The Writing Contest

About two months ago, I was sitting at a computer in the art room at school typing away at some story. Normally, I would have been in the process of developing my film, which is extremely tedious, but I love it. It's such an amazing feeling to be standing over a tray of chemicals and watch your photo slowly fade into existence.

However, I was not in the mood to develop my film that day, for whatever reason. Instead, I was working on something or another, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. I must have been pounding away at the keys furiously or something, because my teacher spoke up, "What on earth are you writing?"

 I stopped, glancing over to where she was grading papers. I shrugged, "Just some story."

"For English class," she said knowingly, a pitying look on her face. Her blue eyes flickered to her assistant teacher. "I was never a good writer. I hated it."

"Well," I said, almost feeling the need to defend the love of my life, "it's for me. I love to write. It's my favorite thing."

The teacher looked at me like I was an alien, but not unkindly. Suddenly, a flash of inspiration struck her. "You should enter the Scholastic Young Writers Contest! I try to get the art students to do it every year, but," she sighed, "you know how that goes. Really, Gabbie, you should do it! Thousands of students enter from all over the country."


To be honest, I haven't had a great history with writing contests. Technically, I've only entered one so . . . yeah. But I didn't win, and it was hard. It wasn't that I was expecting to win or really mad that I didn't, but it did make me sad. However, I know now that JK Rowling, author of the Harry Potter series, was turned down many, many times by publishers. Now she's famous!


So I smiled at my teacher, feeling excited and optimistic. "Yeah. I think I will."


And that's how I decided to enter the contest. There are literally so many categories in both art and writing, but I only chose to enter four pieces. One poem, two short stories, and Riley Girl. I'm carefully optimistic about one of the short stories. The judges won't read Riley Girl, of course, so I had to make an outline. I am SO bad at outlines.

The last writing contest I entered was a similar thing. You entered a pitch and if the judges thought it was interesting then you'd go on. I didn't go on. So, I'm nervous about my outline now, but I know I love Riley Girl. I hope it wins something, but it's okay if it doesn't.

Enough of this nonsense. I wanted to share with you some of what I entered.
Up first is my short story Beyond Repair. I wrote this last year for my Short Stories class. We were given a title and had to write a story for that title. It's a drama piece. It's not one of my best stories, in my opinion, but I really liked the way it turned out. I love the characters and some of the descriptions. 

Beyond Repair 

I found out I was dying when I was six years old.

The doctors told me I wouldn’t live past eight, but I did.

They said I’d never last past ten, but I did.

I’d be in the ground by my twelfth birthday – they were wrong.

They said I’d never be a teenager. They said I’d never fall in love. Never grow old. Never go to high school. Never get married – never have children. They told us not to hope, because my life would never be allowed to be lived. The doctors told my parents that I should not be alive. They told them I would die every day, and every time it broke their hearts. Unlike me, those doctors never reached out to grab hope. It slid through their fingers and landed in mine.

When I turned sixteen, I decided that I was not going to die.

Well, not without actually living first.

“Are you ready?” 

My voice is barely above a whisper. The wind roars down over the side of the underpass, making me tremble from a mixture of excitement and cold. The wind leaches icily through my clothes and my heart hammers in my chest.

Jake’s dark eyes mirror my own nervousness. He nods once, chuckling musically under his breath. I take a deep breath and pull myself up the ladder, the rungs like ice beneath my palms. It takes only a minute for me to reach the rusted metal platform and I immediately slide my book bag off my shoulders. Jake pulls himself over the edge easily and surveys the forgotten bill board with a calm, composed smile. It’s my perfect canvas. “What do you need me to do?” he asks easily.

I toss a brush at him and motion at the sign. “Paint.” His grin widens and he laughs, a melodious sound in the night. The road underneath us is empty – it’s one in the morning. It’s only gray, cracked pavement cutting through the desert sand. We have a little under five hours to get this job done. I look at the billboard and a sense of urgency fills me. I grab a bottle of spray paint and shake it harshly, already constructing a masterpiece in my mind. The paints spray out easily, and I notice Jake’s wrinkled nose. “I love the smell of this,” I admit, sheepishly inhaling a deep breath.

