Short Short by Sydney Marler, 9th Grade, Burroughs High School
2015 Met Awards - Second Place for High School Fiction
Ambition. I spelled it out.
A-M-B-I-T-I-T-I-O-N. Ambition.
No, that wasn’t right. I promptly scribbled a note of it in my overflowing book of words. Most of the kids at my school had something of a mixed opinion about me. Jealousy was what I perceived most keenly. The other part was when they clapped for me when I won awards; that was the part I liked best. I had very few friends, mostly due to my inability to even entertain the superfluous thought of becoming ‘one of them’. After all, I would become their boss someday. It was best to see it from the other side; to reason that they all wanted to become me so badly, that they had given up all attempts to befriend me. It was better to look at it this way. So much easier. I couldn’t exert any energy on friendships anyway; I had a spelling bee to win.
I was something of a prodigy from the beginning. I was always tearing through stacks of books and my parents could never keep up with the demand.
“Laura’s going places!” my Pap would say. He was so proud of me. My mother would always take me to play groups and show all the other mothers what a smart little girl I was, and the others would complain about how their children were having daily tantrums. My mother glanced at me powerfully with a shimmer in her eye and in that moment, I became proud too.
The day of the spelling bee came and I was flipping through my notebook for the final time. The other competitors were sitting nervously on their chairs, facing the entire school. I wondered what they were thinking. Did they even prepare? This should be an easy victory for me. I remembered then that Charles was studying hard too. My heart sunk as I realized I had no idea where I stood.
My feet were twisted around the chair. One foot, delicately clothed in a flat shoe, made a resounding tapping on the cafeteria stage. It echoed anxiously across the cafeteria, somehow mixing with the dull hum of middle school children sitting below me. Suddenly the bow on my flat became entangled in the portable metal chair. The chair collapsed and I knew I was falling before I started falling. I made a frantic grab for the notebook; but it was too late and I wasn’t fast enough to catch it. The notebook splattered hard all over the stage and I was on the ground; tears quickly running down my puffy face. I wasn’t injured, although I was hurt.
The cafeteria was completely silent. I desperately wanted them to do something, anything. Laugh! Someone just start laughing! I’m begging you! I wished in those moments; but no one did.
Finally, after several excruciating seconds, several boys began to pick up the papers that had fallen out of my loose notebook. Noise gradually escalated into the cafeteria again and I indignantly set up my chair. I took a seat on its hard metal surface as the troupe of boys began to hand me the missing pieces of my notebook. One of the boys was Charles. I didn’t say a word.
The elderly teacher began calling us up one by one. Verboten. Colloquial. Intractable. Formidable. I knew instantly when my competitors were wrong and I visibly cringed. One of my competitors recognized this pattern and began crying when I cringed. Poor kid.
It was finally my turn. I carefully untangled my nervous legs from the metal chair. I wasn’t one to make the same mistake twice. In what seemed like forever, I made my way to the podium and pulled down the microphone. I turned to look at the teacher expectantly.
“Ambition”, she delivered. It was a dagger, my kryptonite, my silver bullet. I nearly sunk to the floor.
“A-M-B-I-T-I-T…” There it was. I saw my parents in the background; their eyes widened. I looked at my competitors and to my surprise they looked… indifferent. This was it. This is what death feels like, I thought.
“-I-O-N” I finished, nervous, shaking, and yet anew.
With the sound of the buzzer, I walked off the stage.
Monday, October 05, 2015
Monday, September 28, 2015
Donald
Short Story by Rey David Morales of Cerro Coso Community College
2015 Met Awards - Second Place for College Fiction
Foamy water swirls and crashes in the stainless steel sink. It washes over white porcelain as plates are heaved, one by one, out of their sudsy depths. Set aside to dry after inspection, the dishwasher contemplates a time when dishes were in fact made of pearl. Pearl diver, that sounds much more impressive. The Crew Cuts play on the radio. The cook, a man in his twenties with a short stature but athletic build, sings along to the hopeful dreams of ancient pop stars as he prepares the next meal. The front door bell jingles loudly.
“Looks like he’s here,” the cook says with a smile. “After this order I am going out there to the front to cover for you-know-who. Be on your best behavior with Big Chief, okay?”
Big Chief is actually the owner of the restaurant and the boss, and genuinely an easy going guy. Cook makes his exit out the Westernesque red double doors to the main dining hall to take on his new role as a waiter. The boss makes his entrance. He is a short, slightly overweight man of fifty-ish, wearing a signature trucker cap with the name of the eatery embroidered on the front. They exchange pleasantries and continue working.
After a few orders business dies down. The boss, in his idleness, strikes up a conversation with the dishwasher.
“¿Como Estudo?” he asks. The boss speaks no English. Though he can read and write it and somewhat understood when someone is trying to get his point across, his tongue never mastered it.
“Bien, mas o menos,” the dishwasher responds in his Chicano tongue. They then discuss other areas of life such as one’s condition both in health and romance. The dishwasher always says he’s doing well in both (a harmless half-truth). Another subject that comes up is family, particularly how the dishwasher’s two sisters are fairing since leaving his employment the previous spring. They were peaceful departures. The dishwasher says they are both fine. One has gone into business with a friend and the other now works as a social worker in the city. The boss admits that he misses them. They were good people who would never pull the “crap” his senior waitress—the woman the cook is filling in for now—pulls.
The boss asks how his studies are going. The dishwasher states (like a Catholic prayer) that he graduated high school last year, and furthermore, it’s now the middle of summer. The boss nods in remembrance and asks what he’s planning on doing now. The dishwasher doesn’t know.
Soon a big table arrives and the dishwasher is thrown to the front so that the cook can help the boss with the order, as the Cook puts it, of “Ronald Calderon” proportions. The dishwasher hates working the front. For some strange reason he feels a strange wave of embarrassment whenever he sees a familiar face. It’s not so much the individual that gives him shame but the blank smiles they give him, eyes that say they are but common restaurant-goers with no concern for anyone outside their booths, a look that the dishwasher had not experienced a year earlier. Maybe he had given it, too.
