Mark Peter Hughes

Dear Diary Short Fiction Contest Winners

First Place

Dear Diary,

What can I do? Everything he’s done I’ve done, too. He has no idea what I’ve had to deal with on top of that. And he won’t even come to me. But being ‘enlightened’ apparently puts him above his own favorite wife. They must be talking about me downstairs. Gopa is probably whispering in his ear all the lies she’s been saving…
I won’t go down to their dinner.
If Siddhartha, or Buddha, won’t come to see me after twelve years…
Maybe now everyone loves him and likes him and laughs with him. But I did first. I loved him first. He loved me first.
I remember when I first saw him. I was late for his bride-picking celebration where all the girls (Gopa included…but he didn’t chose her then) flitted about accepting gifts graciously and trying to attract attention. I was in a terrible temper-my parents had been arguing over whether I should go. I was only sixteen, but so was he. My mother was desperate to try me, but my father thought we could do better than my cousin. I didn’t really care about impressing Prince Siddhartha, the most likely spoiled boy I had never met.
Naturally, thanks to my parent’s inane argument, I was so late that I almost missed it entirely. While hurrying in, I lost my best bracelet, one of those large ones I always had to concentrate on keeping on my wrist. So when I rushed in to join the tail end of the procession, my thoughts were only on if I had any chance of receiving a new bracelet. Only I saw nothing left. Before I had time to stop myself I asked breathlessly, “Are there any gifts left for me?”
Oh, he loved it, though I don’t know why. Had I been him I would’ve given the slightly disheveled girl who was moaning after lost presents a strange look and dismissive wave. However he grinned at me, took off his necklace of pearls, came down of his small throne, and fastened it around my neck. I still remember how stunned I was. Numb.
My father was furious. Coming home, knowing slightly dazedly that I was going to be married to my prince cousin, I forgot until the last minute that he had never actually given me permission to go. I had figured my mother would win out over him, but she hadn’t, and he flatly refused to hand me off.
By now I had decided that marrying Siddhartha wouldn’t be half as bad as marrying one of my father’s friends, geezers with bad tempers and scary smiles. I wonder what would’ve happened had I listened to him.
Oh, yes, he warned me. He said when Siddhartha was born it had been foretold by a wise man that the boy would be either a great king or a great monk. My father suspected monk, obviously knowing the soft and compassionate boy better than I. I was relentless, however, and my mother backed me up.
So eventually he compromised in setting up a tournament. I can remember fervently the aching desire to laugh at my father when Siddhartha defeated my father’s best men in all the challenges.
That was when I was happy. Twelve years. Then when we were twenty-eight, he left for a carriage ride. I remember when he came back… not a word, stared at his plate in silence, and barely picked at his dinner. The next day he went out, too. Then that night. It was wonderful. I felt so ecstatic and happy, for I was his favorite wife. Over Gopa. Over the others. Over 60,000 concubines. It was me.
The next morning he was gone without a word.
I can’t tell you the debacle inside me when they told me he was gone, and later that week they received word that he was living practicing austerities. Begging on the streets. I couldn’t believe it, but to top it off he had become a monk. He wore ragged clothes, ate little, and wandered alone. I was near mad with grief and self-hatred. I cut my hair off, my beautiful blonde hair, and threw out my jewels, and was prepared to leave when… I was late. After twelve years of nothing, I was late. It didn’t come.
Baby or not, I near starved myself, waiting to see my stomach grow, but it didn’t happen. I told my servant, a friend, but what could she do? My stomach moaned and tossed and it never came, and months passed.
Years and two marriage proposals (turned down) later, nothing still. I never understood it. I never stopped my relentless austerities. Then word reached us one day. Siddhartha had returned to the light of the world-now the enlightened Buddha. At that point, it changed. Maybe because I stopped starving myself. I don’t know… all I knew was having a baby six years after my husband disappeared was bad, very bad. Suddenly I had everyone at my neck ready for blood as my belly rose-no one wanted the new Buddha’s wife with child while he was gone. Desperate, I banked on something to assure them of spiritual approval. (And I hope under any god no one ever reads this) With my new Rahula in my arms I brought the opposition to the pond where Siddhartha used to bathe. I had my servant paint a chunk of wood to look like a rock and told them to watch. If the rock floated it would be Siddhartha’s baby… It floated, as I knew it would, but there were doubters, Gopa for one. Hoping desperately I would not be drowning my child, I set Rahula down on the ‘rock’. It held. I remember my joy. I was saved.
But, back or not, it took him six years. And he won’t even come up to comfort me. I will worship with
I hear footsteps on the stairs. Oh diary, perhaps this is him. After twelve years. Please.
Yasodhara