Jake rolls his eyes. “Of course you do.” He is quiet for a moment as we both work. He tries to mimic my precise, yet random work. I don't paint shapes or words. Just strokes of color. Splashes. Pops. Beauty. I want to create something that people will look at and wonder. I don't care what they wonder; that isn't my job. “Why are we doing this?” He questions me offhandedly, his dark eyes flickering to me.

“Teenage angst. An act of rebellion. Anarchy,” I declare, switching out the spray paint for a roller, coating the bill board in baby blue paint – my mother’s favorite color. “You only live once?” I quote the saying that all adults hate with a burning passion, ignoring the dread that sweeps over me like a wave.

Jake goes back to his work, his eyes thoughtful. I watch the way the muscles move under his tanned skin. He’s been my neighbor for 8 years, but we’ve been best friends since before I was born. Our mothers were friends in high school and Jake and I played together when we were in diapers. When I called him about 45 minutes ago, and told him my strange request, he followed me like a puppy. I knew he would. “Why are we doing this, Liese? And don’t give me artistic expression or any of that crap,” Jake told me. Not that he would understand it anyway. Jake was math-minded. So unlike me.

I keep my eyes on the bill board. “My mom drives past this sign every day on her way to work. I want her to be able to look up and remember her daughter,” I admit quietly. My eyes travel above the sign to the starry night sky, which is breathtaking tonight. “Maybe it won’t be so hard, then,” I say.

Jake stops, his arms falling to his sides. His breaths are even, composed. I stay focused in my work, ignoring the way he stares blankly into the night; the way he grips his paint brush. I can’t handle him not being strong. So I ignore him, switching to a color that is only seen in the early morning sunlight. His favorite color. The metal shakes underneath me, and I feel his arm on mine, pulling me in. His body is foreign yet familiar to me at the same time. I breathe in his smell – which reminds me of fresh cut grass and the way my sheets smell straight out of the dryer.Warm and like home.

I let him hug me, even though I’m covering him in paint. His track t-shirt is a plethora of colors – a rainbow of my art. This stupid paint never comes off anything. “I ruined your shirt,” I mumble, batting at the colors like I can shoo them off. Jake shakes his head, taking my hand in his.

“They’ll remind me of you,” he says, his eyes staring into mine.

“Jake,” I say weakly, not knowing what else to say. He knows what I mean. I can’t handle this.

How do you talk about the inevitable? We both know it's coming. Soon. Any day now. But admitting it is too scary. Talking about it seems wrong. You're not supposed to acknowledge you're own death. There are no rule books for this. No pamphlets to be handed out or videos to watch. Dying is dying, and it's scary. Especially when it's happening to you every day. I've avoided it for so long, but it's caught up to me. I can't escape it. And neither can Jake.

Jake won’t let me out of his strong grip. “You’re not allowed to give up,” he declares harshly.

“I’m not giving up,” I avert my eyes. “I’m just . . . acknowledging the inevitable.”

“What happened to the little girl that told me she was going to rule the world someday?” Jake inquires, but his words are deathly seriously, as if he’s afraid I’m gone already. I shrug, looking past him across the desert. The stars provide little light, pinpricks of brilliance in a dark world, but I can tell the bill board is going to be marvelous – my piece of work. My final fanfare to the song of the world. “You cannot give up,” he repeats determinedly.

I lean away from him, swallowing the tears in my throat. “You can’t fix me, Jake. I’ve been broken for sixteen years,” my voice catches bitterly.

He tilts my face upward, searching my face with a slight shake of his head. There’s a long streak of pink paint across his tan cheek, staining a lock of his black hair. “I would never try to fix you,” Jake smiles gently at me, “all the best things are already broken. Perfection sucks.”

“That goes against every piece of media on the planet,” I tell him with a smile.

Jake motions to my bill board. “You’re trying to prepare your mom for when you die. You can’t make her better, Liese. You can’t make this . . . this awful thing any easier, because you’re so special. You’re not gonna get better. I know that. I don’t want to know that, but it’s the truth. And, sometimes, the truth sucks. But, Liese, you have to see – this whole world – it’s beyond repair.” His eyes soften and his voice drops to a whisper. “Because without you in it, I’ll always be broken.”

