0 0 0


I hate it when the message tone pings behind my eyeballs, after too long floating in the black.

Those words always carry gravity across the weary beams of light. Worse? Sometimes, they miss.

For days and weeks and years, I'll hurtle on under some grand illusion of weightlessness, motionlessness, or lacking all direction. It's easier that way, after the hard part's over. Exit's a struggle, sure, but once you're past the blue? It's not even all that cold. It really just is.

But isn't any job? That is, until you get a heavy taste of home to remind you otherwise. 

You make it look so easy, you know. Peeling off a human skin, then putting it back on like it should fit. You slide out of the oily ugliness of casual labor and into something drier than a memory of vermouth. You reinvent yourself at least twice a day. You metamorphose.

I've been wearing the same thing every time you've pinged me. Synthetic, hairless skin. Wires.

We should have been born wearing snakeskins. I mean, you slither out of what you've worn so very well.I never could. I'm always cold at home and burning hot out in the black. I hate it when you tell me that changing's easy, because I know it is. I know it is. It has to be. It's the staying changed that's something out of hell for me. I always wake up floating at a staggering velocity.

That's never bothered you, though. You've never been one thing long enough to stick.

Or if you have, you regret it more than I'll ever know.

I like to pretend you're happier than me, though.

At least you remember which way is up.

Prompt: thebuonanno posted...

"I hate it when you…"

Still on the road. Still writing. What's your excuse?

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts, questions, feedback, and exposure!

1 0 1

Wie Klavierien an Wolken Singen (How Pianos Sing to the Clouds)

Denk nicht daran

an die schöne Klavieren,

und wie es am Fenster
immer realisiert es,
dass eine Note, zwei Noten
nicht in ihren Lage liegen.
Drei auszuhaben ist auch verboten.
Um am Fenster lang zu bleiben
muss die Klavieren zwischen ihren Zähne und Sinn entscheiden.


Think not thereon
on the beautiful pianos
and how at the window
it comes to be
that one note, two notes
lie out of their places.
To have three out of place is also forbidden.
In order to stay at the window for long
must the pianos decide
between their teeth and their minds.

7 0 7

Who Wrote You?

                Sometimes people remind me of poems. Ones I’ve written, ones I’ve read. I like the ones who make me feel like they were inanimate in a past life: a stanza reincarnated, a song in a new body. There’s a rhythm to such creatures, latent in an action as minute as a blink, but I think it’s noticeable enough if you are watching. We can’t all be poems or songs, but the ones who are, I could listen to all day. They sing, these ones: their blood, their laughter, the music of even a sigh. Little movements, each a poem succinctly.

                “Who wrote you?” I want to ask.

                I spot them on city streets at sunset, during the flux of seasons, summer on the cusp of autumn as the weather gradually mellows, wavering between rain and a steady heat that bears down on me as I take a seat on a worn park bench on a Tuesday evening. There I sit, silent and observing. I like the way they clutch their bags tightly to their chests, carrying an arsenal of mementos: expired Metrocards, assorted identification passes with outdated photographs, a last stick of gum. Summer’s sunglasses now replaced with September’s scarf, soon to be joined by December’s gloves when the air is too nippy to fight with bare hands anymore.

                One such creature leans against a brick wall, a cigarette hanging lopsided out of his bottom lip, the smoke making circles and then dispersing as the wind blows by to carry it on its back. The way he flicks off the little embers is a haiku: a nicotine stick, little droplets of gray ash chased by a coffee. I like the sound of him slurping a Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks. I bet he asked for whip cream. I bet it’s lukewarm by now.

                 Another poem hustles past, one of Bukowski’s Meek looking for an earth to inherit, her footsteps matching the rustles of the leaves that crunch underneath, crisp jigsaws of orange-yellow-greens. She looks like she’s never tasted joy but only day old cheesecake, glasses askew and loose strands of hair coming untucked from behind her ears. Her hand holds a book, maybe non-fiction, maybe a Self Help title on how to break out of a shell others have created for her. I study the way her eyebrows furrow, the image ingrained in my mind’s eye even after she’s already down the block and around the corner. She looks cold, put off by the abruptness of autumn, out of place in a tank top and boots, an ensemble that obviously couldn’t make up its mind in regards to the weather.

