seeking to encourage and recognize excellence in creative ...a little girl. “rookie,” grinned...

2011

2012

Award Winning

Poetry, Short Stories&

Personal Essays

1901 Smucker Rd., Orrville, OH 44667www.wayne.uakron.edu

Seeking to encourage

and recognize excellence

in creative writing among

students at the College

and in area High Schools.

“Seeking to encourage and recognize excellencein creative writing among students

at Wayne College and area High Schools.”

www.wayne.uakron.edu/learning-center/writing-center.dot

Award Winning

Poetry, Short Stories & Personal Essays

2011 - 2012

33.

speakers and echoed through the soon-to-be packed auditorium. “Had I really just done that?” I thought to myself. Everyone stared at me with blank faces, and a roar of laughter came from the entire group. I could feel my face blushing and turning every shade of red as I giggled like a little girl. “Rookie,” grinned the drummer. “It’s happened to all of us. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“You guys are on in sixty seconds!” The camera man yelled to us from the side stage. This was it, no turning back now. The choir was in place and so were the musicians; everyone was in his or her starting positions. There I was front and center with only a heavy navy blue curtain separating me and the audience. To make matters worse, every person in leadership was sitting in the front row, including the pastor. As the music started playing and the curtains went up, I prayed, “God, please don’t let me screw this up.” I took one last glance at Ms. Lisa. With a goofy full smile and a thumbs up gesture, she mouthed to me, “SINK OR SWIM!”

The rest of the evening was a blur to me. I remember thinking, “This must be what it’s like to be shot out of a cannon.” I know that I didn’t mess up my words or miss my cue. All of the disastrous circumstances that I thought would happen did not. After service, Ms. Lisa sauntered towards me with a light-footed step, embraced me, and affi rmed that I had done a great job. What a relief! “It’s okay to be a runner,” she whispered in my ear. “Just make sure it’s in the right direction.”

Jessica davisWayne College

cont’d from page 32

Selection committeeJohn P. Kristofco, Ph.D.,

Emeritus Professor of EnglishDr. Susanna K. Horn

Coordinator of Developmental Programs

it was already 4:00 PM, as my mind started racing with my all too familiar self-talk. What am I going to wear? I haven’t eaten all day. What if I pass out on stage? Even worse, what if I throw up? This is an awful idea. I’m not going. But I can’t just not go. I have school tomorrow and everyone will know!

Against every bit of my will, my roommate and best friend Bernia helped me pick out my ensemble. “You need something in a darker shade. You’re going to be on television and they say it adds ten pounds. I don’t know how true that is, but no girl wants that.”

“Television!?” I exclaimed, jumping out of my seat and hitting my head on the rail of the top bunk, “No one said anything about that!” Now I was really feeling sick.

“Jess, you can do this. You’re talented. Ms. Lisa wouldn’t have picked you if she didn’t think you were up to this.” Of course, she was confident about this. She wasn’t the one doing it! Poor Bernia had to pull me by the arm for the nearly five-minute walk to the church. When I stretched my hand out for the door knob, I realized that I had reached yet another milestone on my scaredy-cat pilgrimage.

When I got there, all of the musicians and singers were already in place. One of the soundmen handed me a silver microphone that felt as heavy as a lead paper weight. “Sing into this so we can set your levels and balance them with everyone else,” he said. At that moment, every song that I had ever known escaped my mind in twelve different directions. “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb…” I sang.

My voice boomed through over two hundred

2011-12 Wayne College Writing Awards

32.

HigH ScHool Student Writing Awards 2011-2012High School – Poetry Saved (1st Place) by SAmAntHA tHomPSon ....................................................................... 1 Coventry High School , Teacher: Mr. Jamison The Mother and Her Son (2nd Place) by liSA HeddleSton ............................................... 2 Coventry High School , Teacher: Mr. Jamison Grandpa (3rd Place) by grAce mccourt ............................................................................. 3 Wadsworth High School, Teacher: Mr. Callaghan Sheol (Honorable Mention) by mAtt PAvlAk ........................................................................... 4 Wadsworth High School, Teacher: Mr. Callaghan

High School – Short Story Loved But Lost (1st Place) by trent Weber ........................................................................ 5 Smithville High School, Teacher: Mr. Frizell A Day in Our Lives (2nd Place) by dominique vignoS ........................................................ 8 Massillon Washington High School, Teacher: Mr. Harding The Canvas (3rd Place) by kAtlyne meAde ........................................................................11 Smithville High School, Teacher: Mr. Frizell

High School – Personal essay Sunshine (1st Place) by mAry Anne Snyder .................................................................... 14 Orrville High School, PSEOP The Closet (2nd Place) by mAriAH gunSelmAn ................................................................. 16 Wadsworth High School, Teacher: Mr. Callaghan Wendy (3rd Place) by AnnA cHen ......................................................................................... 19 Copley High School, Teacher: Mrs. Davis

college Student Writing Awards 2011-2012Wayne college – Poetry The Sentinels (1st Place) by rAlPH crAWford ..................................................................22

Wayne college – Short Story The House On the Hill (1st Place) by tHereSA rAbbittS .................................................23

Wayne college – Personal essay The Collection (1st Place) by HeAtHer HolmeS .................................................................24 Recollection of Desperation (2nd Place) by lindA Siegel .................................................27 Sink or Swim (3rd Place) by JeSSicA dAviS ..........................................................................30

cont’d from page 31news.” If I could have taken that moment of relief, bottled it up, and sold it on EBay, I’d be a very rich girl. “I’ve just been told that one of my main singers for the church is leaving us to seek other opportunities. I want you to take her place.” After hearing these words, I had to scrape my bottom jaw off the floor.

“Me?” I stuttered. I was overjoyed and terrified and I’m sure that my emotions could be seen by the expressions on my face. Ms. Lisa stood up as I babbled on with every excuse I could think of, such as.... “I’ve only been here a few weeks. I’m not even qualified. I don’t know the songs well enough. I…” Who was I trying to kid? No one had ever refused Ms. Lisa. She opened the office door and gave a gesture as if to say, “…and that’s final.”

This wasn’t even a debate; she didn’t even give me the opportunity to state my case! As I walked out the door, she said, “Jess, there are two kinds of people in this world, sinkers and swimmers. The only way to find out which one you are is to have someone push you out of the boat that you won’t leave.”

Like a freight train, it hit me. Maybe it wasn’t that no one ever said no to her; perhaps she just knew me better than I knew me and this was what I needed all along. I stared at the blank white wall. “By the way,” she added, “you start tonight and you’re leading the first song. Be there at 6:45 PM sharp, and do not be late. The whole team is wearing fall colors.” She smiled, and with that, she slammed the red metal door. By this time, cont’d on page 33

Award WinningHigH ScHool

Poetry, Short Stories & Personal Essays2011 - 2012

31.cont’d on page 32

challenge and faced my fears head on.Little did I know that my first challenge

would be fitting all of my things into the very small space that I would be calling home for the next year. The room contained two closets on either side of the room that were flush against the wall, connected by a long desk. There was a cedar dresser with only three working drawers, a mini-fridge, and bunk bed with mattresses fit for nights of awful sleep. The cement walls were painted an abhorrent manila color and the carpet was little more than a thin blanket laid on cement. It was about as inviting as a morgue. Was this the environment where the greatest minds of the world were cultivated? I could tell that my parents weren’t too impressed with my new living arrangements, either, but an hour later I would be telling them goodbye.

After meeting my resident director, signing some papers, and learning all of the strict rules, my parents were hugging me for the last time until November. I watched the taillights of our metallic silver Dodge Charger until it disappeared around the corner. I slunk down with my back against the brick pillar, and I whispered quietly under my breath, “What have I gotten myself into?”

The first few weeks of classes were almost unbearable. Since I was a music student, my classes lasted longer into the day than all of the other majors. I was also in the school choir, which meant on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, my call time was an hour earlier than all of the other students in order to prepare for that

morning’s chapel. My favorite teacher, Ms. Lisa, taught most of my classes. Not only was she the music department head for Valor, but also for two five-thousand member churches.

I had met her on a panel of “judges” in the summer. Upon my enrollment and acceptance, all music students were required to audition for placement. She was a stickler and a perfectionist. If it wasn’t done right the first time, we would do it until it was right. Most days my vocal chords were so exhausted that I didn’t talk the rest of the evening. There was no doubt that she knew what she was talking about, and when she said jump, it better be done in a hurry.

