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.
Showing posts with label third-place. Show all posts
Showing posts with label third-place. Show all posts
Friday, March 23, 2018
The Transformed
Poem by Anthony L McFarland of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Poetry - 2017 Met Awards
Where the keepers of light guide the way, under which
The lean shadows of learned men walk on.
Where blackened skies are pin-pricked with light,
Beneath these, flint-hard minds are made malleable.
Where brick buildings hinder the sun and
Spaces reserved for the sorters of knowledge hold solace.
Where specific volumes are kept on the ear and in the head,
Adjoining head and heart in earnest.
Where scripture is written from the pulpit of enlightenment,
Bearing witness to the wisdom of the ages.
Where the potter at his wheel implores rapacious minds,
There I am.
3rd Place for College Poetry - 2017 Met Awards
Where the keepers of light guide the way, under which
The lean shadows of learned men walk on.
Where blackened skies are pin-pricked with light,
Beneath these, flint-hard minds are made malleable.
Where brick buildings hinder the sun and
Spaces reserved for the sorters of knowledge hold solace.
Where specific volumes are kept on the ear and in the head,
Adjoining head and heart in earnest.
Where scripture is written from the pulpit of enlightenment,
Bearing witness to the wisdom of the ages.
Where the potter at his wheel implores rapacious minds,
There I am.
The Stone Collector
Fiction by Bailey J. Crocoll of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Fiction - 2017 Met Awards
Addison strolled along, lugging her backpack with one arm and shading her eyes with the other. Ahead stood Ruby's, a greasy little fish and chip joint perched along the splintering boardwalk. The sun beat down on her shoulders and colored her arms an angry shade of red. A network of ketchup-stained tables with faded yellow umbrellas stood out front, sheltering clusters of people. Red-faced kids chucked fries out to the gulls that cautiously bobbed between the tables, squawking and swallowing hunks of discarded food. The ocean swelled below the boardwalk, sweeping by in a rush of greenish froth.
Adhering to her favorite afterschool ritual, she ordered a side of popcorn shrimp and a large frozen lemonade to contest the heat. Shooing away a large spotted pelican, Addison moved away from the crowd to sit on a short wooden bench. From here, she could see out over the long stretch of beach disappearing in either direction. Blissfully, she scuffed her shoes along the boardwalk as she swung her feet and let the salty breeze float across her face. Her eyes drifted along the people on the crowded beach below, laughing and shouting as they sprinted in and out of the ocean spray.
Straw midway to her lips, she paused, her gaze catching on a motionless figure. Crumpled there on the sand below, beside one of the thick legs of boardwalk was a small shapeless figure. Hurriedly shoving her drink aside, she rushed over to the railing to get a better look. It was then that she realized she knew the woman who laid motionless in the sand. The locals called her the Stone Collector.
On cool evenings you could often find the Stone Collector knee-deep in the ocean waves, colorful skirt drenched in the water, frizzy red hair sticking out from beneath a torn sunhat. She'd totter up and down the beach, head down, squinting with scrutiny at the water. Suddenly she'd lunge forward, plunging her hands beneath the current and pop back up with a fistful of smooth stones. Mud dripping down her arms, she'd sort through the rocks in her open palms, letting several splash back into the water. The select few that she kept were cradled in the fabric of her shirt. For the most part, people left her alone and she maintained the same level of distance.
Addison backed away from the railing, contemplating. She looked longingly at her untouched shrimp and then back over the railing where the Stone Collector laid below. Swinging her backpack over her shoulder, she tucked her food into the crook of her arm and began to hurry along the sweltering boardwalk. She pushed past sweaty bodies lathered in sunscreen and a group of chattering tourists that hogged most of the path. She clambered down the stairs two at a time until her feet sunk into the burning sand at the bottom. Weaving through the wooden pillars coated in clumps of dull grey barnacles, she found where the woman was, her face just hidden in the narrow beam of shade cast by one of the pillars.
She had a tie-dye jacket balled up beneath her head and a hot pink stroller with wheels jammed in the sand standing beside her. Several gulls were perched on her stroller, plunging their orange beaks into the various bags that were strung along the handlebars. In a frenzy, they ripped at a sleeve of crackers, trampling over the already-ravaged bags of miscellaneous items. Piles of smooth bluish stones spilled from one open bag. Addison waved her arms at them, stomping forward until they jerked back and flew away. She carefully began scooping the disheveled items out of the sand and placed them back atop the stroller. As she shoveled dozens of rocks back into a torn bag her gaze shifted upwards.
Two round black eyes blinked up at her from a sun weathered face. Addison straightened quickly, brushing the sand off her hands. She cleared her throat. "Hi. Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you. I was on the boardwalk, I saw you laying here and I wasn't sure if you were ok... " she let her words taper off into the salty breeze.
Silently, the Stone Collector propped herself up onto her elbows, sending sand cascading off the folds of her clothes. Her inky eyes stayed locked on Addison, concealing any evidence of an expression. Addison cleared her throat, her gaze flicking over to where the Stone Collector's possessions sprawled across the sand from the invasive gulls. "The birds picked at your things," she gestured towards the stroller. "I think they ate your crackers. I have some popcorn shrimp, I drank the lemonade – but I didn't touch the shrimp." She plucked the bag out from under her arm and placed it at her feet. "Umm, alright. Have a good day," she muttered, shuffling away.