No faces today. The dishwasher works the floor efficiently and at ease. Eventually the customers leave and the day turns to night. The boss leaves early, telling them they did a fine job and to keep his share of night’s tips. The cook gives him some anyway.
A lonely stranger stumbles in toward closing time.
“Hey, can you handle this?” the cook says, “I’m going to start getting ready for clean up.” He heads into the kitchen.
The stranger staggers to the cashier’s counter and stops himself from slamming into it. He asks if they sell chile verde but wrapped in a tortilla. The dishwasher asks if he means chile verde burritos and receives a fervent “Yes! To Go.” He pays with a debit card and attempts to get cash back. The dishwasher tells him that service isn’t offered here. The man apologizes and sits down.
When his order is finished he grabs it with shaky hands, states, “The Misses thanks you,” and stumbles out. The dishwasher goes to the back.
“Geez, did you see that guy? He was on something for sure.”
“Yeah, I know him,” the cook says. “Name’s Donald.”
“Donald?”
“Yeah, went to school with my dad, I guess he was some kind of genius. Got a perfect score on his SATs, every university wanted him.”
“What HAPPENED?”
“Don’t know exactly. Stayed for some girl, girl got hooked on meth, he did too. Last I heard his ‘Sweetheart’ left a few years back and he shacked up with someone else.”
“A genius … he could have gone anywhere he wanted.”
“Where else would he go, this town’s awesome.”
The dishwasher refuses a ride home only to discover he can’t be picked up. He begins his thirty-five minute walk home. There are few street lights in town. Save for a few passing cars, the trek is mostly dark. Along the way he passes streets where old friends once lived, illuminated by dull moonlight.
He still thinks about her sometimes. About words unsaid and flesh that never really touched. But the stars are beautiful here. He takes a short-cut through a dirt alleyway lined with wooden fences. Halfway through the path one of the town’s only streetlights illuminates a familiar figure, a crushed Styrofoam container lying next to it. Heart pounding, he walks up to it. It’s Donald, apparently mugged, face stomped, a torn wallet at his hand.
He fought desperately for that wallet, not for the currency in it but the words stitched into it: To my Einstein. –B. Between his fingers is clutched a picture—of a younger man and a pretty woman.
The dishwasher quits the following month. He is gone by summer’s end.
2015 Met Awards - Second Place for College Fiction
Foamy water swirls and crashes in the stainless steel sink. It washes over white porcelain as plates are heaved, one by one, out of their sudsy depths. Set aside to dry after inspection, the dishwasher contemplates a time when dishes were in fact made of pearl. Pearl diver, that sounds much more impressive. The Crew Cuts play on the radio. The cook, a man in his twenties with a short stature but athletic build, sings along to the hopeful dreams of ancient pop stars as he prepares the next meal. The front door bell jingles loudly.
“Looks like he’s here,” the cook says with a smile. “After this order I am going out there to the front to cover for you-know-who. Be on your best behavior with Big Chief, okay?”
Big Chief is actually the owner of the restaurant and the boss, and genuinely an easy going guy. Cook makes his exit out the Westernesque red double doors to the main dining hall to take on his new role as a waiter. The boss makes his entrance. He is a short, slightly overweight man of fifty-ish, wearing a signature trucker cap with the name of the eatery embroidered on the front. They exchange pleasantries and continue working.
After a few orders business dies down. The boss, in his idleness, strikes up a conversation with the dishwasher.
“¿Como Estudo?” he asks. The boss speaks no English. Though he can read and write it and somewhat understood when someone is trying to get his point across, his tongue never mastered it.
“Bien, mas o menos,” the dishwasher responds in his Chicano tongue. They then discuss other areas of life such as one’s condition both in health and romance. The dishwasher always says he’s doing well in both (a harmless half-truth). Another subject that comes up is family, particularly how the dishwasher’s two sisters are fairing since leaving his employment the previous spring. They were peaceful departures. The dishwasher says they are both fine. One has gone into business with a friend and the other now works as a social worker in the city. The boss admits that he misses them. They were good people who would never pull the “crap” his senior waitress—the woman the cook is filling in for now—pulls.
The boss asks how his studies are going. The dishwasher states (like a Catholic prayer) that he graduated high school last year, and furthermore, it’s now the middle of summer. The boss nods in remembrance and asks what he’s planning on doing now. The dishwasher doesn’t know.
Soon a big table arrives and the dishwasher is thrown to the front so that the cook can help the boss with the order, as the Cook puts it, of “Ronald Calderon” proportions. The dishwasher hates working the front. For some strange reason he feels a strange wave of embarrassment whenever he sees a familiar face. It’s not so much the individual that gives him shame but the blank smiles they give him, eyes that say they are but common restaurant-goers with no concern for anyone outside their booths, a look that the dishwasher had not experienced a year earlier. Maybe he had given it, too.
No faces today. The dishwasher works the floor efficiently and at ease. Eventually the customers leave and the day turns to night. The boss leaves early, telling them they did a fine job and to keep his share of night’s tips. The cook gives him some anyway.
A lonely stranger stumbles in toward closing time.
“Hey, can you handle this?” the cook says, “I’m going to start getting ready for clean up.” He heads into the kitchen.
The stranger staggers to the cashier’s counter and stops himself from slamming into it. He asks if they sell chile verde but wrapped in a tortilla. The dishwasher asks if he means chile verde burritos and receives a fervent “Yes! To Go.” He pays with a debit card and attempts to get cash back. The dishwasher tells him that service isn’t offered here. The man apologizes and sits down.
When his order is finished he grabs it with shaky hands, states, “The Misses thanks you,” and stumbles out. The dishwasher goes to the back.
“Geez, did you see that guy? He was on something for sure.”
“Yeah, I know him,” the cook says. “Name’s Donald.”
“Donald?”
“Yeah, went to school with my dad, I guess he was some kind of genius. Got a perfect score on his SATs, every university wanted him.”
