1st Annual Creative Writing Contest

[RoughWriters]

Here are the winners from our first ever contest. The entrants' works are posted below.

Grand Prize Winner - "Brother" by Krystle Bekalo

Short Story:
   1st Place Winner - "Nexus" by Edward L. Cheever II
   2nd Place Winner - "Ceasar" by Kathy Douglas

Essay:
   1st Place Winner - "Being a Writer" - Kathy Douglas
   2nd Place Winner - N/A (Second Place became 1st Place upon the former 1st Place essay winning the Grand Prize)

Poetry:
   1st Place Winner - "Welcome to Your Flight" - Geraldo Alonso II
   2nd Place Winner - "Relativity" - Kathy Douglas

Play/Script:
   1st Place Winner - "Higher Ed." by Aaron Weber
   2nd Place Winner - N/A (There were no other entrants this year.)

[RoughWriters]

                “Brother”

     My brother hurt me. His fingers, chronically curled into half-fists, would catch in my hair as his arms flailed aimlessly in the air. His oppressive, inert weight would crush the air out of my seven-year-old chest each time I attempted to carry him downstairs. I would struggle over to the staircase, trying to keep his head from lolling over to the side, then ease down onto the top step and take the rest of my descent on my posterior, holding tight to him as though my life depended on it. But, instead of it being that way, his life depended on my family and me until in 1998 he was taken away.
     My baby brother, Dagmawei, had cerebral palsy. The doctor who was assigned to my mother during the delivery stalled when she heard that the baby was in distress. The doctor knew that if she waited a little longer, a cesarean section would be necessary, and those procedures always brought more money. Her greed, however, had disastrous effects—the cord was wrapped around my brother’s neck, which cut off blood and oxygen to his head and left him permanently brain-damaged. For days after he was born, my father and mother prayed that he would die. His life would be filled with suffering, for he would never walk or talk, and caring for him would be like taking care of a baby who would never grow out of his or her basic needs.
     Though I was only three years old, I remember standing tip-toe on a bench, staring down at my brother from the window above him. For days he had to be fed intravenously, and early pictures of him showed tubes in his nose and mouth. He, like any baby, required 24-hour care, and my mother quit her teaching job and dedicated her life to taking care of him. My brother’s birth, though painful at first, was much like his death: unexpected, white-hot in its pain, but in time it opened my family’s and my eyes to a bigger picture and the reasons why bad things happen.
     Each morning when Dagmawei, or “Baby,” as we called him, was still alive, my sister and I would go into our parents’ room and wake him with tickling. His laugh was an endearing throaty chuckle, and he would smile aimlessly with his deep brown eyes fixed on some far off place. We would often draw our fingers from side to side in front of his eyes, ringed with curly black lashes, and watch them follow our fingers intently. During rainstorms, his slender body would jerk violently whenever the thunder would clap, emotions akin to fear passing over his round, angelic face.
     He and I were cursed with large flappy ears, and his, when his jet-black, curly hair was cut close to his head, would stick out slightly. His small, milk teeth were creamy white and rough at the edges, and his full, baby pink mouth always curved slightly upwards, as though in anticipation of a smile to come. His skin complexion was shades lighter than my sister’s and mine, for he hardly ever had exposure to the sun. His legs resembled perfect, curved branches that bent inward in a bowlegged fashion and his toes, much like his fingers, were pudgy and long.
     We would often prop him up against the wall with pillows at his side to anchor him there, or in the corner of the couch where he would sit, half-fists nestled in the hollow of his bent legs, a wide-toothed grin playing on his parted lips. And that is how all the pictures we keep portray him—at peace and happy, his mind taken to a happy, care-free place that he saw in his distant eyes.
     When my brother passed away, a huge chasm was created in our family. My mother, who had quit her job to take care of him, was the most affected. She had lost her only son and was left with nothing but time to think of his death. My sister and I no longer ran upstairs after school to give him a kiss “hello,” and I moved into my sister’s room and bed for months following his passing. My father, in the eyes of his culture, would never be truly fulfilled unless he had a son to carry on his name.
     Baby’s laughter and cries were no longer heard in the house, and gradually all trace of him—his clothes, his stuffed animals, his pictures—were packed and stored away in an upper closet of my parents’ room. It hurt too much to see them. Songs that had been sung at his funeral would never be heard in our home for years after that. It hurt too much to hear them. All we could see was what we couldn’t have—he was gone, and there was no purpose for it. Surely, if God was to take him away, He could have done so before we had come to love him so much. My family was devastated.
     Yet through this darkness, a light finally shone. Around the time of his death, two of my young boy cousins also passed away. My mother, in an effort to bring closure to her loss, formed and then enacted the idea of creating a memorial school in remembrance of them. She began the school in 1999 as a kindergarten in a small compound with a little over twenty students, and to date it has expanded into three campuses of kindergarten, elementary, and high school. Last year the total number of students enrolled was 1,470. The school is named the BNB Learning Centre with the “BNB” standing for the names of my brother and two cousins.
     I visit the school almost every summer. I see hundreds of kids each day. I get to play with them, hold them in my lap, and, more importantly, watch them do what my brother and cousins were never able to do, and that is grow. I believe that is the reason my mother and father created the school: to provide children with opportunities that those who passed away never had and somehow live the life they never had through them.
     I said that my brother’s life depended on my family and me—it had. By all accounts, he could not have survived alone. Yet, somehow, his death gave me reason to live. I know that the only way I will ever see him again will be if we both make it to heaven. I know he will because surely God can see that he was not capable of sin. He is my inspiration to live my life according to what is good so that when Jesus finally comes, I will get to see my brother’s smiling face, hear his laughter one more time, and walk up the stairs to heaven with him.