-- Mandy B., age 15

Second Place

Dear Diary,

If I had the ability to offer one piece of advice to any other thirteen year old girl in the nation it would be: don’t listen to your parents. Despite what they tell you, they know nothing. They don’t “get you”, or, my personal favorite, “know exactly how you feel”. Pretty soon they lead you down the wrong path and then try to pretend like they weren’t the ones who screwed everything up.
My mom did exactly this. She was the one who told me to wear the neon green pants. Of course, she didn’t tell me that absolutely NOBODY—that is, anyone who matters—wears neon in this town. Why couldn’t she have just taken me to Abercrombie and Fitch? But nooooo, she has to try and be avant garde.
Mom, we’re not in L.A. anymore.
Besides, you’d think that mothers would want their children to not be doomed to the outskirts of junior high popularity.
Oops, too late.
“Honey,” she said when I walked down the stairs at 7:30 this morning, “do you really want to wear that on your first day?”
“What?” I pretended to ask, “Does my shirt have a hole or something?”
She pursed her lips and gave me that “you know what I mean” look. “Well, those jeans are so plain.”
“Mom,” I said, “What do you expect me wear?”
She smiled a vindictive little smile that would later kill all my chances of survival here. “This.” Out came a pair of bright green Capri pants. BRIGHT green Capri pants.
My first reaction was, “No, Mom. No way are you getting me into those!”
She sighed, “Now honey, you need to make an entrance. You’re the new girl. You have the chance to be anybody you want to be.” By this she meant someone quite similar to who she was when she was thirteen—daring, dramatic, loved by all in the artsy crowd…um, not me. I know that she would practically squeal in happiness if I joined the Drama Club or had a magical talent for sculpting. Quite frankly, I would rather play softball.
“Please, I’m just trying to fit in; you know, not be a freak of nature.”
But somehow I ended up in the freak of nature pants. Don’t ask me how. My theory is that she magically hypnotized me into taking off my jeans. I think that somehow she convinced me that, yes; it would be nice to be different for a change, noticed for once. Then, before I could snap back into reality, I ended up at school.
After my mom left me for dead, I stood very awkward-like, leaning against a pole in front of my first class. I was going for the whole casual look until a girl walked by, and, recognizing me as new, looked me up and down. She scoffed when her eyes met mine. “Nice pants.”
Mission accomplished: someone noticed me.
I wanted to die right then and there. Seriously, if the ground swallowed me up at that very moment, I’m not sure I would have minded that much.
“Um, can you try not to blind me? Thanks,” I was woken from my reverie by another girl staring me down.
Like life couldn’t get any worse, once class actually started the teacher (Mr. Brigs?) made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I think the front row now has permanent damage to their eyes.
Lunch was somewhat adequate. The pudding was good; so good, in fact that I was staring intently down into it. I was trying hard not to catch anyone’s attention. If I did, I did not want them to see my face. Right as I was mid-way through my pudding cup a girl said, “Hey, I like your pants.”
Something about it seemed genuine and I honestly didn’t think she was being mean. It was more like a “hey, you’re cool” sort of thing. She was wearing a silver eyebrow ring and black, off-beat clothes—Goth, if you could pin it down in a label.
She seemed nice, albeit a little strange, but I was still shocked when she sat down. “And just so you know,” she said, “most of the people at this school are idiots. I wouldn’t listen to anything they say.” As quickly as she sat down, she got up. “Have to go to the Photo room. Later,” she told me.
So I made an acquaintance, big deal. There is absolutely no way that I’m letting my mom know. She’s one of those girls. The ones I know my mom would adore. Besides, I don’t think she is anywhere near normal.
I didn’t see her the rest of the day, though, and had to endure snickers and pity-looks for my attire. When Mom picked me up after school, I was ready to kill.
“How was your day?”
I leaned my head against the window and groaned, “Um, let’s see, mom—HORRIBLE! I can’t believe I let you talk me into wearing these! This is your fault! Nobody should be allowed to make clothing from that material. I am going home and burning these pants!"
“That bad, huh? Well, did you make any new friends?” she asked tentatively.
“How can I make friends? I’m wearing a big ‘ol fashion no-no. All the cool girls ignored me. Nobody talked me all day except for this weird chick with an eyebrow ring!”
It was then that my mom stopped talking, which struck me as odd. She looked at me, but I refused to meet her gaze. She finally decided to speak once we turned into our driveway. “Sometimes,” she sighed, “the weird people are the coolest ones.”
I just walked into the house without saying a word.
Mothers—what do they know?