“What HAPPENED?”
“Don’t know exactly. Stayed for some girl, girl got hooked on meth, he did too. Last I heard his ‘Sweetheart’ left a few years back and he shacked up with someone else.”
“A genius … he could have gone anywhere he wanted.”
“Where else would he go, this town’s awesome.”
The dishwasher refuses a ride home only to discover he can’t be picked up. He begins his thirty-five minute walk home. There are few street lights in town. Save for a few passing cars, the trek is mostly dark. Along the way he passes streets where old friends once lived, illuminated by dull moonlight.
He still thinks about her sometimes. About words unsaid and flesh that never really touched. But the stars are beautiful here. He takes a short-cut through a dirt alleyway lined with wooden fences. Halfway through the path one of the town’s only streetlights illuminates a familiar figure, a crushed Styrofoam container lying next to it. Heart pounding, he walks up to it. It’s Donald, apparently mugged, face stomped, a torn wallet at his hand.
He fought desperately for that wallet, not for the currency in it but the words stitched into it: To my Einstein. –B. Between his fingers is clutched a picture—of a younger man and a pretty woman.
The dishwasher quits the following month. He is gone by summer’s end.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Psychological Evaluations of Byron, Shelley, and Keats
2015 Met Awards - First Place for College Creative Non-Fiction
__________
San Jose City College
Disabled Poets Program & Services
2100 Moorpark Ave.
Poet Services Building
San Jose, CA. 95128
Re: Byron, Shelley and Keats
Disabled Poets Program & Services
2100 Moorpark Ave.
Poet Services Building
San Jose, CA. 95128
Re: Byron, Shelley and Keats
PSYCHOLOGICAL
EVALUATIONS
Names:
Byron, Shelley and Keats
Sexes: Male
File Name: Romantic
Poets, Second Generation
Ages: All
died before their time
Prepared
for: San Jose Poets Clinic
Date of Report: 3.13.2014
Completed
by: Reagan E. Wolfe, PhD, FACFE, DABPS
CONFIDENTIALITY STATEMENT:
The information contained herein in
this document is intended only for the individual addressed and may contain
information that is privileged and prohibited from disclosure to any other
party under the applicable law. This
information is to be considered extremely confidential and is to be released
only to duly authorized agencies or individuals. This information is intended only for the use
of the individuals named above. If you are not the intended recipient, you are
hereby notified that reading, disseminating, disclosing, distributing, copying,
acting upon or otherwise using this information in this document is strictly
prohibited.
Presenting
Problem:
John Keats
is a white male who is in his early twenties.
He is self-referred for an evaluation to assess for a learning
disability stemming from his inability as he reports to write poetry. He states, “When I write poetry, it just
doesn’t come as easy to me as it does for my contemporaries, although I do
write a lot of material.” In addition, he reports an ongoing difficulty with
attention, he is high-strung, and has distraction factors which in turn trigger
a sense of depression. The overall
results of the Millon College Counseling Inventory (MCCI) point toward
elevated scores of a moderate Anxiety
disorder. Results also suggest that
he has difficulty with sustaining energy and effort with his many other tasks
which include apothecary duties, medical training and assisting surgeons. He
acknowledges he is experiencing a Dysthymic
mood, resulting in a feeling of dejection and feelings of inadequacy,
perhaps stemming from the loss of his parents at a young age. In addition this mood may have caused his
inability to commit full-time to writing poetry, sooner. Last, he has an elevated score on the Clinical
Personality Patterns on the Compulsive
scale (score of 94) known as
Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder. This score suggests he can be
behaviorally rigid, meticulous, may be a perfectionist and an overachiever.
Presenting
Problem:
Lord Byron A.K.A.
George Gordon Byron, is a white male who is in his mid-thirties. He was referred by Samuel T. Coleridge who
was previously treated for a significant form of hero worship (Shakespeare and
Milton). Lord Byron presents himself as
a larger than life person who actually writes about heroes perhaps as a way to
fulfill unsatisfied desires or as a form of seeking an identity (perhaps one
like Zorro). He also admits that he is a
risk-taker who has amassed large debts and who also has a sex-addiction. He has an elevated score on the Clinical
Personality Patterns on the Compulsive
scale (score of 150) known as Obsessive-Compulsive Personality Disorder.
This score suggests he has a repetitive lifestyle with patterned
behaviors. Fear of social disapproval
can lead him to suppress his strong resentment and anger toward those whose
approval he seeks. Results on the Brown
Attention Deficit Scale – Adults indicate that there may be a function
of attention deficit operating with this individual. Such individuals tend to
be slow in getting started and have difficulty in getting organized, because of
being scattered or being inhibited by worry (Organizing and activating for
poetry).
Presenting
Problem:
Percy Bysshe
Shelley is a white male who is in his late twenties. He has been referred by
his wife Mary who is concerned with his sociopathic tendencies. Shelley states that he suffers from various
phobias which culminated from a difficult childhood in which he was the victim
of excessive bullying. As a result of
his bullying, he participated in sadistic behaviors that he attempted to
downplay as harmless pranks. These
‘pranks’ as he called them included electrifying doors. With regard to Clinical Syndromes, results
indicate that Mr. Shelley is feeling extremely apprehensive, (Anxiety, 82) or specifically phobic, is
typically tense, indecisive, and restless.
He may experience a notable sense that problems are imminent. For example, he may worry that he needs to
fully represent common man in notable causes because poets are people who enact
laws. He may also exhibit a hyperalertness to his environment (natural elements
such as the sky and weather). He also exhibits
a generalized sense of tension.
Monday, September 14, 2015
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
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
Monday, September 07, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, August 31, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, August 24, 2015
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.
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.
