the pew and up the carpeted walkway. It feels like a slow eternity by the time they are both standing in front of the casket covered in several bouquets of roses. Julie pulls away from the grasp of her fiancé to pick up a stray petal.

“You know, she always said that she wanted daisies. I didn’t like to talk about funeral stuff, but she made sure that I knew that. I should’ve remembered.” Julie’s fiancé looks up from studying the roses, biting his lip before saying,

“Julie, I-“

“No, it’s okay. The roses are just as good. I’m sure she would’ve liked them.” They continue to stand there, looking down on the closed casket. Julie thinks about how her mother didn’t really get what she wanted in life. Even at her own damn funeral.

She feels her fiancé trying to take the petal out of her hand. She looks down and sees that it’s been crushed in her palm.

Healed

Fiction by Krista Kenny of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction

“I’m healed,” she says. She sits in front of me smiling a smile I have never before seen on her lips. This is the first time I’ve seen my mom in a week. The plan had been for her to stay in rehab for much longer, but after several unexplainable days of neither pain nor withdrawal symptoms, the doctors had no reason to keep her. When she had told me on the phone that she wasn’t in pain anymore, I cried. I have been praying for this day since I was old enough to understand the concept, but I had never imagined that such a surreal event would have such a mundane setting: sitting in our house—in a chair I had sat in before on so many dull days—hearing that everything had changed. It didn’t seem real. But sitting in front of her today, in the same chair, it is impossibly real. I can hardly get a word in edgewise with all her stories of rehab: the friends she made, the food she ate, the bafflement of the doctors when she never entered withdrawal for the Oxycontin, and then stopped feeling the pain of the fibromyalgia altogether. She’s catching up really, for all the words that through the years the pain had wrested from her mind and strangled in her throat. My mom likes to talk, I realize for the first time in my nineteen years with her. My mom likes to laugh. Her laugh sounds alien to my ears though, which have so often heard her cry. Her smile is foreign to my eyes, which have become so used to her grimace. The sense of dissimilarity is overpowering. She starts to talk about all of the things we can do together now that she’s healed, all of the things she has to make up for as a mother. Her pretty words fall on me like half-unwanted caresses. My memories persist in dragging me back to all the other words I’ve heard from her, words so often filled with the venom of her pain, and all the hate and anger that had no other convenient target. I don’t blame her for those words. I’d long since gotten in the habit of ignoring the pain when it decided to speak through her. But this mother—the one that isn’t fighting the pain for words—she doesn’t seem like mine. Her arms, so strong and sure when she embraced me, aren’t the wary, trembling arms that have gingerly hugged me so many times before. The manner of her every minute gesture is strange to me without the weight of the pain dragging at her limbs. The adult in me is happy of course and reminds me over and over that this is my real mother; all the years before this were the façade. But there is a child in me screaming, screaming that the smiling, laughing person in front of me is an imposter, a mimic come to live the life my mom had wanted. Her strange laughter seems a mockery of all the years my mother had lived with the pain. It had become no more bearable but all the more familiar. In being given the thing I had begged God for my entire life, I feel somehow robbed of my mommy. But I cannot let it show. My feelings would hurt her, and I have been too thoroughly conditioned to never do anything that would hurt her. So I talk with her, and laugh with her, and put on a smile that I have never before worn on my lips. My mind tells me that God is present in this, but my heart tells me that he—and my mother—are further from me.

An Irrelevant Edge

Fiction by Aubrey Elliott of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction

“I wasted the best years of my life with you,” she said bitterly as the conversation escalated into a fight.

“You gave me the best years of my life,” he replied with an underlying meaning he knew she would mistake.

“You’ve held me back from the life I wanted to live,” she said missing his point.

“All I’ve ever done was try to better your life anyway I could.” True as it was, he knew it left no impact.

“Everything you say is a lie,” she said, perfectly aware of the nerve she would hit.

“What will make you happy?” He asked feeling obligated to do so.

“He makes me happy,” with that she unleashed the true cause of their withering marriage. It struck him speechless even though he had known it for a while. He didn’t need to know a name or any details once she confirmed his suspicions.

For their son’s sake, he would have tolerated the treachery, but he knew she wouldn’t be gratified by merely a new escort. She wanted the freedom to indulge in the vices he tried to save her from.

He was mournful that his marriage would have to end in such an unscrupulous way. Her selfish lust was an affliction on him and he resented her for it; but he held back form retaliation. He wasn’t ashamed by what his wife’s inconsiderate actions would reflect on himself; rather he knew her actions would leave a more devastating impact on others at stake. So when he was asked why his marriage was ending, he would say “I wasn’t making her happy,” to distract from, but not lie about, the real reason.