-- Brie H., age 14

Third Place

A Day in the Life of a Modern Professional Philosopher

6:53--Awoke when an intrepid ant ventured into my nostril. Smacked it away, crushing it, before I was fully awake. After deciding that animal instincts should never be allowed to overpower conscious decision, and that the bug did not present a threat to my life and so could not be killed for self-preservation, I accepted full responsibility for the life taken. Mourned by meditating for half an hour on the insect's role in providing a contrast by which men can judge their own purpose and capabilities.

7:38--Dumpster-diving for breakfast. Struck gold in the dumpster behind Roma's Pizzeria and scrounged several slightly-burnt crusts. My newfound bounty was greater than my present need, so I walked to Central Park to share with the pigeons. Feed them while contemplating whether a charitable act is truly charitable if the person doing it does so to feel good about him/herself. Concluded that the only true act of charity is one committed by a misanthrope, against his or her will. The inherent paradox entertained me for the next few hours.

Approximately noon--Determined that time as we know it is an arbitrary system of measurement, and that the only necessary information is whether an event happens before or after other events. After 3,671 heartbeats, I decided to acknowledge the societal value given to time by its widespread usage, especially since it was almost time for the soup kitchen to open, and I wanted to get there before all the vegetarian options were gone.

12:42--Lunch. Slurped lukewarm minestrone and hoped that vegetables aren't conscious.

1:14--Banged my head against a wall in an attempt to shake my body out of the illusion of the ordinary and onto a level of higher perception. Gave me a strong headache. Went to lie down and discover a less physical method for reaching the infinite.

4:25--A dream of ballroom dancing with the ant, my shoes clacking in perfect counterpoint to the ant's spiny legs, stayed with me as I awoke. Elated by both my contact with the other plane and the insect's implied forgiveness, I danced out of the alley, feet moving to steps learned in my youth and since half-forgotten. Brushed against two women as I skipped past, and gave them a courtly bow of apology without breaking my steps. They gave each other aghast looks, whispering, "Drunk, probably." Would have explained that I wasn't drunk, but merely recognized the utter irrelevance of societal constraints, but they had already bustled off, avoiding eye contact.

6:27--Mad Hattie's cardboard roof was stolen during the night. Helped her find a replacement outside the packaging plant. She offered me a small ceramic toad as payment, but I turned her down, saying that service to the community is the only universal meaning life can have in the absence of a higher power. She nodded, then ducked into her repaired shelter to have her afternoon scream.

7:53--Walked the streets with a slow, ambling stroll until I reached the shore facing west, then watched the sun slide from the sky, leaving yellow bands blazing across the sea. Began by reflecting that the inhuman beauty of a natural landscape lies in its potential dangers, but eventually my thoughts trailed off. Stood, silent and still, and watched my breath form pink-tinted clouds in the chilly evening air.