Monday, April 20, 2015
2015 Met Award Winners Announced!
Fiction
Cerro Coso
Poetry
Cerro Coso
Creative Non-Fiction
Cerro Coso
Cerro Coso
First PlaceHigh School
Jennifer Jones for “We Are Gathered Here Today”
Second Place
Rey David Morales for “Donald”
Honorable Mentions
Shari Allison for “Father Nickolas”
Meritzel Herrera for “Ignorance is Bliss
Korinza Elaine Shlanta for “January 17, 2438”
Austin Ream for “Sweet Mary Jane”
First Place
Grace Kameyo Griego for “Control”
Second Place
Sydney Marler for “Ambition”
Honorable Mentions
Emma Gilmartin for “The Real Coward”
Poetry
Cerro Coso
First PlaceHigh School
Jennifer Jones for “Undecided”
Second Place
Sophie R Walker for “Hummingbird”
Honorable Mentions
Michelle A. Lundberg for “Mom”
Alas Tarin for “The Last Supper”
Steffeni M. Moreno for “Repeat”
First Place
Kelsey Saxton Hire for “Seventeen”
Second Place
Emma K. Heflin for “Paper Skin”
Honorable Mention
Emma Gilmartin for “The Steppe Girl”
Creative Non-Fiction
Cerro Coso
First Place
Reagan Wolfe for “San Jose City College”
Second Place
Alex Tellez for “The Greatest Story”
Monday, November 24, 2014
Healed
Fiction by Krista Kenny of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction
“I’m healed,” she says. She sits in front of me smiling a smile I have never before seen on her lips. This is the first time I’ve seen my mom in a week. The plan had been for her to stay in rehab for much longer, but after several unexplainable days of neither pain nor withdrawal symptoms, the doctors had no reason to keep her. When she had told me on the phone that she wasn’t in pain anymore, I cried. I have been praying for this day since I was old enough to understand the concept, but I had never imagined that such a surreal event would have such a mundane setting: sitting in our house—in a chair I had sat in before on so many dull days—hearing that everything had changed. It didn’t seem real. But sitting in front of her today, in the same chair, it is impossibly real. I can hardly get a word in edgewise with all her stories of rehab: the friends she made, the food she ate, the bafflement of the doctors when she never entered withdrawal for the Oxycontin, and then stopped feeling the pain of the fibromyalgia altogether. She’s catching up really, for all the words that through the years the pain had wrested from her mind and strangled in her throat. My mom likes to talk, I realize for the first time in my nineteen years with her. My mom likes to laugh. Her laugh sounds alien to my ears though, which have so often heard her cry. Her smile is foreign to my eyes, which have become so used to her grimace. The sense of dissimilarity is overpowering. She starts to talk about all of the things we can do together now that she’s healed, all of the things she has to make up for as a mother. Her pretty words fall on me like half-unwanted caresses. My memories persist in dragging me back to all the other words I’ve heard from her, words so often filled with the venom of her pain, and all the hate and anger that had no other convenient target. I don’t blame her for those words. I’d long since gotten in the habit of ignoring the pain when it decided to speak through her. But this mother—the one that isn’t fighting the pain for words—she doesn’t seem like mine. Her arms, so strong and sure when she embraced me, aren’t the wary, trembling arms that have gingerly hugged me so many times before. The manner of her every minute gesture is strange to me without the weight of the pain dragging at her limbs. The adult in me is happy of course and reminds me over and over that this is my real mother; all the years before this were the façade. But there is a child in me screaming, screaming that the smiling, laughing person in front of me is an imposter, a mimic come to live the life my mom had wanted. Her strange laughter seems a mockery of all the years my mother had lived with the pain. It had become no more bearable but all the more familiar. In being given the thing I had begged God for my entire life, I feel somehow robbed of my mommy. But I cannot let it show. My feelings would hurt her, and I have been too thoroughly conditioned to never do anything that would hurt her. So I talk with her, and laugh with her, and put on a smile that I have never before worn on my lips. My mind tells me that God is present in this, but my heart tells me that he—and my mother—are further from me.
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction
“I’m healed,” she says. She sits in front of me smiling a smile I have never before seen on her lips. This is the first time I’ve seen my mom in a week. The plan had been for her to stay in rehab for much longer, but after several unexplainable days of neither pain nor withdrawal symptoms, the doctors had no reason to keep her. When she had told me on the phone that she wasn’t in pain anymore, I cried. I have been praying for this day since I was old enough to understand the concept, but I had never imagined that such a surreal event would have such a mundane setting: sitting in our house—in a chair I had sat in before on so many dull days—hearing that everything had changed. It didn’t seem real. But sitting in front of her today, in the same chair, it is impossibly real. I can hardly get a word in edgewise with all her stories of rehab: the friends she made, the food she ate, the bafflement of the doctors when she never entered withdrawal for the Oxycontin, and then stopped feeling the pain of the fibromyalgia altogether. She’s catching up really, for all the words that through the years the pain had wrested from her mind and strangled in her throat. My mom likes to talk, I realize for the first time in my nineteen years with her. My mom likes to laugh. Her laugh sounds alien to my ears though, which have so often heard her cry. Her smile is foreign to my eyes, which have become so used to her grimace. The sense of dissimilarity is overpowering. She starts to talk about all of the things we can do together now that she’s healed, all of the things she has to make up for as a mother. Her pretty words fall on me like half-unwanted caresses. My memories persist in dragging me back to all the other words I’ve heard from her, words so often filled with the venom of her pain, and all the hate and anger that had no other convenient target. I don’t blame her for those words. I’d long since gotten in the habit of ignoring the pain when it decided to speak through her. But this mother—the one that isn’t fighting the pain for words—she doesn’t seem like mine. Her arms, so strong and sure when she embraced me, aren’t the wary, trembling arms that have gingerly hugged me so many times before. The manner of her every minute gesture is strange to me without the weight of the pain dragging at her limbs. The adult in me is happy of course and reminds me over and over that this is my real mother; all the years before this were the façade. But there is a child in me screaming, screaming that the smiling, laughing person in front of me is an imposter, a mimic come to live the life my mom had wanted. Her strange laughter seems a mockery of all the years my mother had lived with the pain. It had become no more bearable but all the more familiar. In being given the thing I had begged God for my entire life, I feel somehow robbed of my mommy. But I cannot let it show. My feelings would hurt her, and I have been too thoroughly conditioned to never do anything that would hurt her. So I talk with her, and laugh with her, and put on a smile that I have never before worn on my lips. My mind tells me that God is present in this, but my heart tells me that he—and my mother—are further from me.
