Childhood Memories

Poem by Spencer Riley Shepard

1st Place for College Poetry - 2019 Met Awards

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

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

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

About the Writer

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

Morning News

Fiction by Jessa Roberts

1st Place for College Fiction - 2019 Met Awards

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

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

Grey gaped at her friend, “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Grey sighed, “Good to know.”

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

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

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

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

Grey watched him for a moment.

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

Joe smirked, “He’s out of my league.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think Casper hates me.”

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

“Why?”

Joe laid her head back down.

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

Grey choked, “What?”

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

Grey threw back her head and laughed.

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

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

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

“He’s weird anyway.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Greylynne?”

“Hmm?”

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

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

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

“Whatever happened to Casper?” she once asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” Grey drowsed.

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

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

Silence on the other end.

“What’s going on?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About the Author 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Won't Leave

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

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

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

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

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

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

Had he ever really come home?

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

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

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

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

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

It’s the same every day.

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

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

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

Suddenly I know something.

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

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

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

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

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

    

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

A Body's Betrayal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heart in Hand

Poem by Jennifer Jones of Cerro Coso Community College
1st Place for College Poetry - 2017 Met Awards

all I wanted was a heart in hand. mine in yours
to be exact.
what was I thinking? (yes, yes. i wasn’t.)
a sonnet submerged in the lines I stuttered out through
my pathetic keyboard.
electric and love notes.
but you,
were never going to crack that code.
you had to have been looking for,
hoping for the chance,
in the first place.

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.

Musical Musings of a Midnight Bosnian

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I could just leave my body for the night…

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

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

I have Known Loss

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

I have ached away
a thousand lonely hours

I have dismantled myself with hope

When I imagine this ruthless heart
quitting you
cold

Like an addict
with a lease on life
ten years overdue

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

Snapshots

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

alongside the springs, who foster the roots,
doves of hues & explorations are
always there,
always lingering,
always waiting to enrapture us all, if just for the night.

~

on the eve of the apex, 

i asked myself if i was special

(yet that tore my heart)

and if i would feel true warmth

(it hurts less to disguise our ideas with baseness)

and if this still would last forever

(one can never find that interior balance between right and) real.

~

To follow the love of the heart and the
          moon is the ultimate experience
                    (for the moon’s shied her way into
                              the heart many, many times).
                                        Perhaps they laugh at our breakups,
                                                            our compulsions,
                                                                                our regressive tendencies to idolize;
                                        they know the shtick all too well.
But often, after the peak of drunkenness, they envy us, giving us nothing but snapshots.

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

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.

Seventeen

Poem by Kelsey Saxton Hire, Senior at Burroughs High School
2015 Met Awards - First Place for High School Poetry

At seventeen
I never feel clean
I wear my
Stained cheeks
After weeks
When the
Silence breaks
And cuts
So deep
I can’t sleep

At seventeen
I always feel mean
I say
What I feel
As I
Try to heal
I see
Myself burn
As I
Try to learn

At seventeen
I never feel seen
I fall
To the floor
As I
Lose the war
My armor
Is darker
As my tears
And my fears
Lace a
Hopeful face

At seventeen
I do feel lifeless
But my
Tears truly
Remind me
I am
Human not
A mess

Undecided

Poem by Jennifer Jones of Cerro Coso Community College
2015 Met Awards - First Place for College Poetry

A red string tied tight around a ring finger.
Reminds me of what,
or who, I'm tied to.
I try to live around it,
this inconvenience.
A red string that tangles in the fingers
of a nice boy. He stops holding my hand.
Sometimes I travel, wrap the red string
round my wrist, my arm.
Heartbeat drumming, I always turn around
and watch it unravel.

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.

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.