He kept her guilty actions out of the picture and let her take half of everything he worked for in the divorce. But in the custody battle for their son, against his conscience, he exposed her dependency on entangling types of escape. He tried not to stain her image as much as he could, even though she had already done so to herself. He tried to make the court hearings and the arguments that followed them as painless as possible. She made his attempts at being passive difficult; not seeing his motives for being so distant, and would spark an argument, after every hearing, spitting painful retorts at him, while he held his breath. And after the final verdict, she privately lashed out at him for what she perceived as delusive nobility.

“You should have just exposed my affair; half of your hard work isn’t worth your smug stance. It’s just like you to try and keep your higher ground.”

He tried to refrain from giving the impression of pretention but there was no better way to express the honesty of his motives, “I didn’t do it for me,” he told her.

Scornfully she argued, “I don’t need you to spare me.”

He took his son from her arms. And as she kissed her son goodbye, he told her “I didn’t do it for you either.” And he walked away without holding his breath anymore.

Society of Last Hope

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Rosary

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

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

Three Lies

Short Story by Korinza Shlanta of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - 1st Place for College Fiction

People are told three lies about dying. The first is that everyone dies alone. I watched my friend Sam take his own life, watched his hands drop to his sides, and I even felt his last breath leave his body. I waited around for a long while to see if his soul was going to just jump out of that now motionless corpse and fly away into the great beyond we are always told about, but it never happened. I wasn't the only one expecting his soul to jump out and fly away, either. However, science seems to work even when all else fails. The moment his body ceased functioning the microbes that lived in his systems started their work of decomposition. Like what happened to Mozart after he died. It reminds me how Sam always liked the music jokes I told him.

I have known Sam for as long as I can remember. Bit of a quiet kid growing up, but so was I. I think that is what made us such compatible friends. Sometimes we would banter back and forth, make jokes, create code languages, but people only ever really looked at us with suspicious glances, like we were up to no good. We never did much harm, at least I never did anyway, Sam was the one to act out our plans while I just watched and reaped the benefits of it coming about. Sam always seemed to be a step ahead., but good thing I thought further than he could run. He had his troubles, but who doesn't? He never could run away from those. I like to think I was the creative one in that relationship though. It was me who came up with the idea to sneak into the mortuary to put a squirting flower on the tux of our mutual friend Allen. Boy, was he a smart one. Allen always had a story to get us out of trouble. He was so good with words. He always could make me feel like everything was the greatest story. I will never forget the look on his mothers face though when she leaned in to kiss his eyes. Then again, there is plenty of time to still forget.

Our adolescent years were more tumultuous. We were men, but no one else seemed to think so. We had reached puberty and took upon ourselves the responsibilities that are taken in response to freedom. The only hindrance we encountered was the lack of freedom. So in the coming of age, we agreed together that we needed to find a greater meaning to life than that of which we knew. So we told our parents that we needed to expand our horizons and shed the down of our wings to take to the skies. And that is precisely what we did. We went into the army as paratroopers. Young men always seem to overestimate their courage. Our boots landed on the soft German soil. We hid clustered together behind a church in the graveyard, too full of cowardice to move. It must have been the training that kicked in, but it took all of us to stop the man from running and telling anyone where we were. He seemed to be deep in thought, but it looked like he saw us. We could not take such a risk. We were men of action.

Sam was a good, thoughtful fellow though. He never missed the chance to pick up a good book, work in the garden, or stroll through the park in the late afternoon. He often tried to immerse himself in art, music, and the teachings of great thinkers, but he could never really find an escape from his troubles. He never could outrun them, or himself, he couldn't find a sanctuary from the evil that plagued his mind. Yet, he thought death would be the final solution. He must have thought it was going to bring him peace or perhaps meet God. I never did admired his silly boyish ways. They were never thinking far enough ahead.

The great thinkers have proposed a plethora of theories about death and what happens to the soul when a person dies. Often the theories are told to us just to bring us comfort. “Like my favorite, you will get to see your loved ones again and rest in peace.” “Or my favorite, may he rest in pieces. Or my favorite, to be written in among the greatest story ever.” “Or my favorite, death is the next step to those willing to look down.” Sam was a good guy, but he was always trying to outrun his demons. He even tried running away from our relationship. He stopped laughing and joking with me, telling me his stories, or telling me what he was thinking. It is a terrible thing he felt we needed to be on such poor terms, but we have plenty of time to catch up later.

The second lie about dying is that your troubles leave you once you die. All of us are still here though. We are just waiting on Sam, and he should be here soon. See, that's something that they forget to tell you. The first thing to go is hearing, then sight, feeling, and then finally the “spirit” will go on its way. However, that's only after the microbes finish their job cleaning up. You didn't think that the spirit would be allowed to be so rude as to leave right after leaving such a mess did you? At least Sam doesn't have to be alone the whole time. Ah, good fellow, even we will be polite and introduce ourselves when he gets here. Oh before I forget, that brings me to the last untruth.

The third lie about death is that you were ever alone to begin with.