“Jake --” I try to say, but he cuts me off and puts a paint brush in my face.

“Dawn’s in three hours.” Jake lets go of me and I stand there, suddenly feeling so alone.  “Let’s give your mom the best gift ever,” he turns and dips his brush in paint.

I take my brush and start painting a deep red color. The color red they taught to kindergartners: red apple, red fire truck, red. The color of rosy cheeks. Fingers after playing in the snow. The color of my mother’s hair. The color of blood. Of a broken heart.

I glance at my best friend, who is trying so hard not to cry. This whole may be unfair, but at least I won't be around to deal with it. I let my brush drop, splattering the metal underneath us with color. I step next to him and wrap my arms around him. Jake looks at me in surprise and I smile. “I know I’m going to be gone soon. But, let me tell you – you’ve kept me going for the past sixteen years, Jake Martin,” I tell him truthfully. “Without you, I’d be lost. I’d have given up so long ago. You gave me so many reasons to live. I’m not going to get better, Jake,” I smile at him, my heart no longer heavy, “but you fixed me enough, so I could live a perfectly happy life. And I just want to say thank you.”

I know there will not ever be enough words to make my death okay. There are no words for it. No justification. All I know is that, without Jake and my mom, I would have broken long before now. They patched me together and gave me the chance to make art. To leave a legacy. To make my own beautiful masterpiece. 

How can you repay something so perfect? How can you be loved so much? 

I've been so, so lucky. 

Jake smiles, his eyes lighting up like I’m something so very special. I breathe in his smell and hold him while I still can. He tugs on a strand of my hair, rubbing paint on my face. I will take this moment with me when the time comes. 

 “It was my pleasure, Liese.” 

Up next is my poem, which, in a stroke of creative genius, I named This is a poem. I wrote it in English class last year. It's about life. Yeah.

This is a poem
about the meaning of life
a chariot flashing across the sky
taking each burden or obstacle without a sigh
 
this is a poem
about the definition of trust
knowing a crack of the whip or a tug on the reins
may give or take away but believing something will remain
 
this is a poem
about something called happiness
knowing that this life isn’t designed to last
but living every moment as it goes by so fast
 
this is a poem
not wise words or paradox in sight
just thoughts about life and becoming truly aware
and finally realizing that nothing else can ever compare
 
this is a poem
about the meaning of life
that some say rises and falls like the tide*
while I just take joy in the fact that I can finally be alive


* Allusion to "The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow  

 Up last is my other short story: Abaddon. It's a fantasy piece, inspired by the poem Jabberwocky by Lewis Carrol and an interest in Dante's The Divine Comedy. 

Abaddon

“Thea!” Antony runs up to me, his normally pale face flushed pink. His brown eyes are full of excitement. He grins crookedly at me. “You were going to leave without saying goodbye, eh?”

            “I didn’t want -” my voice falters. I didn’t want to make this harder than it is already, I want to say. But I can’t. Instead I just shrug my shoulders. My eyes flicker behind him at the crowd of people awaiting my departure. Their voices are loud, full of an eagerness that does not escape me. Antony follows my gaze, smiling at the familiar faces behind us. “Everyone is so excited,” I observe quietly.

            He raises an eyebrow, slightly bemused. “Why shouldn’t they be? A quest! After all this time.” His is suddenly sober, as if he’s remembered why we’re actually here. “So many people have died for this moment, Thea. So many children,” his voice falters.

            I say nothing. There are no words to describe the horror that has plagued our village for the past sixteen years. No one dares to speak of it for the fear that their child will be next. But, I have nothing left to lose.

            Abaddon: god of demons, who feeds on the souls of children. Who has fed on the souls of the children from our village for far too long.

            For so long our village has lived in fear. Then, there was a prophecy. It outlined a quest that would destroy the demon once and for all. There’s only one problem, really. It spoke of me. I’m the one that’s supposed to destroy Abaddon.

            “Thea,” Antony speaks up suddenly, raising his hand as if he wants to comfort me. Before he can, however, we hear the familiar chimes and his hand falls back to his side. Turning, we see the crowd part like the Red Sea, everyone dropping onto one knee. Antony does the same, bowing his head to the ground.