Monday, November 17, 2014
Montmartre, Paris
Poem by Janace Tashjian of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Poetry
She wept
and weeds grew around her feet
the black cat leapt
Words inept
granite cloak to hold her seat
she wept
Hooded eyes as shadows crept
across each stone, hide ... retreat
the black cat leapt
Endless mourning; below he slept
above, scorching freezing sleet
She wept
Barren bracken o'er the crypt
ravens swoop and caw conceit
the black cat leapt
Eternal. Wind swept
oh beauty! The bell tolls "Silence"!
she wept
the black cat leapt
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Poetry
She wept
and weeds grew around her feet
the black cat leapt
Words inept
granite cloak to hold her seat
she wept
Hooded eyes as shadows crept
across each stone, hide ... retreat
the black cat leapt
Endless mourning; below he slept
above, scorching freezing sleet
She wept
Barren bracken o'er the crypt
ravens swoop and caw conceit
the black cat leapt
Eternal. Wind swept
oh beauty! The bell tolls "Silence"!
she wept
the black cat leapt
Monday, November 10, 2014
An Irrelevant Edge
Fiction by Aubrey Elliott of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction
“I wasted the best years of my life with you,” she said bitterly as the conversation escalated into a fight.
“You gave me the best years of my life,” he replied with an underlying meaning he knew she would mistake.
“You’ve held me back from the life I wanted to live,” she said missing his point.
“All I’ve ever done was try to better your life anyway I could.” True as it was, he knew it left no impact.
“Everything you say is a lie,” she said, perfectly aware of the nerve she would hit.
“What will make you happy?” He asked feeling obligated to do so.
“He makes me happy,” with that she unleashed the true cause of their withering marriage. It struck him speechless even though he had known it for a while. He didn’t need to know a name or any details once she confirmed his suspicions.
For their son’s sake, he would have tolerated the treachery, but he knew she wouldn’t be gratified by merely a new escort. She wanted the freedom to indulge in the vices he tried to save her from.
He was mournful that his marriage would have to end in such an unscrupulous way. Her selfish lust was an affliction on him and he resented her for it; but he held back form retaliation. He wasn’t ashamed by what his wife’s inconsiderate actions would reflect on himself; rather he knew her actions would leave a more devastating impact on others at stake. So when he was asked why his marriage was ending, he would say “I wasn’t making her happy,” to distract from, but not lie about, the real reason.
He kept her guilty actions out of the picture and let her take half of everything he worked for in the divorce. But in the custody battle for their son, against his conscience, he exposed her dependency on entangling types of escape. He tried not to stain her image as much as he could, even though she had already done so to herself. He tried to make the court hearings and the arguments that followed them as painless as possible. She made his attempts at being passive difficult; not seeing his motives for being so distant, and would spark an argument, after every hearing, spitting painful retorts at him, while he held his breath. And after the final verdict, she privately lashed out at him for what she perceived as delusive nobility.
“You should have just exposed my affair; half of your hard work isn’t worth your smug stance. It’s just like you to try and keep your higher ground.”
He tried to refrain from giving the impression of pretention but there was no better way to express the honesty of his motives, “I didn’t do it for me,” he told her.
Scornfully she argued, “I don’t need you to spare me.”
He took his son from her arms. And as she kissed her son goodbye, he told her “I didn’t do it for you either.” And he walked away without holding his breath anymore.
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction
“I wasted the best years of my life with you,” she said bitterly as the conversation escalated into a fight.
“You gave me the best years of my life,” he replied with an underlying meaning he knew she would mistake.
“You’ve held me back from the life I wanted to live,” she said missing his point.
“All I’ve ever done was try to better your life anyway I could.” True as it was, he knew it left no impact.
“Everything you say is a lie,” she said, perfectly aware of the nerve she would hit.
“What will make you happy?” He asked feeling obligated to do so.
“He makes me happy,” with that she unleashed the true cause of their withering marriage. It struck him speechless even though he had known it for a while. He didn’t need to know a name or any details once she confirmed his suspicions.
For their son’s sake, he would have tolerated the treachery, but he knew she wouldn’t be gratified by merely a new escort. She wanted the freedom to indulge in the vices he tried to save her from.
He was mournful that his marriage would have to end in such an unscrupulous way. Her selfish lust was an affliction on him and he resented her for it; but he held back form retaliation. He wasn’t ashamed by what his wife’s inconsiderate actions would reflect on himself; rather he knew her actions would leave a more devastating impact on others at stake. So when he was asked why his marriage was ending, he would say “I wasn’t making her happy,” to distract from, but not lie about, the real reason.
He kept her guilty actions out of the picture and let her take half of everything he worked for in the divorce. But in the custody battle for their son, against his conscience, he exposed her dependency on entangling types of escape. He tried not to stain her image as much as he could, even though she had already done so to herself. He tried to make the court hearings and the arguments that followed them as painless as possible. She made his attempts at being passive difficult; not seeing his motives for being so distant, and would spark an argument, after every hearing, spitting painful retorts at him, while he held his breath. And after the final verdict, she privately lashed out at him for what she perceived as delusive nobility.
“You should have just exposed my affair; half of your hard work isn’t worth your smug stance. It’s just like you to try and keep your higher ground.”
He tried to refrain from giving the impression of pretention but there was no better way to express the honesty of his motives, “I didn’t do it for me,” he told her.
Scornfully she argued, “I don’t need you to spare me.”
He took his son from her arms. And as she kissed her son goodbye, he told her “I didn’t do it for you either.” And he walked away without holding his breath anymore.