                A city bus pulls up across the street and coughs out a swarm of passengers that quickly disband as soon as their feet hit the pavement. One of them has a phone clung to his ear, near enough that I can hear the words falling out of his mouth, desperate tokens. “What do you mean you can’t make it?” he says, heartbroken. “I had it all planned out, you know? We’d go out, and there was this great exhibit at the gallery—no, I know, you hated the last one but this one has completely different features, I just thought we’d…okay. Right, I get it. It’s fine. I’ll just…” He sighs, his voice trailing off. “I’ll go with someone else then.”

                But he won’t go with anyone else. He wanted to go with the him or her on the other line, and in the instant he pouts his lips and proceeds to press the end button on the phone screen, he is now the quintessence of Alone as Poe had written, singular in his love for the gallery, his passions from a spring no one else ventures to drink from. The phone is chucked into his pocket and his eyes water ever so slightly as he leans against the pole of the street light. I watch his eyes as they follow a young couple, the woman of the pair indeed looking like the meaning of a moon, her lipstick evenly applied and shimmering in the twilight, her arms loosely wrapped around a smooth gentleman with slicked hair who can’t seem to take his eyes off her face or his hands off her heart, which he so diligently carries to and fro just as Cummings scribed.

                They pass by gaily, laughter like jingling wind chimes erupting out of their mouths wide-opened and mocking. I drink in the envious tone of his eyes as he glowers at them. I lament the fact that strangers can take another’s love so personally. But then again, I understand it. Around this time, what with Halloween—an occasion that gives way to new identity, if only temporarily—so near, followed by the succession of other holidays that emphasize companionship and family, it is only natural to find oneself blindly clawing the air for a self or a purpose or a significant other. We each seem to turn up empty-handed, finagled out of love by a fraud of a God we only believe in come December.

                But in the Spring, I will remember you, I think. Now I gather my things and shuffle around in hopes of drawing his attention but he notices not. I am, too, a poem. I am the stanza of Audre Lorde, bidding you sit beside me, silent as a breath. I beg that you come softly, that you look into my eyes and understand me on a level unaccomplished by anyone else. “Take me to the gallery,” I want to say. But I am silent. “Sit beside me,” I want to plead. But you will not. I sit here, wishing to show you what sorrow sees, for I have been watching it all. I want to ask if you remember your first life as a Sunday’s stanza, forgetting that, indeed, only those who stay dead shall remember Death.

1 0 1

Morning Yunnan Gold Tea Ceremony

The morning’s steamed whistle  
Of a burnished copper teakettle
Broadcast its readiness to surrender
It’s fresh hotness into a glazed Brown Betty
To steep Yunnan Gold tealeaves’
Tips and buds in her warmed clay belly

Heated, sugar-dusted porcelain mugs
Hold Betty’s steeped love that birthed then
Elaborated a fragrant swirl of Yunnan Gold steam 
That rose slowly as a Balinese temple girl’s
Trance-ecstatic dancing hands lift dreams
Hopes, and forgiveness to a sky now bright

Steam wanes into the sun’s wheedling
Through twenty angled slants of Golden Oak
Strung together weathered louvered slats
Narrowing the midmorning rays to streams
Now mingled with rising steamed aromas
To chaperone fresh muffins and sweet rolls

My hand, made warm by your porcelain mug,
Jostles you to first eyes and dreamy mumbles
We share a tray of warmed muffins and rolls
Apple butter, jams, preserves and Valencia slices
Bunched dandelions and tossed rose petals 
We sip and bite and on Sunday we puzzle words.

0 0 0

Rack 'em up

We amuse ourselves with this;

Angles and clickety-clacks

Table tennis with twists

You break, I’ll rack.