[RoughWriters]

                Nexus

     Jesse Holts didn’t know why he had decided to walk through Washington Square Park that afternoon. Not that it wasn’t a beautiful day, you understand, it was quite lovely. No, but Holts had places to be, things to do. Holts wouldn’t be taking time out of his busy day just to take a stroll; not when his fiancé, who was also his agent, waited at the studio. Yet there he was. He casually readjusted the stiff cardboard tubes hanging from his back.
     Black Pawn to E5.
     He glanced around as he walked, slowly panning the crowds of observers hunched over the mental combatants of the chess district. He’d never had any time to come here and watch, though he had wanted to more than once. Instead, he was reduced to dabbling with the Chessmaster on his computer.
     Over near the far end of the district, one lone old man sat at one of the chess tables, gazing idly at the trees overhead. Lonely chess players were a rare sight, in Holts’ experience. Out of curiosity he let his feet guide him towards the man. As he passed by, he noticed that the first move had already been made. One black pawn stood near the center.
     Holts turned, “Doesn’t White normally move first?”
     The man’s evergreen shaded eyes watched him for a moment, then he leaned forward and picked up one of his white pawns.
     White Pawn to E4.
     “I already knew what move my opponent was going to make,” he said, “and I got tired of waiting.”
     “Who’s your opponent?”
     “You.” He said with a grin.
     Holts grinned in return. “Sorry, I don’t really have time. I’m supposed to be meeting my fiancé in town.”
     The man’s gray eyebrow rose. “Then why are you here?”
     Holts didn’t know what to say to that.
     The man reached out and picked up a second pawn. “Are you going to play, or not?”
     White Pawn to F4.
     Holts stared at the board, thinking about Amanda at the studio. He waited four years for her to accept his ring; he could make her wait thirty minutes for theartwork. Feeling reckless, he placed the tubes on the ground, sat down across the table and reached out to his black pawn.
      “I guess I’ll just have to see your gambit, old man.”
     Black Pawn captures F4.
     Flashing aged, but cleanly white teeth, the man extended his hand across the board. “Anderson Tegmark.”
     Holts grasped the weathered hand, “Jesse Holts.”
     “Good to meet you, Jesse.
     “Good to meet you, too, Mr. Tegmark.”
     Anderson sat back and moved his hand over his Bishop. “Call me Andy.”
     White Bishop to C4.
     “You play here a lot, Andy? Do you really like chess that much, or does life just get boring when you get old?” Jesse asked, grinning sarcastically.
     Black Queen to H4.
     “Check.”
      “I haven’t ever felt bored, but I suppose that would be a preferable life to a regretful one.” Andy said smiling.
     White King to F1.
     Holts’ grin slipped a little. Looking at Andy’s merrily wrinkled face he decided the old man didn’t mean anything by it. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
     Black Pawn to B5.
     “So what do you do, Jesse?” He said, eyeing the tubes. “For a living, I mean.”
     “I’m an artist.”
     “An artist? Are you into penciling?”
     “What makes you think that?”
     “Because an artist wouldn’t casually roll a painting into a tube.”
     “True, but I don’t do pencils. I’m a digital artist.”
     “What? Do you use Paintbrush or something? I would have pinned you as a hands-on sort of guy.”
     White Bishop captures B5.
     Holts rolled his eyes. “I’m an artist, not a doodler.” He pursed his lips. “But you’re right, I actually prefer charcoal. What gave it away?”
     Black Knight to F6.
     “You make aggressive moves with your pieces. Charcoal, huh? It suits you. But what I want to know is why you’re here.”
     White Knight to F3.
     “You’re not going to ask me why I’m doing digital instead of charcoal?”
     Black Queen to H6.
     “What’s the difference?”
     White Pawn to D3.
     “You’ve lost the center,” Andy said, looking at Holts with all seriousness.
     “You trying to be existential or something?”
     Black Knight to H5.