I had been singing in the choir and on the stage for about three weeks. After class, Ms. Lisa called me into her office, which was located to the left of the stage. My mind was racing and my heart was struggling to keep up. “What had I done?” I wondered. I had been very low key, done all of my homework, and never missed curfew. With all eyes on me, I deliberately dawdled towards the door, looking back one more time as if doom awaited me on the other side. I nervously opened the metal door and shut it as quietly as possible.

“Sit down, please,” she said, with her usual steaming cup of Starbucks in hand. I glided onto the edge of my seat, being sure to sit up straight. “Are you nervous?” She asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I am. Good results don’t usually come from office visits in school.”

“Well, don’t be,” she smirked. “This is great


Samantha thompsonSeniorCoventry High School

First Place Poetry - High School Division

1. 30.

Saved

Open spaceSo open, it becomes breathless

Breathless. The way my lungsGasp.

Infl ate. Defl ate.

We should have saved Each otherFrom the open.

Saved. The feel of your hand on mine,In my memory

But you did not need saving.You did not need;

Hand in hand.

Eyes on eyes.

Mind on mind.

A closeness of touchingIn places where only theStitchingOf our garments should touch,On my heart.WhereYour hand, I thought,Belonged

Where it fi t the mold like a gloveFingersResting in the arteriesPalm in the chamberBeatingThe blood in my veins.

Third Place Personal Essay - College Division

As a freshman in college, I had no idea what to expect. I was a fi rst generation college student and super proud of it. Not only was I moving away from my diminutive, “everybody knows everybody and all their business” town but also my entire family was one hundred miles away. Sure, I could call them, but I wouldn’t see them until Thanksgiving break. Movies like Accepted and Legally Blonde made college life look so effortless. The actors would constantly reference the fact that it was all about whom one knew. That should be simple enough, right?

It was late August in Columbus, Ohio. The weather was unseasonably warm for this time of year, but I loved it. There was crispness in the air, a color change in the leaves, and a beaming warm sun overhead. From the time we left my house until we arrived at the college, all I had seen was a four-lane highway, billboards, and Ohio State football traffi c that was backed up for miles. As we pulled into the parking lot of Valor Christian College, I couldn’t even see the buildings in the distance for the hundreds and hundreds of rows of tall corn. “Wait just one minute. I thought this was the big city? This looks just like home!” Nestled in between four fi elds, one on each side, were the dormitories. They were relatively small in comparison to the ones I had seen on the pamphlets prior to my arrival, but quaint nonetheless. Ten front- row parking spaces stared me in the face. With the next parking lot in exile,

Sink or SwimI knew that the upcoming winter would be a cross country trek.

We pulled up to the mud brown, brick building and my parents started to unload my Rubbermaid totes full of clothes onto a large cemented slab porch that was held up by two brick pillars. Luckily, I had never been to prison before, but I was so sure that this is what it closely resembled. By this time I could feel my palms starting to sweat and my knees getting weak and not from the heavy luggage I was juggling. As I opened one side of the huge double doors, I thought, “This is it. There’s no turning back now.” All at once, every muscle in my body began tensing up. The mix of emotions – excitement, nausea, nerves, and relief – were all rushing through my body at once.

My mom kept reassuring me that everything would be fi ne and that I could come home whenever I wanted to, but her voice was drowned out by my now rapid, heavy breathing. She was all too familiar with these symptoms and my apprehensive state. Until this point I had been a cowardly lion of sorts. If a task was too hard, required too much patience, or became uncomfortable, I would run and hide, never to look back. I was full of talk with no follow through. I couldn’t even count the number of groups, clubs, and projects that I had started and never fi nished. I promised myself that this time would be different. It was time that I took up the

cont’d on page 31

Second Place Poetry - High School Division

2.29.

lisa HeddlestonSeniorCoventry High School

the mother and Her Son

Crackling Sea,beloved swimmer, turbulent, billowing curtains of sky-wrath atop his brow.

Beloved swimmer, a stroke he makes against white caps, red-velvet depths roll his eyes andtug at his toes with fi ngers of wrinkledblack ice.

A stroke he makes against white caps, wagging, weeping, shaking abovethe swimmer leans against the crashing, and the cement wind presses on.

Wagging, weeping, shaking above, sea-mother runs her ice-cocoon fi ngersthrough his white-capped scalp,coaxes open his bearded throat, and clamors through his lungs and brains. She churns them out, red chunk by smaller grey.

Sea-mother runs her ice-cocoon fi ngersthrough his white-capped scalp, and makes her fi nal rounds about his ends, ghost-purple prickles in, and inside, his guts are a toxic, soupy gin.

a new life that was fi nally complete when our daughter came home a year later.

That was almost fi ve years ago. If anyone would have told me that I would be sitting here today, telling this story as a college student, I would have laughed uncontrollably until I cried. I have experienced the greatest of pains, but I am now enjoying the fruits of some hard labor. I have fi nally found the secret to happiness. It was always inside of me; I just needed to have a rude awakening. The judge who sentenced me recently retired. I sent him a thank you card every year on my “clean date,” the day he sent me to prison. As far returning to prison, I did go back. I spoke in a twelve-step meeting there to three hundred women. I have spoken many times in my recovery, but this was by far the most profound and moving experience that I have had thus far.

My story is not unique; there are millions like me, lost in a world of addiction. We are not bad people trying to be good, but rather sick people trying to get well. I know that everything that I have gone through has brought me to where I am now. While I would not wish my experience on anyone, I do know that I am a stronger person for it. Those like me who have walked through hell and came out on the other side all can share the same message: there is hope while we are alive. It is only death that can end any chance for redemption. I will always have obstacles to overcome, being a felon and a recovering addict. But today, more than ever, I am up for the challenge.

linda SiegelWayne College


3.

Third Place Poetry - High School Division

grace mccourtSophomoreWadsworth High School

28.


grandpaTan, with wrinkles deep as valleys.Curled carefully around the wood, surprisingly steady.Placed precisely on the bright green softnessReady to send the faithful men through the minefi eldDirecting them toward safety

“Did you play pool often when you were younger?”“I still remember being young.”

taken over my soul. I saw no harm in this, but law enforcement certainly did, as they had an informant approach me for the dope. I was caught in every sense of the word.

The consequences of my addiction were upon me. I was supposed to get probation, a slap-on-the-wrist for being a bad girl. My attorney stood beside me in shock as the judge sealed my fate and sentenced me to a year in limbo: my own personal purgatory. Prison was not where I belonged. I reasoned in my deluded mind that only murderers and bank robbers were to be incarcerated, not someone who was “framed.” In my addicted state I honestly believed that I had done no wrong.

Today was different; I said that before. I had thirty days clean from the drugs that had utterly destroyed me. An epiphany is what I call it today. My moment of realization was if the drugs didn’t kill me, the lifestyle would. I stood in that yard, cold and alone, and for the fi rst time in a very long time, I felt free. The damage that I had done was all repairable; it was my life that I could not replace. I knew in that moment that I had an opportunity to do something different. I was certain that I could move forward and be the person that inside I had always wanted to be, not the pathetic excuse for a human that I had become.

That afternoon, a message was placed on my bunk. It was the judge’s decision on how long I would be incarcerated. As I opened it, my mood lifted; “approved” was stamped in big red letters. I was going to Boot Camp! I packed my sack that

afternoon, and was reclassifi ed and moved to the camp dormitory. The air seemed lighter here, not so burdened with sadness and shame. The next ninety days would not be easy, but for once I felt up to the challenge before me. At fi rst the time was slow, a period of adjustment. Then once a routine was established the days began to move by in an accelerated state of anticipation. There were good things to come; I felt this with all certainty.

Suddenly, it was the fourth of July, and I had eight days left before my release. I was stronger, healthier, and happier than I had been in years. I had been getting letters from my little girl and my husband for a couple of months. He would have to do some jail time, and I would be alone for the next four months. My daughter was with my sister-in-law as I thought, and it was going to take a lot of proving ourselves to get her back. Again, I was up for the challenge.