Love triangles are

Something I’d rather avoid.

You gleam, you shooting star

You spill, you cup of poise

rec-tangle might have

Chalked our love

We wreck, laugh

Tangle, shove

0 0 0

The life and presumed death of an imaginary philosopher

If I was where I would be

Then I’d be where I am now

Here I am where I must be

Where I’d be I can not

I had always considered myself to be trapped in Glennen Warrie but I’ve since come to understand that to say I was trapped is incorrect. If I was trapped, then there was some period where it was not my original environment and, prior to becoming stuck, I had lived in a state of comparative freedom. This is not true. I was born there and for that reason it could be said that I was part of it. It’s still there, in the centre of opal country. That’s all I’ve ever really learnt to say about the place, just part of opal country. It’s a dirty sprawl of brown and yellow with the exception of the golf course; a lush areola between thin unpaved roads and corrugated roofs. Any history that’s there is quite some way beneath the ground.

I had gotten through twelve years of schooling. A small feat in the eyes of most but considering the tendencies of others my age, it was rare to not become engulfed by a trade or apprenticeship by age sixteen. It was the vague idea of escape that motivated me. I seemed to be the only one who wasn’t proud of the endless wastes, the gimmicky caverns that dotted the town between tourist trap road signs and hunched houses. I worked nights and saved so I could move to Adelaide. The town existed purely because of the opals in the surrounding land and without it, there would be no redeeming the cruel vacancy of life and waste. It had grown since the beginning, we had an airport now and even a hospital, but it felt more like a sequence of malignancy than true progress. The day’s heat was the worst of it. The uninterrupted horizon provided relief in the form of cold plain nights but all the same, I’ve never since been able to tolerate anyone complaining about the weather.

There were two things in the town that lived beyond eleven thirty. First and least relevant to my story, one of the two pubs remained unofficially open until two or as best as I can tell. The town, after all, provided steady motivation for alcoholism. The other was the petrol stations. Trucks ripped through the place at all times and their frequency forced such necessity. I spent my weeknights behind the counter of one of the oldest stations in town. It was the closest to the highway with its sparse, solar powered lamps that penetrated the unfazed plains but its four solitary bowsers and low resting shelters often forced many rigs to bypass it entirely. We offered the nomadic behemoths one comfort the franchise-engulfed competitors did not: A small diner that provided simplistic but hot meals. These were hungry beasts and the bain-marie pie would not suffice. Most of them would drive across the town outskirts from the first turn off onto a road that ran adjacent to the highway and stop at one of the major stations for fuel, then they would drive on to our station, park their hulking engines in the great expanse of red dirt that we offered in the cove of green corrugated fencing and come in to eat. That’s how the money was made; not in the necessity of fuel, but the hunger of the remaining human element.

It was always quietest at two in the morning. I would be on until seven with nothing to do. I did not mind, I spent most time alone even when with others. It gave me time to rest my anxiety and to consider. There were always several trucks pulled up in the rudimentary parking lot for the night. You could usually see a stomach poking into view through the windshield, the occupant lying on their back across the seats like a flannel clad beached animal. The cook, a paunchy, middle aged crust of a man, sat alone in the kitchen of the adjoining feeder with a radio and a newspaper. He rarely spoke but given my minimal contact with him, it had never been a problem. As far as I understood, he was the son of the owner. The catalystic night had not been unusual to this extent. The station was completely vacant. My neon and white jurisdiction of snack-food aisles and dusty windows, the welcoming dining hall of red-and-white linoleum tables and brown vinyl chairs hung in my vision with temporal eeriness and the craning necks of the bowsers all stood still. The only thing that marked it as an extraordinary evening was the absence of slumbering truckies. Only one truck sat away from the light of the station and its driver was not visible. I had seen it pull up some hours before but had not seen the driver come in and lost track of the movements since. It was an unnecessary detail, but the monotony of the night morphed it into an event of some small note.