-- Julia H., age 18

home about mark i am the wallpaper lemonade mouth writing contests haiku me, baby! author visits photos non-u.s. covers mark's calendar lemonademouth.com floeysprivatelife.com what's new links email mark	contest winners 2007 There were hundreds of entries in each of the three contests--and picking the winners wasn't easy!--but these were the ones that came out on top. Congratulations to everyone who entered! -- Mark • Haiku Me Baby! - Contest Winners • What’s Really Important - Poetry Contest Winners • Dear Diary - Short Fiction Contest Winners
	Haiku Me Baby! Contest Winners
	First Place blue arms pulling white sand shines under flowing glass and sticks to my toes -- Nick S., Age 14	Second Place mohawk, tight pants, rock red guitar pick in his sock has a band fo' sho' -- Diana D., Age 19	Third Place flat, tapered woman you are a ribbon of silk twirling through fingers -- Maria K., Age 19
	What’s Really Important Poetry Contest Winners First Place From Him, to Her The cafeteria, the dance hall, the linoleum-floored palace of embarrassing gangsta rap, Is reverberating with sound tonight. Hired, nameless DJ with a minimal list of Top 40 hits Drones into the unseen microphone. Those Too Cool to Dance stand around, tentatively wiggling their asses to bad, trendy music. Those too Uncool to Dance pretend not to see, and cough nastily not-so-subtly into the Back of their (our) hands. Middle-school dances are not emotional affairs. (Even though, when we’re nostalgic, we like to pretend that they were/are.) However, young romance is Not Dead. Hormone-drenched wonder of wonders, not all was cold, listless, that night. She has an inner beauty that shines, an em- Bodyment of that clichéd phrase. But tonight, he thinks of her as something more. I watch from the shadows and take notes, skinny legs not big enough to carry a heart his size. The DJ manages to snap out of his babbling lunacy. “This song is dedicated from Keith, to Gertie.” The rest of us clear that light-spotted, squeaky floor, and, in almost Reverant, heart-breaking silence, We watch them dance. -- Anna F., age 15 Second Place Liddyah’s Poem God gave up the pieces to a puzzle, And we put them in their place. When the puzzle was complete, We saw your beautiful face. The pain I had to go through, And all that was yet to come, Seem to vanish from my head, When you curled your fingers around my thumb. You stole my heart surprisingly fast, Even though I was unsure. But after looking in your eyes, I knew the world I could endure. So when you’re smiling because you’re happy, Or your crying can't seem to pass, Know that I will always protect you, And our relationship will forever last. -- Staci K., age 18 Third Place Growth Her eyes pregnant with tears “You are beautiful” says her mother She thinks otherwise “This is just a stage” says her mother Her plump body flops against the couch “Don’t wallow in your sorrows honey” says her mother Her red cheeks kiss the pillow “Sit up, I have something for you” says her mother She moans and rolls over Her freckles sit drenched in snot and tears “Read this” says her mother Her shaking hands unravel the note In big bold words “Keep your head up Sunshine” Danced across the paper Another tears dribbles down her face “I love you mom” says the girl “I love you too” says her mother -- Jaclyn N., age 17
	Dear Diary Short Fiction Contest Winners First Place Dear Diary, What can I do? Everything he’s done I’ve done, too. He has no idea what I’ve had to deal with on top of that. And he won’t even come to me. But being ‘enlightened’ apparently puts him above his own favorite wife. They must be talking about me downstairs. Gopa is probably whispering in his ear all the lies she’s been saving… I won’t go down to their dinner. If Siddhartha, or Buddha, won’t come to see me after twelve years… Maybe now everyone loves him and likes him and laughs with him. But I did first. I loved him first. He loved me first. I remember when I first saw him. I was late for his bride-picking celebration where all the girls (Gopa included…but he didn’t chose her then) flitted about accepting gifts graciously and trying to attract attention. I was in a terrible temper-my parents had been arguing over whether I should go. I was only sixteen, but so was he. My mother was desperate to try me, but my father thought we could do better than my cousin. I didn’t really care about impressing Prince Siddhartha, the most likely spoiled boy I had never met. Naturally, thanks to my parent’s inane argument, I was so late that I almost missed it entirely. While hurrying in, I lost my best bracelet, one of those large ones I always had to concentrate on keeping on my wrist. So when I rushed in to join the tail end of the procession, my thoughts were only on if I had any chance of receiving a new bracelet. Only I saw nothing left. Before I had time to stop myself I asked breathlessly, “Are there any gifts left for me?” Oh, he loved it, though I don’t know why. Had I been him I would’ve given the slightly disheveled girl who was moaning after lost presents a strange look and dismissive wave. However he grinned at me, took off his necklace of pearls, came down of his small throne, and fastened it around my neck. I still remember how stunned I was. Numb. My father was furious. Coming home, knowing slightly dazedly that I was going to be married to my prince cousin, I forgot until the last minute that he had never actually given me permission to go. I had figured my mother would win out over him, but she hadn’t, and he flatly refused to hand me off. By now I had decided that marrying Siddhartha wouldn’t be half as bad as marrying one of my father’s friends, geezers with bad tempers and scary smiles. I wonder what would’ve happened had I listened to him. Oh, yes, he warned me. He said when Siddhartha was born it had been foretold by a wise man that the boy would be either a great king or a great monk. My father suspected monk, obviously knowing the soft and compassionate boy better than I. I was relentless, however, and my mother backed me up. So eventually he compromised in setting up a tournament. I can remember