Monday, November 03, 2014
Snow Walk
Poem by Katy Harvey of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Poetry
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Poetry
spring snow in Tahoe
pitching pinecones, gentle wind.
diggin' earth this day.
pitching pinecones, gentle wind.
diggin' earth this day.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Society of Last Hope
Short Story by Shari Allison of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction
This group sits in a circle. I hate circles; maybe it is because it’s the unhealthy mix of a childhood game combined with the intrusive familiarity of needy adults. Whatever the reason, the blend equals a cake made with tablespoons of salt and baking soda instead of teaspoons. Truly cringe worthy. Still, I take a seat because all my other options are gone.
A lot of people say that you earn a seat here, I feel more like I paid for mine. Based on the looks of the chair, I’d say I got ripped off. There is a slit in the plastic surface right in the center of the bottom cushion. The indentations tell me that all the butts before me didn’t appear to mind sitting on a chair whose stuffing had long ago escaped. Where ever that stuffing is, I’m sure it is in a better place than I am. Regardless, I take a seat. Instantly I’m reminded that the cushion is on vacation.
To distract myself from the others who are starting to gather I look at my hands. They are dry and cracked, I really should take better care of them. The hangnails are discouraging, but the real worry about my hands is that they are shaking. It is a movement I’ve become accustom to, and have learned to work around. I have coffee. It’s not in one of those Styrofoam cups built to withstand heat and unintentionally designed to outlive the human race. My trembling fingers would quickly distribute that cup’s contents onto myself, the floor, and any neighboring party who happened to walk by. No. There is no way I am going to embarrass myself by that potential. I brought decaffeinated coffee from home in a Bubba cup. A great big purple and stainless steel container with a spill resistant lid. They didn’t specifically advertise the canister for my particular ailment, but it works.
From the corner of my eye I can see the donated yard-sale type chair to my right has now become occupied. The intrusion begins. It is no longer me sitting in a circle of miss-matched chairs. People are moving toward the circle, it makes me think of the salty cake and I visibly cringe. I can feel the body heat of strangers pressing in on me. There is a rush of movement, smells, noise, all pushing in against my isolated musings. They move with purpose, and a desire to translate their time spent here as accomplishing an objective. My goal is more closely related to survival.
The neighbor to my right says something. A cloud of stench wafts by me. Bourbon, I think. It’s hard to say, my olfactory capacity is breached. The smell of coffee, old furniture, and perfumed bodies has drowned-out my identifying facilities. It doesn’t really matter anyway. A few drinks before coming here seems saner than coming stone-cold sober. Sadly I’ve missed the open window of opportunity to dilute my mental acuity to an oblivious state. I get to take it all in, including everything I don’t want.
“Okay everyone, it is time to get started. Please come in and take a seat.” Instructs a female voice.
I continue to stare at my hands. I’m not here to make friends.
“Now, you are all here for the same reason. You are probably thinking to yourself, that the last thing you want to do is make friends, but I will warn you—it is the people in this room who will help you to reach your goal.” I’m beginning to hate our mindreading leader already.
“We will take a break in thirty minutes. I will sign report cards at the break after you submit for the blood test. We test for drugs, alcohol, tobacco and alike. No blood test, no signature.”
There is mumbling in the room and several people including the guy to my right, get up and leave. Club rules state no alcohol. I abided.
“Okay,” starts up our leader after the brief interval, “now that those who are serious are left, we can begin tonight’s meeting of the Broken Hearts Club.”
I want to leave. To escape from this joke of coercive assembly. The problem is they hold my life in their hands, and my survival depends on any whim they set.
“You are here because your lifestyle puts you at risk. Doctors don’t like to give hearts to people who don’t take care of them.” I can feel her eyes sizing up the group. “This program will keep you on the donor list. If you stop attendance for any reason other than hospitalization, you lose your priority status.”
Determination forces me to adjust my butt in the cushion-less chair for the long haul.
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention for College Fiction
This group sits in a circle. I hate circles; maybe it is because it’s the unhealthy mix of a childhood game combined with the intrusive familiarity of needy adults. Whatever the reason, the blend equals a cake made with tablespoons of salt and baking soda instead of teaspoons. Truly cringe worthy. Still, I take a seat because all my other options are gone.
A lot of people say that you earn a seat here, I feel more like I paid for mine. Based on the looks of the chair, I’d say I got ripped off. There is a slit in the plastic surface right in the center of the bottom cushion. The indentations tell me that all the butts before me didn’t appear to mind sitting on a chair whose stuffing had long ago escaped. Where ever that stuffing is, I’m sure it is in a better place than I am. Regardless, I take a seat. Instantly I’m reminded that the cushion is on vacation.
To distract myself from the others who are starting to gather I look at my hands. They are dry and cracked, I really should take better care of them. The hangnails are discouraging, but the real worry about my hands is that they are shaking. It is a movement I’ve become accustom to, and have learned to work around. I have coffee. It’s not in one of those Styrofoam cups built to withstand heat and unintentionally designed to outlive the human race. My trembling fingers would quickly distribute that cup’s contents onto myself, the floor, and any neighboring party who happened to walk by. No. There is no way I am going to embarrass myself by that potential. I brought decaffeinated coffee from home in a Bubba cup. A great big purple and stainless steel container with a spill resistant lid. They didn’t specifically advertise the canister for my particular ailment, but it works.
From the corner of my eye I can see the donated yard-sale type chair to my right has now become occupied. The intrusion begins. It is no longer me sitting in a circle of miss-matched chairs. People are moving toward the circle, it makes me think of the salty cake and I visibly cringe. I can feel the body heat of strangers pressing in on me. There is a rush of movement, smells, noise, all pushing in against my isolated musings. They move with purpose, and a desire to translate their time spent here as accomplishing an objective. My goal is more closely related to survival.