     “Fine, then. Why do you do digital art?”
     White Knight to H4.
     “Is there something wrong with digital art?”
     Black Queen to G5.
     “Not at all. I happen to enjoy George Grie’s work especially.”
     White Knight to F5.
     Holts grimaced. “Grie? Maybe if you enjoy desktop backgrounds.” Holts picked up a pawn and pointed it at Andy. “Have you heard of the DD Show, downtown? Digital is getting big, and I’m going with it.”
     Black Pawn to C6.
     “DD?”
     “Digital Dreams.”
     Andy looked incredulous. “What?”
     “Look, I didn’t make up the name, alright? But I’ve got pieces debuting there.”
     Andy looked down at the tubes of art, then back at Holts with a raised eyebrow. “It’s important to you?”
     White Pawn to G4.
     “Of course it is.”
     Black Knight to F6.
     “No it’s not, Jesse.”
     White Rook to G1.
     “What makes you think it’s not? I’m good at it. My agent believes I’ll do exceptional. She’s already peddling my work to other art exhibitions. The art I have here isn’t for the show.”
     Black Pawn captures B5.
     Andy pointed at the stickers on the side of the tubes that read ‘Digital Dreams.’ “Besides, digital art is too removed. You want the kind of art you feel while you make."
     White Pawn to H4.
      “They’re not part of the show, my agent is just thinking of adding them to the display. She wanted to see them this afternoon.”
     Black Queen to G6.
     “So this whole digital thing is your agent’s idea?”
     White Pawn to H5.
     “I didn’t say that.”
     Black Queen to G5.
     “She sounds pretty controlling. Could you imagine having someone like that for a wife?”
     White Queen to F3.
     Holts’ hand froze over the chess board. He swore he heard sarcastic irony in the old man’s voice. Amanda. He’d waited so long to give that ring… what was he waiting for? He couldn’t imagine. No. No, she had his best interest at heart.
     “She has my best interests at heart.”
     Black Knight to G8.
     “That’s encouraging, I suppose.” Andy said, as he mused over the pieces. “Wait, your agent wants to see you this afternoon? I thought you were going to see this Amanda of yours.”
     White Bishop captures F4.
     Holts looked up from the board sharply. Had he mentioned her name? He must have. “There’s plenty of hours in an afternoon.”
     Black Queen to F6.
     “Obviously. You have time to sit and play chess, after all.”
     White Knight to C3.
     “What does it have to do with you?” Holts asked angrily. “Here I am, nice enough to stop by and play a game with some old guy, and all I get from you is some sort of interrogation. What’s it to you? It’s my art, my life, my agent, my fiancé. At least I don’t spend all day playing chess in the park.”
     Black Bishop to C5.
     Anderson’s evergreen eyes gazed over his clasped and wrinkled hands at Holts’ lined, frowning face for several minutes. “You didn’t come here to play a game with me. I came here to play a game with you.” He said quietly.
     White Knight to D5.
     “What is that supposed to mean?”
     Black Queen Captures B2.
     Reaching over to their discarded pieces Andy picked them up. His old hands fumbled with them for a minute, the two black pawns, two white pawns and a white bishop. He grasped the group with his left hand and picked out a white pawn with the other, holding it aloft between them. “Jesse,” He began. “It’s painfully obvious you don’t really know what you’re doing.”
     He threw the pawn over his shoulder and picked out a black pawn.
     “Your relationship with Amanda, your agent, is so mixed between intimacy and business that you don’t know where one ends and the other begins. For that matter, you don’t know what those words even mean anymore.”
     He threw the black piece over his shoulder and held up the bishop.
     “Because she guides you in business, you let her make all the decisions for you, in all aspects of your life. You waited years before she finally said yes to your proposal, and you even gave up your real artistic vision to her ambitions.”
     He tossed the bishop aside, proffering a black pawn.