My day of release arrived. I was given money that I had earned from the state; it was enough for a bus ticket home and a little pocket change. I had looked back at the prison gates and sworn that the only way I would return would be in a body bag. I had no home to go to: the Salvation Army was to be my residence for the next three months. I had a determination inside me to never go back to the life of drugs and addiction. Today I felt I had something to live for. I got involved with twelve-step recovery for addicts, and found a job. My husband came home in November with the same attitude as I. We worked hard and built

cont’d on page 29

4.

matt PavlakSophomoreWadsworth High School

27.

Honorable Mention Poetry - High School Division

cont’d on page 28

SheolCome with me, yes come with meFamily, friend. . .ladies by all means join me in my journey.I’ll take you to a place where the dark side of the moon always shinesA place where crystal is perched over of sea of desire,And where the imagination is able to sever all ties

Only good times are what you’ll haveResting in a hammock suspended by a breeze.You’ll drink from the apple of knowledge,And it will seem better than your generation has ever known before.A real heaven in earth.

You will start to believe I have always been rightTrue since I ever fi rst gave you the fruit.I slithered into your heart and you gave me your trust.But, did not this all come with a price.

Did you not know that the dead are here?That to arrive at my home you had to betray your fi rst loveCasting him aside, for you wanted what you could not have.Did you not by choice take the fruit I presented?The very fruit that you ought not to eat.

You were blind before,And now your eyes are opened.You now know the sea is fi re,and that the crystal has turned to brimstone.That apple that you so yearned you now have.Now tell me was it worth it.

I once was like you were,Held in esteem by the same one you betrayed.I was the guardian angel,And Lucifer was my name.

I strove for power above what he even had,But I was cast down below.And now I sit atop MY throneLower than the low.

And although you try to runNowhere can you go,For you’re trapped in MY throne,Lower than the low.

Second Place Personal Essay - College Division

The day had all of the qualities of slate: gray, fl at, and cold. I stood looking across the yard at the “campus”. The main building was known as the white house. It was very old and had cold granite fl oors that were a light contrast to the dark oak wood work. Across the way, the Tapestry House stood proud and alone. It was the only true house on the property and was home to thirty women. The other structures were typical of institutions: generic and unassuming. I pulled the collar of my coat closer around my neck, as a chill ran through me. Just how did I get here?

My life had always run in an off-center fashion. I made wrong turns; decisions that I had made haunted me and left me emotionally bankrupt. I sometimes felt physically drained from the chaos that was my world. When everything went well, I found fault. When things took a turn for the worse, I placed blame. I never could quite see things as being my responsibility; I was a victim of circumstances. That was my mantra: “I didn’t do it.” Today was different. I looked around the small piece of land that had become my home and realized that I had no one to blame. It was time to face the truth.

The property was no campus; it was the grounds to the only women’s reformatory in the state. I had been here almost a month, and was looking at the possibility of being here for eleven more. My hopeless state of being was compounded

recollections of desperationby the lack of sun and warmth. Spring was a distant thought; it seemed that winter was going to maintain its grip for a while longer leaving the residents of this dismal place to believe that there was no hope, only despair.

I was still waiting for a decision on whether I was approved for the intensive program. It was called Boot Camp due to its military nature. The judge who had sentenced me had the fi nal say; he alone would determine my worthiness. I wondered if there was anything worth redeeming. I had squandered my entire adult life in the throes of drug addiction. I had a beautiful little girl that deserved so much more than I had ever given her. My husband was hopelessly lost as well. At the moment I had no idea of the whereabouts of either of them. Was my husband dead, alive or in jail? I was pretty sure that my daughter was with family; I knew that my sister-in-law was entirely willing to be a surrogate mom to her. I had not received any mail to inform me of anything, so I had to just assume that they were both all right.

This entire experience was the proverbial icing on the cake for me. I never in my wildest nightmares saw myself in the hell that was drug addiction. I had lost all control of myself and my will. I could not fi nd the strength to say no. In my desperation I committed what I saw as a crime of necessity; I became the middle-man in a drug deal so I could get my hands on the cocaine that had

5. 26.

First Place Short Story - High School Division

Heather HolmesWayne College

I fl y above it all. I fl y above the hurt. I fl y above the pain. I fl y above the world itself. I fl y from the memories of my old life. I am able to outpace them, but for how long? I feel tired and my wings are growing heavy. I get on to the bus, swiping my pass. I fi nd a blue plastic seat and gingerly sit down, trying not to press the lump on my back too hard against the seat. After I am seated, I take time to adjust my suit and run a hand through my hair. Then I look at the person seated beside me. She is about my age, 35. She is a brunette and has the beginnings of crow feet around her eyes. She looks over and smiles a 50-watt smile. “Where are you heading?” she asks. She is trying to be polite but I can tell she is looking at the lump in the back of my suit. I return her smile with a less radiant, distracted one and answer, “Bosworth Building” “Really?” she says, and scoots a little closer to me. “Me too.” I scoot away and say, “Yes, I’m going to meet my wife.” Her 50-watt smile dims down to a polite 25. I continue, “She has been gone for a while.” Her eyes shine with a new hope and her smile tries to turn sympathetic but it still has its roots fi rmly planted in happy. “What happened?” she asks, trying to not sound hopeful but only halfway succeeding. I try to smooth the lump on my back, not accomplishing anything but drawing her eyes again to it. I think back, picturing Amy’s face in my head. Her long blonde hair, done up in an elegant knot the day we were married. The way her face lit up when I gave her the diamond necklace I got

loved but losther for our fi fth anniversary. The cold china doll expression her face gained when she wore the red choker necklace. I shudder. I hate that necklace.

The bus stops, rocking us forward then back into the hard plastic backs of our seats. It also rocks me back into the present. I shake my head and smooth the lump my back and reply, “Ah, sorry. Um I just… never mind. I just came home one day and she was gone.”

Her eyes fi ll with more sympathy. “She left you. That’s awful,” she squawks.

I fl inch, not only at the pitch of her voice but also at the implications of her words. No. That isn’t right. She didn’t just leave me, that’s not what happened. Amy would never do that to me, but it would be too diffi cult to explain to her when I myself didn’t understand it. I stare into this brunette’s muddy brown eyes, full of sympathy and hope. They are so unlike Amy’s light blue eyes that never ceased moving, like she was reborn every day into a strange and wonderful new world. Except when she wore the red choker. Her rebirth stopped then, her eyes held the same tired look of one whose big dreams in life were shattered long ago and they have been living with the remnants ever since. The red choker took Amy away from me. It wasn’t her fault. “That evil thing,” I mutter. “What?” She asks. The bus stops again, repeating its same comforting motion. “Oh, it’s my stop,” I say quickly, getting up to leave so she won’t have time to ask me again. “Oh yeah, me too,” she says as she gets up and follows me off the bus, smile still wedged on her

ceiling has the same torn-page look as the kitchen. A forgotten fairy tale. The stairway, leading up further to the second level of the house, is cut off with a crude piece of industrial cardboard. Alan’s eyes scan his surroundings, stopping short at the blockade. Our eyes meet and land on Alan’s small nest of living space beneath the stairwell. Alan clears his throat and apologetically offers, “I have my little spot here, that’s all I need. I come home to an empty house, no one here but my dog,” He takes a brief moment to lament, but recomposes himself expertly.. “What’s it matter? I have my bed,” he says, pointing to a square of mattress on the fl oor. “It’s a big house for just me.” Alan has three bedrooms in his large two-story home. He has two bathrooms. None of these spaces are able to be utilized because, as he will tell you, “They’re full of shit.” He has not had running water in years and must retrieve his water supply weekly from a local well. He must fl ush out the cracked basement toilet manually when necessary. When asked which objects in his house hold particular meaning or emotional attachment to him he pauses briefl y, “All of it. It’s just stuff, but it’s kinda wild, isn’t it?” When asked if he is a hoarder, Alan shifts uncomfortably and speaks quickly, “My ex-wife is a hoarder.” Alan will tell one, if one asks, that he owns three other houses. He is unable to inhabit them because of his “growing collection” of strange and wonderful things.cont’d on page 6


6.25.cont’d on page 7

face. I didn’t wait for her as I got off the bus but she ran to catch up with me. We enter the huge high ceilinged room that is the main lobby of the Bosworth Building. I quickly try to smooth the lump down again. Then, I set off for the bank of elevators. “Hey, where are you going?” she calls after me.