The neighbor to my right says something. A cloud of stench wafts by me. Bourbon, I think. It’s hard to say, my olfactory capacity is breached. The smell of coffee, old furniture, and perfumed bodies has drowned-out my identifying facilities. It doesn’t really matter anyway. A few drinks before coming here seems saner than coming stone-cold sober. Sadly I’ve missed the open window of opportunity to dilute my mental acuity to an oblivious state. I get to take it all in, including everything I don’t want.
“Okay everyone, it is time to get started. Please come in and take a seat.” Instructs a female voice.
I continue to stare at my hands. I’m not here to make friends.
“Now, you are all here for the same reason. You are probably thinking to yourself, that the last thing you want to do is make friends, but I will warn you—it is the people in this room who will help you to reach your goal.” I’m beginning to hate our mindreading leader already.
“We will take a break in thirty minutes. I will sign report cards at the break after you submit for the blood test. We test for drugs, alcohol, tobacco and alike. No blood test, no signature.”
There is mumbling in the room and several people including the guy to my right, get up and leave. Club rules state no alcohol. I abided.
“Okay,” starts up our leader after the brief interval, “now that those who are serious are left, we can begin tonight’s meeting of the Broken Hearts Club.”
I want to leave. To escape from this joke of coercive assembly. The problem is they hold my life in their hands, and my survival depends on any whim they set.
“You are here because your lifestyle puts you at risk. Doctors don’t like to give hearts to people who don’t take care of them.” I can feel her eyes sizing up the group. “This program will keep you on the donor list. If you stop attendance for any reason other than hospitalization, you lose your priority status.”
Determination forces me to adjust my butt in the cushion-less chair for the long haul.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Circa 2003
Short Story by John Schneider of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention
A supermarket parking lot
In Newbury Park was my office
I sat saturated with
Careless ennui in the morning sunlight
That warmed my car's interior
Looking at letters to send, counting my change
When I saw them
Two unselfconscious lovers
Cuddling nuzzling
Head to head, head to neck
Face to chest
Oblivious to many nearby
Walking or sitting or driving or existing
On foot or in clever
Wheeled or fixed boxes
Careless of the couples
Public, unashamed amour
A tree branch spanning high
Over market's wall
Was their lovers' perch
On swaying twig-tip they stood close
Two crows engaged in airy foreplay
Ignorant of us ignorant to them
In their bliss
2014 Met Awards - Honorable Mention
A supermarket parking lot
In Newbury Park was my office
I sat saturated with
Careless ennui in the morning sunlight
That warmed my car's interior
Looking at letters to send, counting my change
When I saw them
Two unselfconscious lovers
Cuddling nuzzling
Head to head, head to neck
Face to chest
Oblivious to many nearby
Walking or sitting or driving or existing
On foot or in clever
Wheeled or fixed boxes
Careless of the couples
Public, unashamed amour
A tree branch spanning high
Over market's wall
Was their lovers' perch
On swaying twig-tip they stood close
Two crows engaged in airy foreplay
Ignorant of us ignorant to them
In their bliss
Monday, October 13, 2014
The Rosary
Short Story by Amanda Taylor of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - 2nd Place for College Fiction
I think about death every day. I don’t know if that makes me terribly normal or just plain morbid. I guess neither of those reasons are anything to be proud of, so what’s the use in deciding? I don't care about what happens to me after I die-I’ll have to face it myself and find out for sure. What concerns me is the deadline. I wonder if I'll get snuffed out like a candle before I'm able to get married or see my children grow up. Will my good works add up in the end or will my wrong turns define my life? My great-grandfather died last October and his loss has barely begun to sink in. I knew him from his 70s on and although I knew he would eventually die, part of me felt he was an exception. He was the only father I’d known for most of my life and was a constant source of fascination. He had lost all his teeth in World War II and never wore a set of dentures for the rest of his life. I remember staring at him in disbelief when watching him crunch on tortilla chips or tear into a prime rib with nothing but his bare gums. I remember how he would kneel by his bed and pray for hours a day with his glow in the dark rosary and his prayer books, stained greasy brown by his crooked, wrinkled fingers. I thought that rosary was the greatest. Even though anything glow in the dark is a marvel when you’re eight-years-old, my grandpa’s rosary made me believe in God, the saints and maybe even Santa Claus. My grandpa was the one who took me to church as a child I remember how much I wish I could say my prayers with that rosary that lit up like my Jurassic Park poster at night. The first time I walked into his room after he died, I spotted the long forgotten rosary strewn across his night stand. I grabbed it in my hand and felt the beads shift between my fingers. I could feel the grit, deposited by years of feverish whispers and kisses, that was forever trapped between the joints between the beads. What used to be a coveted treasure suddenly lost all its former glory. It felt so utterly cheap because at that moment what I wanted more than anything was my grandpa, the person who drove me to school and played cards with me, to be alive. Instead, all I have is this odd relic of a life I will never fully understand. At that moment, I felt the full weight of his loss that I didn’t feel when I kissed his cheek as he drew his last breaths. I felt the full weight of that shame because at the moment he left this world, I was more concerned with my own life than his death. When I'm dead, will anyone hold my most prized possession and realize that I was the treasure worth keeping?