     “To follow her lead, you let her shut you down. You distanced yourself from everything, even as you distance yourself from your art.” Anderson gestured at the board, “You lost your center, your passion, your dreams, early on. Now you wander aimlessly, shooting off aggressively in all directions while ignoring your core issues. Amanda hasn’t had a real conversation with you in over a year, muchless any discussions or arguments.”
     He threw the pawn aside and grabbed the last white pawn.
     “Let me explain something to you,” Anderson said, as he lazily eyed the piece in his hand. “Just like physical objects and matter can be designed in such a way as to channel energy, so can decisions channel lives. In physical matter, these connections run through all things. The larger, more obvious connections are sometimes called ley lines,” He dragged his index finger through the air in a series of geometric shapes, “mountains, coasts, rivers and other geological formations create complex connections all over the globe, but people misinterpret their purpose.
     “In lives, it could be called guided fate. It sounds like a paradox, but it only means that the choices we make have inevitable consequences. The Japanese call it ‘Hitsuzen.’ All physical matter directs all energy, inevitably into one point, the center. All lives and decisions have to revolve around a center, and all of these purposes connect to one another, inevitably leading to the center. Where all purposes and all energy meet, the Nexus is formed. You could say it is the heart, or perhaps the crossroads, of all creation.
     “You have positioned yourself poorly, Jesse. You’re walking into a self-made trap, and you’ve left behind everything that makes you yourself. Lives that lose their center either self destruct, or they drift to the center of everything:the Nexus.
     “Consider yourself fortunate that you didn’t take the cab to the studio. Because you took a walk in the park, because you came here, you did not die when the cab was demolished in a car wreck. Instead, you came to the Nexus.” Anderson swept his hand over the board. “Look at your life. Every choice you’ve made has led to this.”
     White Bishop to D6.
     Andy smiled. “It’s your move.”
     Holts stared at the weathered old man in stunned silence. Slowly, his mouth dry and cracking, he said, “I don’t know how you know all that, and I don’t care. I don’t know how I got caught up playing this stupid game when I should obviously be somewhere else.” Holts stood up, grabbing his bishop. “You’re crazy. You’re crazy, and I don’t have to listen to this. I’m going. But you know what? I’m going to make one last move before I leave. Do you know why?” He pointed at Andy’s rook. “Because you left yourself wide open, and I just can’t help but take advantage of such a lousy move.” Slapping the rook off the board he firmly put his bishop down it its place. He looked thingyily at Andy. “And you said I positioned myself poorly.” He turned to pick up his art and walk away.
     “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.” Anderson said warmly, “You did align the Nexus perfectly.”
     Black Bishop captures G1.
     “What do you mean I aligned…” Jesse stopped in his tracks. Wide-eyed he dropped the tubes from his hands and turned around. Everything looked the same, Andy, the chess board; but… it was different. It was completely different. The board filled his vision.
     It wasn’t so much a chess board as it was a picture; a framed portrait.
     He tried to turn around; to run away.
     It wasn’t so much a picture as it was a window frame.
     Invisible ropes were strung from every bone in his body, pulling him toward the chess set.
     It wasn’t so much a window as it was a door.
     It opened. He fell through.
     The people around the park walked, talked and played games. The birds sang, and the trees swayed in the breeze, making the mottled shadows that fell over the old chess player dance. The chess set once more sat undisturbed, both sides set except for one lone black pawn.
     The gatekeeper’s smile faded. He always wondered where they went when they went through. Reaching his wrinkled old hand across the pieces he knocked the black king over with a grin. “Checkmate.”