“Roof top café,” I say, “It’s where I’m going to meet my wife.” I punch the yellow up arrow to call the elevator. I stand there, surveying the building that I remember from 10 years ago. The last time I was here I was pacing as the elevator made its slow journey down wondering who would be there waiting when I finally made it to the roof. Then I arrived and saw the woman who would be my love, my inspiration, my obsession. I knew I loved her even before I sat down, the way she was nervously drumming her fingers, the way her eyes searched the crowd as if she was trying to identify an unknown threat, the way she never ceased moving. I had never believed in the cliché idea of love at first sight. I thought it was some idea made up by romantics with stars in their eyes and dim minds, but these feelings, I felt, couldn’t be explained any other way.

The doors slowly slide open revealing the small room that they carefully guard. I step in and she follows me. I was unaware that she was still beside me. I glance over at her. She smiles and says, “I don’t want you to be waiting up there all by yourself. I’ll wait with you just in case…well, just in case.”

I suppress a smile. She was like a puppy following its master wherever he goes. I know I should tell her off but I always feel bad about slapping the puppy’s nose. So I say nothing. She will have to leave when Amy comes.

The elevator doors slide apart, the curtains parting at the start of drama. I step out and into the café, looking hungrily, desperately for Amy like a starving sailor looking for land after months on a stormy sea. She isn’t here. I am lost at sea. I feel my already battered heart start to be consumed by the acid of despair. I almost collapse right there when suddenly a small light of logic breaks through my anguished haze. She’s late. I almost laugh aloud. Here I was being so dramatic about her not being here and she is probably just stuck in traffic.

I walk out of the elevator, a small smile playing across my lips and sit down at one of the open tables. My companion plunks herself down in the chair across from me and immediately launches herself into a monologue. Thankfully she doesn’t require my participation. All I do is nod and look sympathetic. This is good because I am not sure what exactly she is talking about. My entire attention is focused on the on the elevator doors, breathlessly hoping that the next person to walk through that door would be the one who haunted my dreams and memories.

I suddenly notice the stream of conversation stop, and she is looking at me expectantly. I run my hand down the lump in back of my suit. I almost forgot about it, my mind is so focused on Amy. I made my eyes meet hers and ask, “Could you repeat that?”

Annoyance flows across her face to be quickly replaced by her signature smile. She says, “I asked if you wanted some coffee.”

I attempt a smile and nod back at her. She left before I could tell her how I like it or even for me to thank her. It was strangely silent now that she left, and for the first time I noticed that they have music playing through speakers located around

meticulously designed to show expression and detail, five tiny corks each holding a distinctive instrument and playing whimsically. A glass hen with a carefully painted frozen expression bids visitors “Welcome,” and a mug shaped like a rear-end, advertises the slogan “Kiss my ass I’m 50.” One could meander through the kitchen and stop every few paces to admire the odd beauty of an object or the cast of light upon the smudgy walls or the sheer ridiculousness of it all, depending on one’s attitude. No one goes beyond the kitchen in Alan’s home. If invited in at all, one is ushered to the red vinyl table where exactly two seats are available. The table, shoved against the wall beneath the window, boasts paper mountains of bills, forms, and letters on the far end. One can visibly see the mimeographed warnings from the Department of Buildings and Code that seem to weave their way in and out of the thick stacks. Alan gestures toward the stove as a scraping sound echoes throughout the still kitchen. “Those are the smart mice,” he states, matter-of-factly, “I killed off all the dumb ones with traps. A little dab of peanut butter. That’s all you need. The smart ones I just can’t seem to kill.” The mouse, as if offering his reply, appears in a corner of a burner on the stove, then retreats. “The oven part doesn’t work, but the burners do.” The rest of the house is blocked off and separated by an intrusive sheet of thin, opaque plastic, adhered to the door-frame with masking

tape. Alan parts the plastic barrier with a flick of his wrist, non-chalant, which seems contradictory in the moment; it is as though the iron curtain has fallen. The lamps litter the scenery, forty to fifty varieties, arching statuesque about the living area. Lamps of various color, texture, shape and size: Everything from orange conic sixties throwbacks to classic porcelain sculptured pieces. The lamps are unplugged and dusty, the cords winding and meandering freely about the living room, unrestricted. Most of them do not have light bulbs installed and have probably never truly known the joy of lighting. Layers and layers of beaded necklaces and sterling chains are draped around the necks of the lamps like nooses. Glass ashtrays, candy dishes, and sugar bowls stand empty, adorning every open corner unobscured by a lamp. Refracted light dots the walls in pale blues, purples, and greens. Alan looks dreamily about him, snaps to, and then nervously repositions a lampshade. His worn fingers trace the lines of chalk-colored angels embedded in the base. “I found this at the Goodwill,” he offers. A porcelain dog that looks strikingly like Sugar, peeks out from beneath a dusty shelf, crammed floor to ceiling with shaped, colored glass; mismatched salt and pepper shakers; and wooden-carved figurines meant to look like an Indian or a thoughtful woman. Globular and curvy, the rows of shelves appear distorted; melting and seeping inward, blurring the eyes as they try to focus, as though peering through stained glass. The


cont’d on page 26


Alan’s house probably once stood grand, but now it stands aging and leaning, peeling slowly away from its days of grandeur, fading and almost audibly exhaling. A thick, stocky Rottweiller sits docile, his “Beware of Dog” sign, foreboding and contradictory. His chain creates a metal-link trail snaking toward the doorway and rattles like Christmas bells as it drags along the dirt and stone path. The doorbell is a descending chime; it echoes inside and a long pause ensues. A shuffl e, a clamor, and the door is fl ung open and then retracted half-way. Alan stands, crooked smile, crooked clothes, beaming while trying to conceal his inward-pointing teeth. His curly hair is pulled neatly into a pony-tail, long and graying throughout, but a wide crown of fl esh sits like an island on top of his head. His baldness is apparent immediately and his exposed scalp appears waxy. The black bristly-pointed beard, centrally stamped with a contrasting white triangle, dramatically shapes his face, culminating wire-like beneath the chin. The dog, trying to nudge his large nose inside the door, sidles up beside Alan. Adamant and intrusive, the dog succeeds in pushing through the half-cracked door. “Sugar!” Alan yells with assertion. Pushing him back out with his knee, Sugar whines in dismay. With a wave of his hand, Alan disappears back inside the house, closing the door to his forlorn dog, but allowing in a pair of discerning, searching eyes, rendering himself vulnerable.

7. 24.


cont’d on page 25

the roof. I sit back and start to listen as I keep my vigil on the elevator doors. A song comes on. What strikes me fi rst is its haunting melody that plays behind the voice of the singer. Then I start to notice the words.

You don’t need my love Yet I can’t take it backSo I bury me with youThose lyrics hit me like a bullet through my

brain. They penetrate into the deepest darkest place in my consciousness. They smash through all the barriers that had been placed in its way to release what had been hidden there. Images fl ood through my head: a dark place, Amy and I stroll through it. Two dark shadows jump out from behind a large dumpster. One of them moves forward and rips the diamond necklace from Amy’s neck; she tries to snatch it back. A sudden fl ash of silver, then Amy has a new necklace, a red choker that stands bright against her pale skin. She makes a little gasping noise and her hands fl y up to her neck as if she wants to take it off but it’s too late. The choker starts to melt down her neck. She sways and I catch her and lower her to the ground before she falls. Her eyes fi nally stop their constant fl icking about and focus on one thing: my face. I sit there staring into her familiar eyes that seem so foreign now, until a man in a blue uniform takes her from my arms. But he wasn’t the one who took her from me, it was the red choker and I have to get her back.

I stand up from my table, take off my suit coat, and start taking off my dress shirt. By that time she was back with our coffees. She gives me a worried look and says “What are you doing?”

I look at her. “Amy’s not coming.”She started forward. “Just sit down and talk

to me about it.”“No, if she isn’t going to come to me, I’m

going to have to go to her. I have to save her from the red necklace,” I replied.

“What? What necklace? I don’t understand!” she says with panic creeping into her voice.

I whip off my dress shirt then pull off my white t-shirt to reveal what had been hidden below. I spread the pair of rust colored wings that are attached to my back. Strange, it is as if she doesn’t see them she kept her eyes focused on me, a look of fear plastered across her face.

I take off running down through the café fl apping my wings as fast as I could. I come to the dividing wall and leapt on top of it. Then without a moment to contemplate the 35 story drop below me, I push off.