2014 Met Awards - 2nd Place for College Fiction
I think about death every day. I don’t know if that makes me terribly normal or just plain morbid. I guess neither of those reasons are anything to be proud of, so what’s the use in deciding? I don't care about what happens to me after I die-I’ll have to face it myself and find out for sure. What concerns me is the deadline. I wonder if I'll get snuffed out like a candle before I'm able to get married or see my children grow up. Will my good works add up in the end or will my wrong turns define my life? My great-grandfather died last October and his loss has barely begun to sink in. I knew him from his 70s on and although I knew he would eventually die, part of me felt he was an exception. He was the only father I’d known for most of my life and was a constant source of fascination. He had lost all his teeth in World War II and never wore a set of dentures for the rest of his life. I remember staring at him in disbelief when watching him crunch on tortilla chips or tear into a prime rib with nothing but his bare gums. I remember how he would kneel by his bed and pray for hours a day with his glow in the dark rosary and his prayer books, stained greasy brown by his crooked, wrinkled fingers. I thought that rosary was the greatest. Even though anything glow in the dark is a marvel when you’re eight-years-old, my grandpa’s rosary made me believe in God, the saints and maybe even Santa Claus. My grandpa was the one who took me to church as a child I remember how much I wish I could say my prayers with that rosary that lit up like my Jurassic Park poster at night. The first time I walked into his room after he died, I spotted the long forgotten rosary strewn across his night stand. I grabbed it in my hand and felt the beads shift between my fingers. I could feel the grit, deposited by years of feverish whispers and kisses, that was forever trapped between the joints between the beads. What used to be a coveted treasure suddenly lost all its former glory. It felt so utterly cheap because at that moment what I wanted more than anything was my grandpa, the person who drove me to school and played cards with me, to be alive. Instead, all I have is this odd relic of a life I will never fully understand. At that moment, I felt the full weight of his loss that I didn’t feel when I kissed his cheek as he drew his last breaths. I felt the full weight of that shame because at the moment he left this world, I was more concerned with my own life than his death. When I'm dead, will anyone hold my most prized possession and realize that I was the treasure worth keeping?
Monday, October 06, 2014
The 20th Year
Poem by Korinza Shlanta of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - 2nd Place for College Poetry
How my soul is filled with trepidation,
And my path seems covered by growth
Or perhaps it's the dilapidation
Or even just the loss of my own oath.
How I swore to be better and achieve
My dreams in quick strides, but my pace is slow.
In my twentieth year I shall not grieve.
I have time ahead, so little in tow.
A decade ahead, a decade behind,
Fewer seasons seem to pass before me.
Yet, I learn to shape my body and mind
From my thoughts into actions you can see.
I will clear my own path with my own thought.
A path for me I follow not for naught.
Monday, September 29, 2014
To the Artist
Poem by Emma Heflin
2014 Met Awards - 2nd Place for High School Poetry
To the artist Who himself is a work of art.
Your paintings of war and earth and misery
Are nothing compared to what I see.
Because war and earth and misery
Are sad, sometimes beautiful, too.
Anyone can see how that is true.
But nobody sees you the way I do.
My artist
Who himself is a work of art.
2014 Met Awards - 2nd Place for High School Poetry
To the artist Who himself is a work of art.
Your paintings of war and earth and misery
Are nothing compared to what I see.
Because war and earth and misery
Are sad, sometimes beautiful, too.
Anyone can see how that is true.
But nobody sees you the way I do.
My artist
Who himself is a work of art.
Monday, September 22, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, September 15, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, September 08, 2014
Logic
Poem by Alas Tarin of Cerro Coso Community College
2014 Met Awards - 1st Place for College Poetry
2014 Met Awards - 1st Place for College Poetry
Monday, September 01, 2014
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?
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.
Monday, April 14, 2014
2014 Met Awards Ceremony and Reading
Date
Friday, 25 April
Time
4-6 p.m.
Location
Student Art Gallery of Cerro Coso IWV, Ridgecrest
Details
Family and friends, come join us for this award celebration and reading in honor of this year's fiction and poetry award recipients.
The ceremony will be held in Cerro Coso's beautiful art gallery. All 1st and 2nd Place writers and poets will be the featured readers of the event. Refreshments will be served.
All award recipients, including honorable mentions, will receive an award certificate at the event. First and second place authors will receive a $50 or $25 gift card.
Watch for 1st and 2nd place pieces in the Fall 2014 edition of Metamorphoses Online.
Friday, 25 April
4-6 p.m.
Location
Student Art Gallery of Cerro Coso IWV, Ridgecrest
Details
Family and friends, come join us for this award celebration and reading in honor of this year's fiction and poetry award recipients.
The ceremony will be held in Cerro Coso's beautiful art gallery. All 1st and 2nd Place writers and poets will be the featured readers of the event. Refreshments will be served.
All award recipients, including honorable mentions, will receive an award certificate at the event. First and second place authors will receive a $50 or $25 gift card.
Watch for 1st and 2nd place pieces in the Fall 2014 edition of Metamorphoses Online.
Monday, April 07, 2014
2014 Met Awards Poetry Winners Announced!
FIRST PLACE
Skylar Muse for "Words"
SECOND PLACE
Emma Heflin for "To the Artist"
HONORABLE MENTION
John Hicks for "Puppy Love"College
FIRST PLACE
Alas Tarin for "Logic"
SECOND PLACE
Korinza Shlanta for "The 20th Year"
HONORABLE MENTIONS
John Schneider for "Circa 2003"Stay Tuned!
Katy Harvey for "Snow Walk"
Janace Tashjian for "Montmartre, Paris"
All winners and honorable mentions will be invited to read their work at the awards ceremony Friday, April 25 at the Cerro Coso IWV Campus in Ridgecrest. Friends and family are encouraged to attend this celebratory event.
Awards Ceremony and Reading: Friday, 25 April 2014 in Ridgecrest
Publication: Fall 2014
Winners will receive more information regarding the ceremony soon.
Friday, April 04, 2014
2014 Met Awards Fiction Winners Announced!
FIRST PLACE
Alex Tellez for "On a Final Note"
HONORABLE MENTION
Abigail Clayson for "The Knight and the Dragon"College
FIRST PLACE
Korinza Shlanta for "Three Lies"
SECOND PLACE
Amanda Taylor for "The Rosary"
HONORABLE MENTIONS
Shari Allison for "Society of Last Hope"Stay Tuned!
Aubrey Elliott for "An Irrelevant Edge"
Krista Kenny for "Healed"
Poetry winners will be announced in the next few days.
All winners and honorable mentions will be invited to read their work at the awards ceremony Friday, April 25 at the Cerro Coso IWV Campus in Ridgecrest. Friends and family are encouraged to attend this celebratory event.
Awards Ceremony and Reading: Friday, 25 April 2014 in Ridgecrest
Publication: Fall 2014
Winners will receive more information regarding the ceremony soon.
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