On a Final Note

Short Story by Alex Tellez
2014 Met Awards - 1st Place for High School Fiction

In my youth, they told me this day would come. They explained the details clearly to my broken, desolate mother. The memories seem too vivid at this point in my life. "Ms. Wittman, I'm going to lay down our diagnosis to you, but I have to trust that you will control yourself enough to listen to what I am about to say: Frederick has developed a rare form of thyroid illness known as hypothyroidism." He explained the details of the disease, expecting my mom to care about what he was saying, when, honestly, my mother felt her entire world closed in on her: "Basically, Frederick's thyroid glands are producing more hormones than what's normal,” he indicated to the scanner diagrams of my upper-body, “which increases his heart rate, makes his skin sensitive to the sun, and ... This is the news I wish I didn't have to tell yo- Ms. Wittman ..." My mom just couldn't take it at this moment. It just wasn't what she needed to hear. "Now, it's fortunate that you have insurance that will work with you on this, but, as part of the disease, Frederick is to take a daily dosage of pills everyday." This now struck me because I could already foresee the outcome of not taking the dosage ... "it's vital for the health of your son that he takes them. This disease isn't curable. A pill a day is the only thing that can treat the disease. I'm incredibly sorry."

The years flew by ever since, and I kept reminding myself this day would come. I had no idea my condition would put so many limits as to what I could do with my life. Explaining my condition was a drag because all I would get is unhelpful sympathy - which, don't get me wrong, was necessary sometimes, but it got me distracted from more important issues. Eventually, the hypothyroidism took full effect towards the end of my teenage years, and I realized how weak I was becoming. One evening, in particular, I stepped outside to the snow-casted city I had called my "home" for eighteen years. Next thing I knew, I was awake in the warmth of a hospital bed.

*  *  *

Weeks have flown by, and I keep reminding myself this day would eventually come. They tell me that I would not leave until the pneumonia had gone away, and it still hasn't. Everyday I’m in here, I feel the misery of receiving pointless treatments at the expense of my mom's paycheck. Right now, at the peak of midnight, I’m sneaking out of my bed and I’m getting out of the hospital, feeling weaker than ever. My senses have no goal but to tell my mind just how unbearable the ice-weather is.

So, here I am, lying down on the snow, and I'm doing nothing but smiling. Freddie, the guy who smiles. God, you probably think I'm insane. But, to be honest, I'm smiling because I know I'm going to be happy wherever I go next. I feel myself giving up. I can feel the pain going away. With whatever strength I have, I pull out a letter I had written with a pen I stole from the nurse's desk and a clipboard I stole from the doctor's.

For most of my adolescence, I had thought about what would be on that note, since everyday was a reminder that this day would come. I thanked everyone I knew. My mom. My doctors. The friend I once made in woodshop. I pulled him out of my pocket and marveled at his beautiful texture for the last time, realizing that it was the only accomplishment that my condition hadn't affected, especially in years. I played with him one final time. And that made me smile. I smiled because I was with a friend, even if he wasn't real. He existed. The letter was long, long, long. But it was me, and that's all I wanted it to be.

And on that final note, I smiled.

Logic

Poem by Alas Tarin of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - 1st Place for College Poetry

Words

Poem by Skylar Muse
2014 Met Awards - 1st Place for High School Poetry

Do you hear the whispers all around?
The ones at night that are keeping you awake
Where so little truth is found.

The rumors and lies that surround,
Make you feel pain and heartache
Do you hear the whispers all around?

Day after day of enduring this life that makes you feel drowned,
You wonder if it's worth it to continue to fake,
Where so little truth is found.

The pain piles into mound after mound,
Causing your sanity to tremble and shake.
Do you hear the whispers all around?

You know of no other way to break through the sound,
Maybe the shot of the gun will thoroughly break
Where so little truth is found.

A warning to those who spread these rumors around:
Before you say anything, think about these people, and from them what you will take
Do you hear the whispers all around?
Where so little truth is found?

Contributor's Note: This is a villanelle I wrote in response to the tragedy of bullying and spreading rumors I see in my everyday life. I wanted to show the bullies the negative consequences of their harmful language and what it does to a person emotionally and mentally.