“I won’t fail you again, Amy” I think, maybe even yell. The wind whistling through my ears almost sounded like a scream, a woman’s scream, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was Amy.

On a New York street corner lay a broken body, but its spirit fl ew free.

First Place Personal Essay - College Division

the collection A vacant lawnmower stands guard in the entryway, threateningly fl ashing its toothy blades from its post. The fl oor appears as though it is molting, shedding its topmost layer of linoleum to expose the smooth fl at board beneath it; and the ceiling cries tears of plaster, blistering and poking through the painted surface. Cans form labeled towers and columns, arranged in long rows along the bleak walls. The colorful labels sit in contrast to the very drab contents of the cans: Kidney beans. Creamed Corn. Lima Beans. The faint kiss of expiration dates long past are imprinted in fuzzy grey ink and hide in label sleeves or box tops. Like a passport, the stamps boast of memories long forgotten; cans protrude their tin lips in dismay; and cardboard sides heave outward from boxes stacked in vertical shrines. Alan explains: “The soup kitchen up the road there just gives this stuff away. Never know when you might need it.” In the cupboards one will see no dishes, no cups, no food. In the drawers one will see no silverware, no cutlery, no utensils. Every surface is dotted lovingly with bits of dusty treasure. Found-objects fi nd a home in every nook and cranny, and along every painted molding more than a couple inches thick. There sits a plastic monkey, a whistle and necklace combo, his tail turned from the back of his body to the front, creating an image that is purposefully phallic. There sits a miniature band made of wine corks, each fi gure

trent WeberJuniorSmithville High School


Second Place Short Story - High School Division

“Life on Earth: Day one. This log is being recorded through thought by my implanted data chip.

“I feel nervous. So nervous, I begin to shake. I have to wonder though, what is making me so on-edge? The only thing lying ahead of me is school. The fi rst day of high school, but nonetheless, it’s only school. I suppose the fear and jitters aren’t too ridiculous though, especially considering the situation I’m in. I would think anyone would feel nervous going into a school with the intention of blending with and spying on a race that is almost entirely different from their own.

“The purpose of the mission I’ve been assigned is to gather intelligence on the progression of the human race. Ever since the embarrassing incident at Roswell, we’ve been out of touch with the humans, and we have yet to assess whether they’ve grown into the threat they showed the potential to become. My leaders have sent me to the country of America which is, as we understand, one of this planet’s powerhouses. The leader of the free world, or so they say. I have to infi ltrate strange institutions known as ‘high schools’ where the nation’s future leaders are trained. From the progress and the training given to these young humans, we will compile a report on the possibility of the threat posed.

“From what I’ve seen so far, this world is not very similar to my home planet of Antevorta. Here, the sky is a brilliant shade of blue rather than our deep green sky. Our equivalent of these ‘trees’

A day in our lives

Now resuming mission log playback.

are hundreds of feet higher than these puny twigs. The pollution from their machines is suffocating, but seems to have little effect on them. They’ve fl attened the land here to move over it in things called ‘cars,’ while air travel seems to be reserved for special occasions. Rather than adapt to the terrain, they’ve made the terrain adapt to them. A curious bunch, these humans are.

“As well as behaving curiously, their appearance is curious as well. Everything about us is different. They are much shorter than my race, with their tallest being considered something close to a dwarf by my standards. Our eyes are larger, our bodies thinner, and our teeth longer and sharper. I’m sure if my cloaking device were to malfunction, I would send several humans into cardiac arrest.

“I have arrived at my assigned school, unsure of what to expect. What if they have devices that will cancel out my cloaking mechanism? What if the translator chip implanted into me to make communication possible isn’t as advanced as their language? Just how far have these humans come, anyway?

“As I enter the main doors, the fi rst thing I do is bump into one of the larger humans who makes a sudden stop in front of me. While it was a very minor amount of contact, the human appears extremely offended. It turns to me and shouts ‘Excuse you!’ and I feel certain I’ve been discovered, and I’m prepared to be taken away

First Place Personal Essay - College Division

The blaze happened before my family moved into the neighborhood. The house sat up on the hill, between ours and the funny lady with the grumpy white cat. I don’t know why the place was left standing there so long, scorched and condemned, except maybe for the fact that the only way get to it was to climb the city steps. I presume the crews would have diffi culties getting the machinery and equipment up there to demolish it; probably the same plight the fi refi ghters experienced or else it might have been saved. The sight of the place was enough to deter me from ever going near it. No outside wall was without holes. Soot and charred wood extended above the window frames like the shadows of awnings that never existed. Several of the windows still had partial panes of glass remaining in the corners. The door, warped and melted, hung from one hinge. The roof was half gone, and sometime through the years, the chimney disappeared all together.

Even though the building itself frightened me deeply, I became enthralled in it. Incredible scenarios would play out from my imagination and often, dreams would add the visuals. Eventually I would create the memory of how the house was before the fi re, the people who lived there and even what was grown in the fl ower garden that was planted each early spring in the little fenced in area beside the front door.

I sat in our tree house one warm summer evening and named the children that lived in that house. There were four boys and one girl, the exact opposite of my own family. Andrew was the oldest; he was smart but quiet. He loved to

the House on the Hillspend time at his grandmother’s house. Thomas was second; he loved music and making people laugh. The only girl, Gina, was in the middle. Gina took on the responsibility of guarding her siblings; often this concern was misunderstood by her siblings who felt she was being controlling. Kevin had beautiful red hair and although his siblings teased him, he would never know it was because they were envious of this distinction. Samuel was the youngest; therefore, he would be closest to their mother.

As the sun went down, I noticed the unusually bright, red-yellow sun refl ecting in the windows. With a light breeze blowing the loose glass slightly at that moment, it was easy to conjure the images of the house while it was engulfed. I was mesmerized, staring at the house as it burned and watching the smoke swirl toward the sky. Horrifi ed, I thought of the children and their toys and the pink rug in the girl’s room and the train wallpaper in the boys’ room. I jumped up, crying and screamed for someone to help them. I wiped my eyes and looked back to the house. It was no longer in fl ames.

I immediately ran to my door scared and confused. I tried to stop myself from looking back but felt compelled to take one more glance. I did not see fi re, but instead, noticed birds sitting on the small portion of roof that remained. I watched them until they fl ew off counting one, two, three, four, fi ve.

theresa rabbittsWayne College

9. 22.

for questioning about why I’m there. However, we go our separate ways, which is rather strange. Shouldn’t these advanced lifeforms be more aware of intruders? Maybe they’re simply too advanced to consider me a threat. The thought makes me shudder.

“I look around to examine my surroundings. Directly in front of me is a large stairway with people crowding around it all over. Why they want to be so close when there is so much space, I’m not sure. Worst ofall, they clutter in the most inconvenient spaces, making it diffi cult to move. Thcre is now a high-pitched tone that is supposed to signal the need to move to a class, but that does not seem to bother these people. Well, I’m sure they’ll move eventually. Hopefully, at least.

“My fi rst class is English, and I proceed to a room where I’m greeted by a female instructor along with a room full of uninterested faces. The instructor herself is somewhat shocking in appearance. While she has clearly aged, she still seems to think otherwise. Her outfi t includes a short skirt, fi shnet leggings, and high-heeled boots. This is supposed to be the example for these humans to learn from?

“Some of the humans lift their bored heads as I enter, and the nervous feeling returns. As I sit, they ask me trivial questions about my name, age, place of origin, and so on. I’ve rehearsed my fake background story backwards and forwards, so I’m well prepared. I’m Kyle Aliens, a sixteen-year-old boy from Oregon.

“Once the teacher begins talking, the few beings that became interested in me quickly sink back to boredom. ‘Wouldn’t an advanced race be more interested in the pursuit of knowledge?’ I wonder. Soon I discover the source of their

disinterest. This instructor’s demeanor conveys a sense of superiority. She seems to enjoy proving others wrong while teaching very little in the process. Maybe we have the humans all wrong. If this is how all the teachers are, it will seem as though they actually value the deterioration of the mind, rather than the pursuit of knowledge. I’m extremely relieved to hear the high-pitched ringing arriving to usher me to my next class.