"I'm not crazy you know," her voice suddenly rasped. Addison turned back towards her, silent. "I know that they call me things. Beach Bum. Psychotic Sandy. Rocky." She pursed her dry lips. "Thanks for the shrimp," her veined hands reached for the bag.
"I've never heard anyone call you that," Addison shifted from foot to foot.
"But you've heard something," she popped a shrimp into her mouth.
Addison shrugged, glancing away, "the Stone Collector mostly."
The wrinkles etched along her face jumped when she barked out a dry laugh. "The Stone Collector, eh? I actually like that one. Not bad. Not bad."
"Why do you do it? Collect the rocks, I mean," Addison asked suddenly, unable to help herself.
She hiked an eyebrow up, licking a grease-coated finger. "I imagine for the same reason most collect money."
She didn't quite understand, but she nodded anyway. Felling her cue to leave, Addison raised a hand in departure. The Stone Collector didn't say anything, but as she hiked up the beach, Addison turned back to see her wading into the waves, hands already fishing beneath the water.
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.
Thursday, March 22, 2018
Flying Free
Creative Nonfiction by Bailey J. Crocoll of Cerro Coso Community College
3rd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards
I remember my first time flying. Not in the elbow-to-elbow jam-packed rows. Not in the seats with the grimy fingerprinted windows. Not squished between two strangers, jostling about from the turbulence. No, my first time flying was beneath an April sun, soaring through the nippy mountain air. With the earth falling away into a blur of green and the wind rushing by with insistent pressure. I didn't need an airplane to fly, not on the back of a horse.
Harley was a stocky horse with light cream fur and a wild mane of flaxen hair. He had huge brown eyes that were in always held in patient appraisal. A short neck and a deep sloping chest gave him a friendly little stature. His velvet pink nose was constantly prodding beneath my arms and wedging its way into my pockets, hopeful that a treat had somehow found its way into my possession. He was a Halflinger, a breed made for pack work and driving carts. Compared to Thoroughbreds, his long legged counterparts, with their slim frames and athletic build, he was a slowpoke. Harley would trudge along in circles to his heart's content, meandering along the pasture nibbling through weeds. He rarely had any motivation to move any faster than a walk and it took a miracle to bump him into a trot. So I was feeling particularly optimistic the day I decided to run him.
That morning I brushed him down while he lazily gnawed on a piece of alfalfa. I cradled each thick hoof in my hand, picking out the rocks stuck there and admiring the sleek silver shoes that hugged along his curving foot. My stiff leather saddle was lugged up onto his back and slid into position where it fit like a puzzle piece against his withers. I tightened his saddle – then tightened it again, the last thing I wanted was a slipping saddle. I let Harley steal one last mouthful of hay before he begrudgingly allowed himself to be pulled away.
Sitting up in the saddle was the easy part. He felt safe, comfortable and steady in his movements. He walked along, letting his head bob and his ears swivel happily as he stepped. We trotted along a fence line, warming up the brawny muscles hidden beneath his glossy coat. Dogs jutted out from yards, yapping and nipping at his legs. Harley didn't spare them any attention, he merely cocked an ear in their direction and idly stepped on by. A few cars slowed and waved, as Harley was a favorite of the neighborhood kids.
After a short trot across the street, we made it out to where the crops of lettuce and carrots sprouted from the ground in long tidy rows. Here, the air was heavy with the earthy scent of damp soil and the sprinklers sent water arching through the air. In one row, the earth was freshly plowed, the previous crop harvested and gone for the season. The ground was soft and stretched out far into the distance. I positioned Harley in the empty lane of soil, pointed towards the steep snowcapped mountains rising in the distance.
With a little flutter of excitement, I urged him forwards. He took a few casual steps and still, I pressed him onwards. In smooth rhythmical movements he picked up speed, moving from a trot into a rolling canter. I clicked my tongue at him, swinging my legs to encourage him. I let my reigns hang loose, giving him full leeway. I could almost feel the moment the realization washed over him; that he was allowed to plow ahead as fast as he could. It turns out that Harley could run after all. He let out one loud snort and then shot ahead, breaking into a charge.
And then we were flying. Tearing up the dirt, chunks of mud flinging into the sky behind us. The wind surged in my ears and tore tears from my eyes. Harley shook his head, that flaxen mane whipping around behind him. Thrill squeezed tight in my stomach and sent a rush of goose bumps up my arms. The fields blurred by in a confused cascade of colors. Tears streaked along my temples and gathered in my hairline as a laugh built in my chest. His hooves collided with the ground, a beautiful thundering sound that sent birds scattering. His body was thrumming beneath me, surging with life as he sucked in breaths. I stood slightly, leaning forward on my knees like a jockey and suddenly I could feel the air pulsating all around me, flapping my t-shirt and sending my hair back in a wild tangle.