            I remain standing.

            Our king sweeps through the crowd, his robes swirling about in his wake. One by one, my people stand, watching him pass by with respect and a subdued adoration. His blue eyes the color of the Spring sky search the crowd and land on me. “The time approaches for our hero to depart,” he declares, which makes me swallow. The villagers begin to obediently disperse, knowing their time to mill about is over.

            Soon, it is only the three of us. My king sizes me up, his blue eyes twinkling. “Your portal is ready, Thea.” As he says that, it appears in front of me. It looks almost like a doorway, really, the outline of one, at least. “It’s time for you to go. And to say your goodbyes,” he motions for Antony to rise. Suddenly my throat is thick. I say nothing, inspecting my sword. The cool metal is strong under my fingertips.

            I feel Antony’s eyes on me. Go away, I want to say; you’re making this harder than it has to be. Instead, he tilts my face upward and I am caught in his dark gaze. His eyes are warm and beautiful, full of hope and a future. “Thea,” he says my name delicately, “I believe in you.”

            Something inside me almost breaks, but I make myself breathe. I must stay strong. “Thank you, Antony,” my voice is barely more than a whisper. The next words are harder. “I’ll see you soon.”

            The king stiffens slightly, but says nothing until Antony turns and walks away. “He does not know you are going to die,” he observes incredulously. I only raise my brows. Antony would not have let me go if he had known; how could he, with that sort of love? There is a long silence. Red and brown leaves dance at our feet, the scent of decay on the breeze. It is time for me to go.

Finally, in a measured voice, my king speaks, “You may think fate is cruel, Thea, but I can promise you that your death will serve an amazing purpose.” His eyes, such a lovely shade of blue, are memorizing me, looking while they can because soon I will be no more.

            I look up at him, knowing that he is feeling more broken than I am. “I’ll miss you, Dad.”

            Before he can say anything else, I step through the portal into Hades.

            My familiar village and forest are suddenly gone, replaced by a land of strange angles and sharp lines. All I can see in every direction is ice and snow. I expected fire, eternal torment, maybe even the River Styx, but instead I find myself in a world of ice. There are no signs of the demon around me. I don’t really know what to do, so I start to walk.

            It only takes me one step to realize it’s like walking on glass. The floor is so smooth I can see my reflection gazing back at me. I look small. Weak. They sent a child to fight the Demon of all demons. How am I supposed to beat him? I keep walking, and I don’t look back down at the ice. I didn’t know I was in the prophecy until last year. All my life the council had been watching me, waiting until the time was right to break the news that I was a) destined to slay Abaddon and b) going to die during the process. I didn’t take it well, as you can imagine. But, in the end, I knew I had to do it. Someone had to. Why not me? I knew it would be worth it. Sure, I would die, but at least I was dying for something.

            As I walk the ice around me slowly turns darker, going from pure white to black. I must be getting close. The air is thicker; the smell of sulfur makes me wrinkle my nose. Swirling black mist plays at my feet as if teasing me. I feel like I’m in a nightmare. But this is one I won’t be awakening from.

            “It’s taken you long enough, Thea. I was beginning to worry that you were lost.

            Abaddon.

The voice pierces the ice-world so suddenly that it makes me jump about a foot in the air. It is all around me and in my mind all at once. For a moment I feel like I’ve lost my ability to speak; I feel as frozen as the ice around me. The mist around me thickens, becoming a black fog. It seems to open up a path for me, though, a single clear space leading me forward. He’s showing me where to go.

“Of course I am, Thea. I’ve been waiting for you for a long, long time.”

I start to follow the path, wordlessly drawing out my sword. A deathly chuckle echoes all around me. My fingers clutch at the cold metal hilt, slowly turning blue.

“I’ve watched you grow up, my dear. How you made me laugh. Such a bright girl. But, you and I have always been destined for each other. You’ve known that, haven’t you? You’ve been here before, in your dreams. Such pretty little things.”

Somehow I am able to form a coherent phrase. I have to keep him talking. The longer he wants to converse, the more opportunity I have at, well, living.  “And what of you? Do you dream? Or do the screams of the ones you’ve stolen keep you up at night?”