[RoughWriters]

                Caesar

     My name? Well, my humans call me Caesar, but then humans don’t really know much about felines. We are a mystery to them, and they like it that way. Unlike those slobbering creatures who wag their tails and beg for attention.
     Humans speculate about our mystic abilities. They even worshiped us as gods long ago, but most no longer believe in magic so they will never truly understand us.
     You may have heard the old wives tale that cats have nine lives. That is because in the days when humans still believed in magic, some of our kind shared feline secrets with their humans. In fact we are each born with certain gifts and talents. The gift of nine chances is given to most felines, but some have the gift of human communication, and some can transport themselves. Some have the ‘cuteness’ factor, which is much more powerful than you might think.
     There are many more abilities that we have access to, but I have probably told you too much already. What you do need to know is that these gifts are transferable. Any feline can willingly give, sell, or trade any of their gifts to another feline. Some can be shared with humans as well, but that is a rather difficult and complicated process.
     Understanding what I have told you so far, I can reveal that I have lived 123 lives thus far. I discovered long ago that young felines with their nine chances intact feel invulnerable. Being young and fresh they see life as a playground and do not recognize the dangers all around them.
     They readily trade one or two of their chances for a morsel of savory food, a lesson in handling humans, or one of the other gifts that I have acquired during my sojourn. Luckily the humans that I live with have a weakness for felines and there are always many young ones about for me to trade with.
     I like to catch them very young before they know much about life in the world of humans. If I can catch them wandering from their mother’s teat, all the better. I had one such trade me six chances just for an afternoon of wrestling. I have seen many felines come and go from my household over my 18 human years of existence.
     There is a catch to my plan that I did not anticipate when I first devised it. Well, a few catches actually. First, though I am able to trade a chance for a death whenever one happens my way, my body continues to age and deteriorate. This brings with it more and more visits from death. I have personally experienced 18 heart attacks over the last six months. Even with my skills of negotiation that is a lot of chances to go through in such a short time. Second, when one spends such a length of time with a human family it is easy to become emotionally attached to one or more of them.
     I worry about my man. I may run out of chances sooner than I hoped and then who will watch over him. I cannot entrust him to these young felines. They have no understanding of his needs, no experience in avoiding death, no skill in medicine. I have been working my magic to help my man with his blood pressure, mental health, and physical dexterity for years. If I am gone, he will not last long without me.
     Most of these young ones have not even discovered how to gain entrance to the house. My man’s wife is the main obstacle. There is one other who has gained admittance to the house but she refuses to take chances from the young ones and the years are growing on her body too.
     But I digress. I began my life as an outcast. My mother was an independent, but before giving birth she searched for a family of humans with a sensitivity to felines. She delivered her young in their backyard and allowed the humans access to her children.
     She gave up her life in order to give her children a chance at royalty, for after the humans chose my sister and I to stay with them, my mother and the others were boxed up and taken to “the shelter.” The name sounds very benign, but I have heard from others that it is actually a despicable prison that only the young can ever escape.
     There are several levels in feline society. Independents roam the earth with no connections to humans. They fight and hunt to survive and use up their chances very quickly. I lived life for a short while as an independent. It is a horrific life of mistrust and fear. Most independents claim that they live free by choice, but I’ve never known a one that didn’t secretly dream of life with humans.
     Noble roamers live with humans, but they are condemned to a life outside of the habitation dwellings. When an independent finds a connection with a human with feline sensitivities, they often become noble roamers. Some consider it the best of both worlds, but when water drops from the sky and night cold becomes extreme, the human house is a desirable location.
     But a house can be a prison to. Pampered prisoners live inside the human homes, but are not allowed to leave the dwelling. They become fat and lazy and have no idea of their true nature. I was kept prisoner right after my human family changed their habitation and the drive for nature compelled me to escape no matter what the consequences. My need for free interaction with the world overwhelmed my better senses.
     But most of my life I have lived in the class ranking that all felines dream of. Those that have total freedom to the outside world and the human dwelling place, the royal class. I am a king.