The stool had come loose in my booth and, weighing up the fact that from the station windows I would be able to see a vehicle approaching from any direction long before they saw me, I stepped out, took a newspaper from the rack and pulled up a seat in the diner. The owner’s son lay in some kind of exclusive preoccupation in the kitchen. He seemed almost in stasis the way he sat in an identical position every night, craned slightly towards the radio, the newspaper clutched in his fat hands, the pages unchanging, the face registering nothing. He could have been sleeping and in all likelihood was. I was half an hour into the paper when the door of the eatery swung open. I had not seen anyone approaching in my peripheral and swung around to look for a parked vehicle. There was none and, looking at the figure in the doorway, identified him immediately as the driver of the parked truck.

He nodded at me, unthreatening, unassuming. A big guy, but not particularly imposing. He wore the trademarks of a truck driver; dirty flannelette, faded department store t-shirt, bad hair, worse beard, but despite a total absence of any reason for the fact, he did not exude the same dutiful and inapproachable air of his kind.  He looked at me with his curious eyes. They appeared two dimensional but the way he looked at me made me feel as though he had spoken to many mes across so many towns and now accepted us all as knowing him as if we were linked by a singular consciousness. The absurdity of such a thing aside, the familiarity put me at great ease.

“You guys doin’ food still?”

“Yeah.” I replied. “All night.”

“It’s morning.”

“Well, we do food all the time.”

He nodded, satisfied with my response, and took a seat at the same table as me.

“You got a menu?” he asked.

“Well, it’s all up on that board.”

He looked across at the menu above the kitchen entrance for a moment and asked for a toasted sandwich. It was not done with thanks, but his tone exuded dry graciousness. I got up to tell the cook but as I walked towards the kitchen, the truckie spoke again.

“Don’t bother. He’s asleep.”

I wheeled around. The bizarre comfort had given away rapidly to uneasiness. He had only been there for a minute.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“Well you can make a toasted sandwich, can’t ya?”

I nodded, too unsettled to retort, and walked behind the serving area. The toasted sandwich maker was already out and while I was nervous, I still did not feel particularly scared by the man and felt no need to wake the cook. There was also a partial concern that the truckie would somehow know if I attempted to rouse him and, still unclear of the stranger’s intent, did not wish to find out what it would cause him to do.

I stepped into the kitchen, retrieved cheese, a tomato and packaged ham from the fridge, careful not to disturb the cook in fear that the truck driver would misunderstand the situation for me having woken him intentionally. I don’t remember it being the case but thinking back upon my actions, I may have been more terrified than I am conveying to you.

I placed the sandwich in the toaster and decided to make conversation while we waited. The silence was fuelling my fear and I believed that if I found out more about him, my growing paranoia would be extinguished.

“Where are you going?” I asked him, my unsurity causing the words to become mumbled.

“I’m on a mercy mission.”

“How does that work?”

He grinned, looking ahead.

“I’m here to save you.”

I involuntarily took a step backwards.

“Oh, don’t go so red!” he exclaimed, still not looking at me. “You work in a Glennen Warrie petrol station and you’ve never had a truckie try to fuck with your head?” His expression remained unchanged until he muttered “You’re going to burn my sandwich.”

It wasn’t even close to done, but given the clarity of his instruction, I obeyed. I walked across to him, the sandwich shuffling uncomfortably on the shaking plate.

“Perfect.” He muttered. “Take a seat.”

I obeyed almost automatically. I felt total disbelief towards the passive power of the man. He had the air of a gentleman in an old advertisement, like there was some unspoken but diligent moral code operating behind his sunburnt face and red-streaked beard.

“So, I’ve got fourteen hours from now to get to Adelaide to make a pickup and then I’m heading West. Since It’s going to take me just under ten to make it there, I figured I’d stop for something to eat and get a couple hours rest before doing the last leg. Oh, and of course, I intended to meet your lovely self.” He winked and it took an additional second for his eye to reappear under his creased eyelids.

“So” he said “Now you know where I’m heading. Where are you going?”

“I’m here.” I replied.