‘The hallways are much more crowded now than they were upon my arrival. The entire space is occupied by large groups of people, and many males who are wearing their pants at the mid-thigh area. I don’t understand why, as this seems to be detrimental to their ability to walk effi ciently. Much like the fi rst human I encountered here, these people also make sudden stops and seem to get very aggitated when these stops cause collisions. Maybe they have a system of mental communication to let others know of these sudden stops without vocalizing them. That doesn’t make much sense though, as many of the smaller humans have the same problem as me. Maybe those ones are just ill.

“I arrive at an art room next, somewhat excited to learn about the works of beauty these humans could produce. While they’ve disappointed me on an intellectual level, even they must be capable of creating art.

“The room is fi lled with loud, frustrating people who seem more interested in pounding the same beat on a table for 45 minutes than embracing his potentially beautiful history in the art world. The poor instructor, a short, friendly looking man with glasses, seems at his wit’s end with the bunch of savages that has been handed to him.

First Place Poetry - College Division

the Sentinels

The mists pulled back and they were revealedLike an array of sentinels perched on rocksKeeping weary watch over the dreary lake.Here a fat one, there a tall one,And a lone tern (Almost always just one!)Were joined by a ghostly egretSnagging minnows in the shallow water.

Again the mists.. ebbing and fl owingLike a tide above waterAnd they were gone...The egret winging gracefully southThe sentinel gulls wheeling and callingOut over the lakeLooking for other shores to guard on this gray day.

ralph crawfordWayne College


cont’d on page 10

10.21.

“I begin to overhear scraps of conversations from those around me. One man fl ings vulgar insults at the teacher before talking about the various drugs he’s recently consumed. One girl talks about how pointless this class is and happily tells her friend how she’s failing all of her classes. I don’t understand. How can anyone be proud of failure? I swear, I’m going to eat these people. I will devour every last one ofthese children.

Due to emotional distress, an error has occurred while recording. Resuming playback at next possible time.

“Mission log is back, and I have calmed myself. These humans are just too much for me to bear. Fortunately, nothing interesting happened during the time lapse in recording. All my encounters were irritating and infuriating.

“Now that I’ve experienced nearly seven hours of these encounters, I have more than what I need to write my report. If these are this country’s future leaders, then they will, in no way, pose any sort of threat to us. The rapid decline of this species is almost saddening. In a matter of a few generations, the youth of this area have gone from leaders showing potential, to beings more resembling tribesmen than groundbreaking innovators. The only sympathy I have for these people goes out only to the few intellectuals that must remain somewhere.

“Fortunately, my stay on this planet has almost reached its conclusion. I hope these humans can turn themselves around and realize that drugs, alcohol, and football aren’t the most important things to focus on during their educational period. As that is not very likely, however, I have stolen a couple of the more obnoxious humans for snacks on the way home. From what I’ve seen today, eating some of these children is a favor to the human race.”

dominique vignosSeniorMassillon Washington H.S.

Award WinningcollEgE

Poetry, Short Stories & Personal Essays2011 - 2012


Third Place Short Story - High School Division

11. 20.


Third Place Short Story - High School Division

Lissa’s eyes were bloodshot lately, like she’d been drinking, but of course she hadn’t. That wasn’t the kind of person she was. She was still tan from summer, but it was starting to fade. If she kept up her new trend of rumpled jeans, hoodies and Converse on top of being pale, she’d completely fade into the crowd; especially if she didn’t start talking again. She’d be dressed like everyone else, look like everyone else, act like everyone else.

It hasn’t always been like that.When I fi rst met Lissa--two years ago, when she

moved here--she was full of color: her clothes, her face, her hair. She was full of life. Her curls bounced as she walked, her arms and head jingled like sleigh bells from silver jewelry, and I never saw her not in ironed slacks. She dressed more like a politician than a high school girl. Usually, I’m too focused on my grades and own life to notice much going on at school--I’m not fond of anyone enough to socialize--but Lissa wasn’t the kind of girl you didn’t notice. Kind of like a reverse Where’s Waldo?, she was what stuck out. What your eyes noticed.

Lissa wasn’t like the majority of this community, where seventy-percent of the population grew up on farms and fi fty-percent of them will continue to work on farms post-high school. She was the girl with the glitter-coated eyes who dressed nice simply because she could (most girls only do when they have an athletic event and have to). She spoke her mind openly and never said a thing about someone that she wouldn‘t say to their face (I‘ve seen it happen enough to believe that). She was blunt, and never took any mind to the rumors there were about her.

I remember the fi rst conversation we had. It consisted of her telling me that she’s crazy; and when she texts things like, Hey, what do you know about hydro-electric engineering? and, What effects do you think the new Tea Party will have on our country

The Canvaspost-Obama? out of nowhere, it’s easy to believe. Not to mention, she hugged me before she ever spoke to me, and right after that “I’m crazy” introduction, she informed me that she doesn’t give a crap what anyone thinks of her. As she put it to me, she is: “The girl with the blue-lined eyes, full of surprise, ready to take on the world as it comes at her…”

That’s another thing. She had a habit of talking poetically; not necessarily rhyming, just poetically. Most everything she said was long-winded, articulate and sounded like some of the older novels we read in English. It made her sound brilliant—she was, too; a quiet kind of brilliant you don’t pick up on until she talks like that—and it made her different, someone your ears perked up to, a different sound in the sea of monotony.

Even after a year here, she hadn’t managed to fi t in much. (Her initial “I’m crazy” introduction fended most people off, and the fact that she really acted crazy--re-read the above--didn’t help much.) From her fi rst day here, she didn’t seem to stack up; there didn’t seem to be a place in our school where she could fi t in perfectly. I watched as she jumped from different group to different group in the cafeteria all year long during her fi rst year; she never seemed to fi nd a place she belonged with any sense of permanence.

Not to be mean about it, though…that’s just kind of how it is here. Different is bad. She knew it, too, and she didn’t care. Which made it okay, I guess.

Except lately, I’ve noticed the changes. Something’s happened. She’s changed. The glitter girl who poetically articulates herself is blending in and shutting up; she’s starting to act like she does care what everyone thinks.

We had a class together last year—American History. Around then Lissa had started to develop somewhat of a permanent “group”; another guy in our

My baby blanket hasn’t left the top shelf of the closet since I was ten. Debbie was in college and I wouldn’t talk to her for days, even weeks. More than half of the doll house parts were given away to who knows where. That storm-shaken day from long ago is now just a memory with no proof.

And that was why I was scared. The realization that I was growing up, that the life and childhood that I had known for all this time would fade into nothingness frightened me. I was no longer the seven-year-old girl who could squeeze her eyes shut and cover her ears. I was going to lose everything—my carefree childhood, my memories, my innocence and magic—and would have to learn to live and to learn to lose what I held precious one by one. Time would claim my family, reality my dreams and hopes, and age my memories that would gradually fl ake away.

I was so afraid.“Play with me.”I look up. Debbie watches me expectantly; ten

years have made her taller, older, and wiser, but her eyes still sparked with a mischievous secret.

“Want me to read you a story?” she asks.Here she was, a twenty-year-old junior in

college, extending a hand to me to enter the world of imagination together. She too had once feared growing up, dreamed of Neverland, and slept with her favorite stuffed sheep, just like me, but growing up did not change her completely. The stuffed sheep is still in her arms as she sleeps, and she stands before me without fail year after

year with another story to take me away from everything and into a world that was entirely our own. She was living, breathing proof that growing up did not mean losing all chances of dreaming and imagining—that she could live and grow outside of her mind as well as in.

“Yes,” I said eagerly. And just like that, I let go of my fears of growing up and my uncertain future. We left behind our realities and discovered secrets, uncovering enchanting mysteries, and learned to dream even though Grandfather Time told us we could not. The stories and imaginations that my sister and I weaved together became the arms that I could run to and bury myself deep inside.

I am safe.

Anna chenSeniorCopley High School

cont’d on page 12


grade, a girl a year above us and her were inseparable for three-fourths of that year.

Our school has open-campus lunch, so we all wound up sitting in there for it. It wasn’t uncommon for Lissa to dominate a conversation—and I don’t mean that in a bad way—but they started just ignoring her toward the end of the semester. One day she left the room bawling and didn’t come back after lunch…and they stopped interacting altogether after that.

Is that why? I wondered, not for the first time since I started noticing the changes in Lissa. Could that be why she’s changed? She lost her only real friends here, and now she just doesn’t want to try—

“Aidan?” someone called my name behind me. I turned, confused, and my face lit up as I saw Hope Caine walking up to me. It had been a while since I’d seen her; she transferred to a big Catholic academy a year before.