There was a part of me that was terrified. A part of me that screamed and cautioned me to slow down. Warnings and red flags. A reminder that I was high up, going fast, and one wrong move away from slamming into the ground. And then there was the part of me that was electric, urging me to go faster. That part of me was surging with energy and a thirst for that feeling of freedom. Together, those parts made an equilibrium. A perfect balance of liberation, and I found myself flying free.
Contributor's Note: I was a little apprehensive about entering a piece of nonfiction, just because it's a bit out of my comfort zone. Although I've had many adventures, I had a hard time choosing a true story that I thought people would like to hear about. I haven't had any crazy trips to foreign countries or faraway places, but I decided that perhaps the beauty in an everyday event would inspire an audience.
3rd Place for College Creative Nonfiction - 2017 Met Awards
I remember my first time flying. Not in the elbow-to-elbow jam-packed rows. Not in the seats with the grimy fingerprinted windows. Not squished between two strangers, jostling about from the turbulence. No, my first time flying was beneath an April sun, soaring through the nippy mountain air. With the earth falling away into a blur of green and the wind rushing by with insistent pressure. I didn't need an airplane to fly, not on the back of a horse.
Harley was a stocky horse with light cream fur and a wild mane of flaxen hair. He had huge brown eyes that were in always held in patient appraisal. A short neck and a deep sloping chest gave him a friendly little stature. His velvet pink nose was constantly prodding beneath my arms and wedging its way into my pockets, hopeful that a treat had somehow found its way into my possession. He was a Halflinger, a breed made for pack work and driving carts. Compared to Thoroughbreds, his long legged counterparts, with their slim frames and athletic build, he was a slowpoke. Harley would trudge along in circles to his heart's content, meandering along the pasture nibbling through weeds. He rarely had any motivation to move any faster than a walk and it took a miracle to bump him into a trot. So I was feeling particularly optimistic the day I decided to run him.
That morning I brushed him down while he lazily gnawed on a piece of alfalfa. I cradled each thick hoof in my hand, picking out the rocks stuck there and admiring the sleek silver shoes that hugged along his curving foot. My stiff leather saddle was lugged up onto his back and slid into position where it fit like a puzzle piece against his withers. I tightened his saddle – then tightened it again, the last thing I wanted was a slipping saddle. I let Harley steal one last mouthful of hay before he begrudgingly allowed himself to be pulled away.
Sitting up in the saddle was the easy part. He felt safe, comfortable and steady in his movements. He walked along, letting his head bob and his ears swivel happily as he stepped. We trotted along a fence line, warming up the brawny muscles hidden beneath his glossy coat. Dogs jutted out from yards, yapping and nipping at his legs. Harley didn't spare them any attention, he merely cocked an ear in their direction and idly stepped on by. A few cars slowed and waved, as Harley was a favorite of the neighborhood kids.
After a short trot across the street, we made it out to where the crops of lettuce and carrots sprouted from the ground in long tidy rows. Here, the air was heavy with the earthy scent of damp soil and the sprinklers sent water arching through the air. In one row, the earth was freshly plowed, the previous crop harvested and gone for the season. The ground was soft and stretched out far into the distance. I positioned Harley in the empty lane of soil, pointed towards the steep snowcapped mountains rising in the distance.
With a little flutter of excitement, I urged him forwards. He took a few casual steps and still, I pressed him onwards. In smooth rhythmical movements he picked up speed, moving from a trot into a rolling canter. I clicked my tongue at him, swinging my legs to encourage him. I let my reigns hang loose, giving him full leeway. I could almost feel the moment the realization washed over him; that he was allowed to plow ahead as fast as he could. It turns out that Harley could run after all. He let out one loud snort and then shot ahead, breaking into a charge.
And then we were flying. Tearing up the dirt, chunks of mud flinging into the sky behind us. The wind surged in my ears and tore tears from my eyes. Harley shook his head, that flaxen mane whipping around behind him. Thrill squeezed tight in my stomach and sent a rush of goose bumps up my arms. The fields blurred by in a confused cascade of colors. Tears streaked along my temples and gathered in my hairline as a laugh built in my chest. His hooves collided with the ground, a beautiful thundering sound that sent birds scattering. His body was thrumming beneath me, surging with life as he sucked in breaths. I stood slightly, leaning forward on my knees like a jockey and suddenly I could feel the air pulsating all around me, flapping my t-shirt and sending my hair back in a wild tangle.
There was a part of me that was terrified. A part of me that screamed and cautioned me to slow down. Warnings and red flags. A reminder that I was high up, going fast, and one wrong move away from slamming into the ground. And then there was the part of me that was electric, urging me to go faster. That part of me was surging with energy and a thirst for that feeling of freedom. Together, those parts made an equilibrium. A perfect balance of liberation, and I found myself flying free.
Contributor's Note: I was a little apprehensive about entering a piece of nonfiction, just because it's a bit out of my comfort zone. Although I've had many adventures, I had a hard time choosing a true story that I thought people would like to hear about. I haven't had any crazy trips to foreign countries or faraway places, but I decided that perhaps the beauty in an everyday event would inspire an audience.
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.
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.
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