“So you’re going to be in Glennen Warrie forever?”

“No, I didn’t realise you meant- I’m trying to save up so I can leave.”

“And that’s why you’re working here?” He asked. I nodded and he let out a happy chuckle.

“You’ll never get enough before you get trapped.” He said. “You stay here any longer, you might as well kill yourself and fly away as a locust.” As he said this, he raised one half of the sandwich to his mouth and fit most of it in. He bit down and the remaining corner tumbled down his shirt front and disappeared somewhere beneath the table. I laughed uncomfortably, unsure how to react to his comment or his behaviour.

“Well,” he resumed, his mouth still full and the single word almost incomprehensible through his meal “What do you want to do when you get away?”

“I’m not sure.” I told him. “I think maybe I’ll study. I’ll find somewhere to live in Adelaide and go study.”

“Why haven’t you done that already?”

“I couldn’t afford to go away when I finished school. I mean, I didn’t do well, but I did well enough for university to be an option. I just, I wasn’t sure what I wanted and I still don’t think I’ve thought about it enough but I know I can’t stay here. That’s why I’m working.”

“You know there’s an easier option.” He said, a food-speckled smile forming on his face.

“Like what?”

He picked up the other half of the sandwich and forced it into his face in a manner similar to the first.

“New question.” He announced. “Got a boyfriend?”

“No. I had this one friend I liked but, well, it’s boring. I guess I was just in the friendzone.”

“Whenever I hear ‘friend zone’, I think about the Twilight Zone. And then I think about the fact that Rod Serling and I were always uncomfortably close.”

He paused.

“I used to have a girl. You know, they say you can’t always get what you want, but she took a fair share!” he concealed a staccato ‘fffuck’ underneath a forced chuckle.

An hour passed and the truckie’s speech became more and more fractured. It was soon that I realised perhaps he was not a man at all but an idea I’d carried with me for years. I had simply been waiting for it to take form, walk in, and demand answers from me. With that, I begun speaking as freely and honestly as my idea did. No car or wandering thing had bothered us and so we stepped out and sat on the diner curb smoking his rolled cigarettes. “Right” the trucker piped up after licking and sealing a second one for himself. “So you know what you want to do, but what do you want?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, there are things, vague as they are, that you want to achieve. Study and fucking all that, but why do you want to do what you want to do?”

I paused for a moment.

“I know that we are totally insignificant and all that. I know that constantly trying to pursue an exciting life or some great purpose is just generating a hunger for fictional nourishment. But every now and again, I get this feeling that there is great potential for significance, some overwhelming reason for my living. Logic and basic rationality always kick back in but I think what I feel in that moment, that’s what I really want. Not the promise of eternity, but to feel the founded belief that it’s obtainable, that aspiration isn’t completely redundant and that, if I begin to believe everything I tell other people about myself, It’s not just a symptom of sinking desperately into denial.”

He nodded, very small movements. “One of the better answers.” Then he took a long drag which nearly consumed the remaining half of his cigarette, brought the second one up to his lips and lit it with the ashy remains of the first.

“You know” he said. “I was thinking about how pointless travel is. I mean, travel just for the sake of it. Even escapism isn’t a real reason. It’s all just…doing something, you know? You might as well jack off, it’s achieving the same thing. What, you experience a culture or fucking something? Fuck that. I travel for work. It’s in a truck and I’ve never left the country, but at least it’s got a fucking purpose. You, you’ve got purpose to your travel. You’re not just one of those weak cunts that wanna go somewhere so they can use ‘I’ve been there, I know’ in every fucking argument. Last time someone said that, I shot the cunt. Didn’t kill him, but he’ll never talk to me about Africa again.” and then he laughed and laughed until it bent upwards into a long, happy squeal.

At four, I mentioned that trucks would turn up for breakfast at around five. His reply was simply “Then you’ve still got time.”

“Time for what?”

“Do you remember when I told you there’s an easier way to get away than working here?”

“I- yeah.”