[RoughWriters]

               Being a Writer

     I don’t know if there is an exact time that a person becomes a writer. It is a process, like becoming an adult. It starts when you learn your ABCs, perhaps even before then. I expect you can call yourself a professional writer when you are able to make a living at it.
     I’ve always been writer, as far back as I can remember. I used to write poetry on my book covers at school. Even though I hated spelling, I really didn’t mind English. I reveled in the assignments that made me use my imagination.
     Imagination and observation are necessary talents to any writer. Even before I had ever set foot in a classroom I used these talents to entertain my family. When I was young, we would travel a lot. Before the invention of handheld video games, four children in the back of a station wagon would have to find ways to entertain themselves.
     We played a game called T.V. I would act out a television program and when one of my brothers or sister would reach out to change the channel, (we didn’t have remotes then either) I would immediately switch to a different program. Sometimes I was the news, and then I would be a dramatic move, or a cartoon.
     I probably enjoyed the game more than my brothers and sister did. For years I thought I wanted to be an actress. When I had my first child, I realized that the time and sacrifice necessary for a successful acting career would get in the way of my family life.
     I didn’t consider the idea of being a professional writer until many years later. Even then it was a ghost dream that would fade in and out of my life. I would get all worked up about an idea, write a story or poem, send it off, get a rejection, and then give up for a few years. I would go on with my life as if I were just ordinary until the desire to solidify my ideas into something concrete became so overwhelming that I could no longer ignore it, and then the process would cycle all over again.
     Through each of theses cycles I would learn a little more about the writing process, the publishing world, and the overall business of writing. I would also become more and more ensnared by the idea of becoming a professional writer.
     Part of the problem that I would run into, besides hating rejection, was that I had so many ideas that I often did not know where to start or once I did start I would easily become distracted by a new project or the slightest resistance. I realize now that I had a lot of personal growing to go through before I was strong enough to accept such a arduous calling.
     I had been able to complete a few short stories and poems, but I never got past a few chapters on a book until I asked a friend for help. I gave her a list of ten book ideas and asked her which one she thought I should write first. Her choice freed me up to concentrate all my efforts on the one project.
     Since I was working full time and had a family to take care of I would glean any spare moment to work on my first novel. It took over two years to finish the rough draft.
     The really great thing that happened during that time is that my family began to look at me as a writer. It’s one thing to think of yourself as a writer but it’s a whole other matter when others see you that way. It’s like looking in a mirror. For most of my life the mirror was covered with fog. I could see an image but couldn’t quite make out what it was. I knew what I wanted it to be, sometimes I thought it was something else, but when others could clearly see what was there I realized that the fog had finally dissipated and there, in the mirror, was a writer staring back at me.

[RoughWriters]

welcome to your flight

flight pattern frenzy
suit-case pandemonium
calm coffee giving goddess
crying baby, messy diaper
747 wake up
produce g-force bliss
welcome to america
welcome to bangladesh
welcome to here
destination yesterday
in the world of tomorrow
business casual
in the world of poverty
first class amenities
with precooked food
and peanuts on the side
where are you going
why are you leaving
change the world
with your frequent flyer
credit card
leave me to day
gather around to morrow
the flight of the steel beast
and its internal organic
carbon forms
please take your seat
fasten your seat belts
correct your table
tray's downfall
excitement in the air
welcome to your flight

[RoughWriters]

Relativity

Time slides
Sometimes on gravel
Sometimes on ice

Life flies
Sometimes in flutters
Sometimes in soars

Truth shines
Sometimes on velvet
Sometimes on chrome

Peace endures
Sometimes in a moment
Sometimes in a life