His dark laugh blocks out all other sounds. He is amused by me. “Oh, young one. They’re the perfect lullaby. And soon yours will join them.”

As soon as he says this the mist around me dissolves into thin air. I am in what appears to be a deep crater, in a dark hole of black rock. Acrid smoke rises from cracks in the floor. I turn slowly and freeze. There, lining the cavern wall, is something that I could never have imagined, even in my darkest nightmare.

Every child he has taken from my village is staring at me. Dozens of little boys and girls are all watching me. Their ages range from toddler to teenager, but they are all the same shade of deathly pale. I never thought he was keeping them alive down here. Torturing them slowly, day after day, for all eternity.

“You’re a monster,” I say, my voice piercing the darkness. Abaddon says nothing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a huge shadow dart forward. Wings of a dragon, head of a snake. I barely have time to react before I am hit squarely in the chest. Suddenly, I’m turning over and over in the air. I rush through the darkness until I slam into the rock. The air seeps out of me.

I can’t scream, but my chest is on fire. I have to move. I force myself to flip over, just in time to see the demon rise above me in all his glory.

Abaddon rises to the top of the cavern, with numerous legs and arms and a long, deadly tail. On his body are the faces of those he’s consumed, all looking at me with the same dead expression. His eyes are the darkest color I’ve ever seen, and lock onto mine. They are almost hypnotizing. His lizard-like jaw parts into a dark grin, revealing rows upon rows of jagged teeth. He laughs suddenly and the sound punctures my soul. “And they thought you could beat me, Thea.”

I dart forward like an arrow from a bow. He is startled by my quickness, but quickly recovers. His tail arcs up in the air, but I am prepared this time. I roll deftly, using my shoulder as a cushion against the hard floor. Somehow I am underneath him. Instinctively, I jab my sword into the flesh of his leg. It doesn’t do much, but it’s enough to make him angry. He snarls, knocking me over with a kick of his leg. I fall onto my back and he looms over me, thirsty for my blood. But, he has to get closer to me if he wants to kill me.

I make my move the moment he lowers his body toward me. My sword flies upward, slicing straight through his leather wing. The roar that reiterates throughout the cavern is earsplitting. Abaddon has lost the use of one of his wings. Poor thing.

While he is recovering from his wound, I use the time to go to the children who are watching the battle with wide eyes. My touch seems to bring them back to life. “Move!” I urge, shoving them toward the light at the end of the cavern. A few of the older ones grab the toddlers, starting to move toward our escape. Abaddon roars from right behind me. “Run!” I prompt, shoving one of the girls forward.

I take the rear of the group, urging them into a sprint. Abaddon has recovered and is not happy. I practically feel his hot breath on my neck as I run. We make it out of the cavern and into the white ice land. Up ahead, I see the portal, waiting for me. Only I can close it. I grab the girl closest to me, who is barely a day over fourteen. I point to the portal. “Get everyone through that, okay? You have to hurry.” She starts to ask me a question, but I just push her forward. “Go!”

She herds the rest of the children toward the doorway, which seems so far away. They need time. I glance behind me into the cavern, where Abaddon is crashing about, cursing madly and hell-bent on destroying me. I quickly scale halfway up one of the ice mounds, crouching. I can feel my heart throbbing in my chest. This is it. This is how I will die.

But it’s okay. I am not afraid.

Abaddon bursts out of the cavern suddenly, lips bent back in a snarl. I watch the first boy step through the portal. It gives me the strength to do what I must. I spring into the air, my sword drawn. He senses me just before I hit him, turning sideways to meet me. I ram against his open jaw, my sword sliding through his neck as one of his teeth pierces my stomach. We hang in the air for a moment, locked in a deadly embrace. He throws his head back, freeing me off his tooth.

I slam into a snowdrift, blinded by the pain in my abdomen. Darkness threatens to pull me under, but there’s one thing I have left to do. Propping myself onto my elbows, I see the last girl, the one I told to get everyone through, step into the portal. I also see Abaddon thrashing on the ground, dying just as I am.

Using the last of my breath, I say the words that close the portal forever and seal my fate.