He leapt up, the fat of his body looking as if it reluctantly followed the remainder of him, a dancing skeleton with an amoebic shell, and walked towards his truck. He paused only once to stub his cigarette out as he walked beneath the shelter of the bowsers. I couldn’t see him in the partial darkness outside of the cover of the station but when he returned, I noticed the difference right away. He walked upright, the lazy trucker gait gone and in his hands, he clutched a shotgun. I began scrambling to my feet but he swiftly swung the gun up, the stock sitting firmly in the pouch of his shoulder. “Stay the fuck down!” he shouted. I stopped mid motion. “Ground!” he yelled. “Get on the ground now!” I crawled, belly forward, onto the cold concrete. He walked past me. “Don’t say a fucking thing” he said, pointing the rifle back in my face. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.”

When he returned, the gun was dangling in his right arm. In his left, he clutched the cash drawer from the register. “C’mon” he motioned with the gun, half pointing it at me. “Thing isn’t even loaded. Make a show for the cameras.” I didn’t understand what he was talking about. Convinced now that he was insane, I decided it would be better to remain on the ground. “Fucking move!” he shouted and brought it up so the barrel was in line with my head. I obeyed, getting up and walking, guided by the empty gun (still intimidating with its gaping black mouth), towards the truck.

And just like that, I was in the cabin with him as we rolled slowly away from the lights and concrete and turned onto the highway. The gun was in my lap balanced on top of the money. “I’m a bad person.” He said. “But I use my bad for good. It doesn’t cancel it out, but I’m sure it means something. Hell, everything means something. Even if you try to make something mean nothing, it means you tried to make it mean nothing and that means something. Shit’s fucked.”

He wound down the window and begun rolling another cigarette in his lap, keeping the wheel steady with his knees, his eyes remaining fixed forward. “I guess I probably scared you with the song and dance. I forget myself sometimes.” I didn’t reply. Still shaken, still unsure. “They won’t find me, you know that. And now you won’t be stuck there any longer. There’s enough money in that till to get you started, I bet. Yeah, ten hours, maybe longer, and you’ll thank me for doing this.” And the lamps against the road grew more and more infrequent until we descended into the darkness of the plains with only the thin cone of light from the headlines flecked with the roaring bodies of insects and rushed details of gravel to indicate we were even moving. We were alone and he could do anything to me. Then again, so could I.

1 0 1

Cold Turkey

"I can do this. I can do this. I can do this..."

Second-hand rain dripped down from gutters in streams, from jagged corners in gray dots, and from his hoodie down his face like tears. Brown, black, and a dry red flaked down to his lips.

He licked his lips. He sighed, for reasons he didn't want to think about, then he spit.

Vomited. Clenched his fists tighter.

"I can do this. I can do this. I can do this..."

It had been four hours. It was closer to morning than midnight, but it felt too bright to be fair. The sunbeam-yellow of a phone advertisement warmed the block like a sun, even if the heat didn't quite make it. Neon technicolor bounced up like a rainbow from the rippling puddles. Street lights. Lit windows. Budweiser and Corona, buzzing on right up till morning.

Then...then it'd get quiet.

"I can do this. I can do this. I can...do this..."

Another hour passed. Soaked through and sweating, he forced himself into a tight ball. He hugged his knees against his bare chest, covering pale skin with the thin sweater material. He wasn't cold. His breath didn't stain the air white. He tried not think about it, about why, about...

He tried not think about- no!

All he had to was wait for morning, for the sun. Then quiet.

"I can do this. I can do this. I can-" 

A girl walked out of Phong's. He sniffed the air by reflex - pho tai. A single, red tear streaked fresh down his face. He wished it hadn't. Every drop he lost only made him hungrier.

Maybe she'd taste like pho, was the last thought that he ever had.

Until he woke up the next night, even dirtier.

Dirty, but warm. Warm, but hungry.

Prompt: littlelilinlover asked you: "Your favorite food in the world suddenly makes you so ill you can't consume it. Ever."