“Hey,” I told her, smiling. “How’s it going?”“Well, I got the afternoon off from work,

because—as my boss put it—anyone who’s likely to be in a toy store is here at the Fair instead. So I came here, too.”

I felt like laughing. Hope was always upbeat, and it was infectious. When she left it was like some of the sun had literally been sucked from the atmosphere of the school.

“There’s Lissa’s…” she said softly, looking at the art in front of us (what I had been dozily glancing over as I thought). She moved as close as the ropes would let her, pointing to a canvas hanging low on the giant wall. Amidst all the pottery, sculptures, and other mediums of art, it was easy to over-look…

Sure enough, though, there was a little unlamented card hanging next to it that read, “Trials of the Heart, by Lissa Taylor” and her school information at the bottom.

Running, snowboarding, sleeping in; those are my thing. Hydro-electric engineering isn‘t. Neither

is art. I was the kid who colored inside of the lines at four and never really stopped because he “lacked creative expression.” My English teachers say the same about my writing still. To say I’m not creative is an understatement. (I know—and yet I’m in the art section of the Fair. Doesn’t make much sense. But art won’t crap on your new Adidas.)

But if you take one look at Lissa’s canvas, even someone as art-illiterate as me can tell there’s something to it.

“She told me about this years ago,” Hope said, examining it. “I invited her to my birthday party, and she saw all of my art hanging around my house. She mentioned starting a painting of her own…but I didn’t know she’d finally finished it…”

It only takes one glance to think it’s out of place (much like the artist who created it). Most of the artists at my school create what they know: cows. Farms, if they’re broadening their horizons. Lissa’s artwork doesn’t fit into that.

It was a lot like looking at Lissa for the first time, in a way.

I was starting to feel uncomfortable, though, because Hope was so absorbed in the painting and I so wasn’t.

“Anyone who has ever broken her heart in some way has a letter on there.”

Maybe it was what she’d stated or the blunt way she said it out of nowhere, but either way, the statement left me speechless.

“She wrote letters and then folded the origami hearts,” Hope explained after a moment, “then she laminated them with scotch tape to keep the letter protected, then it them into broken hearts. Friends, family members, ex-boyfriends…” Hope’s voice trailed off as she listed examples.

I looked over the canvas and my mind easily calculated that the thirty-six pieces added up to

Third Place Personal Essay - High School Division

I was so certain I was going to die. Maybe my house would be ripped from its

foundations and whipped by the storms until everything was splinters, or the ceiling would cave in and flatten me into a rug. Or maybe lightning would strike my house and electrocute everyone until we were nothing but crispy shells like a Cheeto cracker.

Whatever the means, I was convinced that I was going to die right here in my basement, while outside the tornado sirens whined and thunder grumbled discontentedly. The television was switched on to the weather news, flashing my county’s name in the list of condemned areas to experience the dreaded tornado warning as if the sickly green sky and ferocious winds weren’t enough to figure that out.

I was only seven years old and terrified of the softest rumble of thunder, so understandably I was completely frozen on the couch and nearly in tears. I desperately wanted to hide in someone’s arms and cover my ears with their hands, but I was too petrified to move. On a good day, when there was just drizzle, I would carry my most favorite toys and piggy bank in my baby blanket and camp in the basement, covering my ears and singing to mask the sound of thunder. But that day, I did not have time to grab my favorite toys, and now not only did I fear for the life of my family, but my precious rabbit.

While I was holding back tears in the corner of

Wendythe couch, my older sister Debbie wordlessly set up our toy houses and plastic furniture. She filled the mermaid fountain, a maroon plastic container, with water and snagged a plastic bag of cotton balls from the bathroom. All of this barely registered in my head, all my senses solely dedicated to the storm outside and the television’s warnings, until Debbie crawled up to me.

“Play with me,” she said.I kept still at first, bemused. This wasn’t the

first tornado warning I encountered, but I never thought of playing games when death was raging toward me in the form of a funnel cloud. But I followed curiously as she gathered our Hello Kitty figurines that we adored.

“They’re going to the spa!” Debbie announced. She wetted a cotton ball until it was mush and swirled it on top of a Hello Kitty’s head so that it resembled a head full of shampoo suds. Enchanted at this idea, I hastily did the same. I laughed at their ice cream heads and bathed them in the water and before long I completely forgot about the storm, the tornado sirens, and my fears. What was there to be afraid of when I was conjuring fanciful stories with Debbie about how our toys magically became mermaids? Caught in the magical story and adventure that we created, I was safe.

Ten years passed but I was still afraid. I have not quaked at the sound of thunder for years and the only monster under my bed was a dust bunny.


cont’d on page 20

13. 18.

mariah gunselmanSophomoreWadsworth High School

cont’d from page 12eighteen broken hearts. Eighteen broken hearts. Had Lissa’s heart been broken that much?

I looked at the thirty-six pieces again.Any teenage girl could sob out some broken

heart letter over a guy who had dumped her; I’ve seen enough movies to conclude that. But Lissa hadn’t stopped at that. She’d written to lost friends, family members, all the estranged individuals who somehow hurt Lissa.

And that that fact gave it even more life.The incident from American History fully formed

in my mind again, when Lissa had run out of the room crying.

I wondered if those friends had letters on there; and if they ever saw the painting, would they be able to tell which were theirs? Blue because of a favorite color, or fl uorescent orange from a fun time hunting together once?

Okay, that’s stupid even to the art-illiterate kid.Maybe that’s why Lissa never cared she didn’t fi t

in. Maybe’s she’s purposefully been distancing herself to avoid getting hurt like they hurt her. Maybe it’d happened enough before that she wanted to prevent it…maybe she chose to table-hop for so long, because she didn’t want to make permanent friends…she’d been hurt like that before them…and they were the last straw…

“I saw her,” I said to Hope without thinking. She looked at me with the stare she gave the painting. “I saw Lissa earlier…”

Hope mumbled something softly and stared at the painting more intensely for a minute, then abruptly told me she was going to go look at the sheep showing. I realized then that I was hogging the space, and the strangers around me were impatiently trying to see the artwork in front of me. Awkwardly, I let the crowd jostle me along—but something on the painting caught my attention, and I rudely shoved back through the impatient people to re-position myself right where Hope had been: dead in front of the painting, as close as the ropes would let me stand.

Unobtrusively, there were four microscopic whole hearts in each corner: three of them were almost entirely covered by the bigger, collaged pieces, but one was clear as day, once you caught notice of it. It’s metallic, aluminum-foil-like paper shone like chrome even underneath the Scotch tape.

And then I remembered:“Hey…saw you were real upset today and I just

hope everything’s alright.”“I didn’t know you noticed. I tried to leave before

anyone could.”“You’re diffi cult to not notice.”“Running out of history bawling; yah, I know…”“No, you just aren’t someone to be ignored or

lost in the crowd.”What’s your favorite color? she had texted me

not long after that. I replied with silver, being that I was staring at the chrome of my neighbor’s new SUV when I read the text.

Silver like the heart on the canvas…Lissa, I realized, fi nally moving away from in

front of her painting, was more than just the girl with the blue-lined eyes. Is more. She obviously did and does care what people think. She’s was just tired of getting hurt…and now, she’s been hurt so much she’s self-destructing.

I can’t blame her for that, I thought to myself, moving toward food. I’ve dated enough to know how both sides of a break-up work. Not to mention, when a friend screws me over, it takes me a while to forgive them. Not that I hold grudges; I just don’t want them to think it’s okay or I like getting screwed over.

Just like everything else, Lissa has a different way of dealing with it.

katlyne meadeSeniorSmithville High School

memories behind although it was not going to be as hard for me as my grandfather. I will be forever grateful for this special place and times I had in the closet. I will recall them both fondly. Even though I will never hear, “We are going to Papa’s house”, again I will never forget my special times in my grandfather’s house, especially in the back spare bedroom closet.