1 0 1

All of my senses
are deafened by my own mind
My thoughts consume me 

1 0 1

And The Award Goes To...

Today was an award ceremony at my school. I am still sick with something, I think it's bronchitis. Tonsilitis, one of those evil viruses. Whichever, I am sick with it and it is hampering my ability to communicate, it's making me more socially inept than ever. And it did nothing to make this day go easier. I'll start off with the good, I suppose. I got to know the German exchange student, Hannah. She has, dark ginger hair and freckles, and she wears glasses. She's super cute, and nice. She and I ate donuts, together in the cafeteria, and we talked about her school back home. She said the only thing she misses from Germany that she cannot get here is, the bread. She says that her school has no school colours, no pep-rallies, and no reconigtion ceremonies. Honestly, I could live without the pep-rallies. In my head, I was thinking, "Off to Europe!", but my smile was saying, "Oh, yes, yes, American schools are the Gods of all schools in the universe."

It was after our conversation over the donuts when things started getting bad. My anxiety rose up behind me, like a snake. I felt it swoop down, and sink its fangs into my neck. The venom, coarsing slowly through my veins.

"And the award goes to..."

"And the award goes to..."

"And the award goes to..."

"And the aw-..."

In my head, I stopped the lady from finishing her hackneyed phrase, and began screaming... "Stop the world, I wanna get off!" Also in my head I escaped from the suffocation and the worthlessness, and floated away on a cloud somewhere, anywhere but where I was. Worthlessness, and hopelessness. I was drowning in them both. I cannot swim, so you can imagine the pain I went through while sinking to my death.

"Top in the country!"

"The students who went to Zaragoza Spain!"

"The students who won the creative writing contests!" And that is when it hit me hard. The shock was that of a shark, sinking its teeth deep into my shin until it hit the bone, snapping my leg in half. Creative Writing contests?!?! I thought. Creative Writing is my oxygen. My food, my life. How did I not know about these contests. I am Vice President of Writers Cafe. I read my poety, spilled my heart and soul in front of those lifeless teachers, and I had no idea about these creative writing contests?!!? And that point I wanted to die. No, actually, I needed to die. I felt completely worthless as a writer. For a while, I let the painful annoyance and grief of not knowing about these contests eat at me, like some disgusting parasite. Then, I went outside, into the sun, and saw the blue sky, glaring back at me. It's simple. I thought... Just like my counselor said, I know what I need, it's just the matter of getting it. So, a plan fell into my lap. I hunt down the English department and demand they give me all the information a young, aspiring writer needs in order to enter these, seemingly confidential, "contests." Second, just keep going. I'll never get anything if I choose to stop now.

I look at it this way. A flower. A little bud, trying to turn into a beautiful rose, looks around it, and sees that there sunflowers, and daffodils, and hydrangeas are all in full bloom. It decides to give up, move farther away from the sun, because, what's the point of sunlight, when the other flowers have gotten all they needed, right? And, when the rain began to pour, instead of rising to become hydrated, it decides to hide beneath the confinement of soil, and dirt, instead. If the rose bud becomes intimidated, and gives up the process of blossoming, it'll never become a full-grown rose. So what's the point of giving up? What is the harm in trying? Giving it a chance. Trying to bloom. The worst, possible outcome would either be a torn petal, or a missing thorn. But even that petal will not die. The wind will find it, pick it up, carry it off, somewhere into the earth, or into the golden glow of the sun. And the missing thorn, well, one can do without an extra bit of weapontry. After-all, the beauty of that determined rose will be enough to scare off any hand that may try and hurt it.


So, I think that's what I'll do. Become that rose. The past is the past. So, my head may have been visting the clouds while daydreaming. Or, the winner(s) of those writing contests could be eager, greedy hoarders and decided not to share their new-found discoveries to the Writers Cafe Club, (which I am vice president of). Either way, it doesn't matter. I have a plan, a path, carved out into the dirt.

"And the award goes to...those who try to find sunlight, even after the sun has died."