First Place Personal Essay - High School Division

SunshineOn the hushed street of West Hill Drive there sat a modest house. It was a lovely home, painted white, with red shutters. A large bay window overlooked the entire street. From the outside, it did not seem overly impressive. It was a common little house that the typical afternoon jogger might overlook. However, what they could not fail to notice was the tall, dark, Italian man sitting on the porch. His skin was an olive complexion with vividly vibrant coal black hair to match. On his face there lay scraggly whiskers rough to the touch. He had deep valleys, almost thoughtfully placed, each telling a story of war, work, and time. His appearance was cross and reserved. Almost every day this man devotedly sat on the porch with a longing in his deep brown eyes. With every car that went by his mannerisms became more anxious, almost preoccupied as if he were waiting for something or someone. He sat with quietness and patience in his heart. Finally, a car pulled into the driveway where the Italian man sat.

The car door opened and running out I came yelling, “Papa Deno!”

“Sunshine!” he would reply in the most sincere and loving voice. Before anyone could notice, the gruff Italian man waiting on the front porch simply a few moments ago had melted away. In his arms he held me. After our daily hug into the small house I would go. A visit to Papa’s house always meant partaking of some kind of cooking. In Italy, food was the way of telling people that they were loved and belonged to the family. His gruff appearance tended to contradict the man he

was inside. He was overly kind and affectionate. This man was my grandfather.

There was never only one approach my papa took to gain my affection. My warmth towards him was captured by his multiple acts of love. It consisted of the early morning pancake days, the stories shared, the daily coffee, and the laughs. To me, the little things were more significant than any one grandiose event. These events are forever engraved into my memory, and will always be reflected on lovingly.

Pancake Wednesdays were the memory that has remained most engrained in my mind. This act of affection truly depicted the man my grandpa was. Each Wednesday morning I eagerly awaited; for this was the day papa got us ready for school. Papa Deno always managed to wake up extra early with the anticipation to fulfill a weekly promise. He was truly a selfless person because he received great joy from our happiness. Papa’s arrival to our home was soon followed by excited feet which tromped down the stairs eager to meet him. After I was given my pancakes, he stole them away quickly, almost teasingly, only to cut them into tiny little bite-sized squares. I was perfectly capable of preparing my own food; however, it was the underlying message behind this act. It was a message that rang loud and clear, one that conveyed taking care of me, even past my years of necessity, was a way to keep us both young and to show how much I was loved. This simple moment had a monumental impact.

The summer of 2009 was a summer out of

anything else my imagination could conjure up. With my toys I would play for hours. This place allowed me to play uninterrupted. Because I loved this secret place so much I wanted it all to myself and made sure it was never discovered by anyone else. So I had to be awfully quiet when my sister tagged along with me to my papa’s house because I didn’t want her to know about my magical world or how many toys I had hidden away in the closet. Of course I was selfish about this I knew that the right thing I could have done would have been to share the secret place with my little sister. She would not have understood about its marvelous qualities anyway. But I wanted something to be just mine for once and to have toys that only I could play with and that no one else knew about them. It made me feel superior that I had an undiscovered place to myself and was able to keep it quiet for so many years. We did not have time to make the trips to my grandfather’s house as often as the years past and I seemed to have forgotten that old closet. I started going to school and getting more and more homework as I moved up each and every grade. Then along with that I got involved in sports like softball and swimming. My interests changed and we spent time doing other things with my family rather than going to my grandfather’s house just to hang out. It wasn’t until this past summer when my grandfather was selling his house that I went back to that closet. As we were cleaning his house I remember my mom calling from the back spare

bedroom, “Mariah, what is this mess?” I came running into the back room to see what she was talking about; that’s when I saw the closet door ajar. I peaked in and saw all the long lost toys that I used to play with. They were filling the pine selves and a few were still scattered all over the blue carpeted floor. Just some of the toys I saw in the closet were some of my favorites: the Ty beanie babies, my robotic puppy dog, and my all time favorite, the good old Barbie dolls. Mom then again repeated, “What’s this mess?” Then all of a sudden my memories from when I was little seemed to rush back to my mind. I fondly remembered all my times in the magical closet. It wasn’t until my mom asked a third time that I explained to her what the closet really meant to me. I told her about how I had first discovered the closet when I was nearly four years old. I told her about each and every toy that I had received and what I made each of them be when playing. Then I went on to explain how I had so many great memories playing with my toys along with hiding in my secret place. Followed by telling her how proud I was of keeping that closet a secret and not letting anyone else discover it for all those years. Obviously it had lost its appeal over the years but it still had a place in my heart that could never be filled by any other secret place. I sat in the closet knowing it would be my very last time. I realized then how hard it was going to be for my grandfather leaving all his memories and special times behind in that house. I was leaving all my


cont’d on page 18

15. 16.cont’d on page 17

Second Place Personal Essay - High School Division

place. Busy lives left subtle changes in papa unnoticed. His smile did not seem as exuberant and weariness had overcome his body. Papa’s words were always covered in simplicity, but it seemed even more so each time I went to visit. I could not put my fi nger on what was wrong. I thought he was troubled or just aging with time until one day he went to the hospital. Concerned family watched over him in his last hours here on earth. We all were searching for hope that day, but the taste of bitterness seemed to prevail. On July 8th 2009, papa passed on. It was the hardest moment of my life and it continues to be a daily struggle. My heart is forever left with a special space reserved for him. At times, it seems a little empty but remembering the person he was leaves me inspired each and every time. There are few people that can have that kind of effect on a life. But from the moment I came into his, we captured each other's hearts. His presence still lingers on that porch. Every time I drive by that house I know the spirit of him is somewhere near. Looking back on these moments from the viewpoint of a young child, I never realized how complete my papa made me feel. He was a man that molded me into the young woman I am today. Hidden in my heart, there lie values of family, love, and kindness. These values started with him, and were passed on to my mother, which were then passed onto me. Every day my papa demonstrated one more act of love and compassion. His love was always known, extremely secure, and never failing. To this day my grandfather has inspired me to love others with the intensity he did.

mary Anne SnyderJuniorOrrville High School

My favorite sentence when I was little was “you’re going to Papa’s house.” My papa, which is Russian for grandfather, has lived in that yellow split level house on Bath Hill Blvd. for at least as long as I have been around. I have always seemed to have a special connection with that place. It must have something to do with me living there for such a long time when I was younger while waiting for our new house to be built. I mean when I take one step into the doorway my mood no matter how I am feeling before goes to a feeling of nostalgia. There is one particular place there at Papa’s that makes these feelings really come alive. This place is the closet in the back spare bedroom. I can remember that one closet that you had to walk down the hallway, and turn into the last door on your left to get to. The closet doors were wooden and still smelled of fresh pine. When you opened the doors of the closet it was basically empty except for some scattered shelves here and there. Most people upon looking at the closet would see nothing special, as the walls were bare and painted white. The fl oor was covered with blue cushy carpet that felt warm beneath your bare feet. But, when I discovered this closet, I can remember climbing right in its empty space and sitting in the back towards the far wall. Looking up I saw hanging from the ceiling a long, white, skinny string hanging down since I was so very small. The string seemed to go on forever. I remember pulling the mysterious string. It turned on the light

bulb in the closet and, from it came light, so bright and startling that I had to shield my eyes because it was as bright as a shining star in the night sky. Now I know it would not be that interesting now but I was four. This secret place I found was pretty cool. From that moment on I knew I had found my one special place. When I went there I was as happy as a lark. Nothing seemed to keep me from that closet. Not for all the money in the world would I have given up that old and deserted closet. One reason was that it felt a part of me. When I needed somewhere to go, this place was my best friend. The closet was always there for me and seemed to comfort me in times of need. It was not only my best friend, it soon came to be like a toy store as I must have had a huge collection of what seemed like thousands of all my new toys hiding in the closet with me. My Papa spoiled me and spent his money like it grew off the hundred-year-old oak tree in the backyard on me. You can only imagine what I did with every toy that I received. I would run up those winding wooden steps with my feet pounding the fl oor like raindrops hitting the pavement. Then I would run down the hall at one hundred miles an hour running to my special place in the back bedroom, then fi nally grabbing the closet doors whirling them open with all my might and entering into my imaginary world. In this world I could become a princess, a cowgirl, super villain, astronaut, rock star, or

the closetcont’d from page 14


First Place Personal Essay - High School Division

SunshineOn the hushed street of West Hill Drive there sat a modest house. It was a lovely home, painted white, with red shutters. A large bay window overlooked the entire street. From the outside, it did not seem overly impressive. I

seeking to encourage and recognize excellence in creative ...a little girl. “rookie,” grinned...

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