fervently the aching desire to laugh at my father when Siddhartha defeated my father’s best men in all the challenges. That was when I was happy. Twelve years. Then when we were twenty-eight, he left for a carriage ride. I remember when he came back… not a word, stared at his plate in silence, and barely picked at his dinner. The next day he went out, too. Then that night. It was wonderful. I felt so ecstatic and happy, for I was his favorite wife. Over Gopa. Over the others. Over 60,000 concubines. It was me. The next morning he was gone without a word. I can’t tell you the debacle inside me when they told me he was gone, and later that week they received word that he was living practicing austerities. Begging on the streets. I couldn’t believe it, but to top it off he had become a monk. He wore ragged clothes, ate little, and wandered alone. I was near mad with grief and self-hatred. I cut my hair off, my beautiful blonde hair, and threw out my jewels, and was prepared to leave when… I was late. After twelve years of nothing, I was late. It didn’t come. Baby or not, I near starved myself, waiting to see my stomach grow, but it didn’t happen. I told my servant, a friend, but what could she do? My stomach moaned and tossed and it never came, and months passed. Years and two marriage proposals (turned down) later, nothing still. I never understood it. I never stopped my relentless austerities. Then word reached us one day. Siddhartha had returned to the light of the world-now the enlightened Buddha. At that point, it changed. Maybe because I stopped starving myself. I don’t know… all I knew was having a baby six years after my husband disappeared was bad, very bad. Suddenly I had everyone at my neck ready for blood as my belly rose-no one wanted the new Buddha’s wife with child while he was gone. Desperate, I banked on something to assure them of spiritual approval. (And I hope under any god no one ever reads this) With my new Rahula in my arms I brought the opposition to the pond where Siddhartha used to bathe. I had my servant paint a chunk of wood to look like a rock and told them to watch. If the rock floated it would be Siddhartha’s baby… It floated, as I knew it would, but there were doubters, Gopa for one. Hoping desperately I would not be drowning my child, I set Rahula down on the ‘rock’. It held. I remember my joy. I was saved. But, back or not, it took him six years. And he won’t even come up to comfort me. I will worship with I hear footsteps on the stairs. Oh diary, perhaps this is him. After twelve years. Please. Yasodhara -- Mandy B., age 15 Second Place Dear Diary, If I had the ability to offer one piece of advice to any other thirteen year old girl in the nation it would be: don’t listen to your parents. Despite what they tell you, they know nothing. They don’t “get you”, or, my personal favorite, “know exactly how you feel”. Pretty soon they lead you down the wrong path and then try to pretend like they weren’t the ones who screwed everything up. My mom did exactly this. She was the one who told me to wear the neon green pants. Of course, she didn’t tell me that absolutely NOBODY—that is, anyone who matters—wears neon in this town. Why couldn’t she have just taken me to Abercrombie and Fitch? But nooooo, she has to try and be avant garde. Mom, we’re not in L.A. anymore. Besides, you’d think that mothers would want their children to not be doomed to the outskirts of junior high popularity. Oops, too late. “Honey,” she said when I walked down the stairs at 7:30 this morning, “do you really want to wear that on your first day?” “What?” I pretended to ask, “Does my shirt have a hole or something?” She pursed her lips and gave me that “you know what I mean” look. “Well, those jeans are so plain.” “Mom,” I said, “What do you expect me wear?” She smiled a vindictive little smile that would later kill all my chances of survival here. “This.” Out came a pair of bright green Capri pants. BRIGHT green Capri pants. My first reaction was, “No, Mom. No way are you getting me into those!” She sighed, “Now honey, you need to make an entrance. You’re the new girl. You have the chance to be anybody you want to be.” By this she meant someone quite similar to who she was when she was thirteen—daring, dramatic, loved by all in the artsy crowd…um, not me. I know that she would practically squeal in happiness if I joined the Drama Club or had a magical talent for sculpting. Quite frankly, I would rather play softball. “Please, I’m just trying to fit in; you know, not be a freak of nature.” But somehow I ended up in the freak of nature pants. Don’t ask me how. My theory is that she magically hypnotized me into taking off my jeans. I think that somehow she convinced me that, yes; it would be nice to be different for a change, noticed for once. Then, before I could snap back into reality, I ended up at school. After my mom left me for dead, I stood very awkward-like, leaning against a pole in front of my first class. I was going for the whole casual look until a girl walked by, and, recognizing me as new, looked me up and down. She scoffed when her eyes met mine. “Nice pants.” Mission accomplished: someone noticed me. I wanted to die right then and there. Seriously, if the ground swallowed me up at that very moment, I’m not sure I would have minded that much. “Um, can you try not to blind me? Thanks,” I was woken from my reverie by another girl staring me down. Like life couldn’t get any worse, once class actually started the teacher (Mr. Brigs?) made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I think the front row now has permanent damage to their eyes. Lunch was somewhat adequate. The pudding was good; so good, in fact that I was staring intently down into it. I was trying hard not to catch anyone’s attention. If I did, I did not want them to see my face. Right as I was mid-way through my pudding cup a girl said, “Hey, I like your pants.” Something about it seemed genuine and I honestly didn’t think she was being mean. It was more like a “hey, you’re cool” sort of thing. She was wearing a silver eyebrow ring and black, off-beat clothes—Goth, if you could pin it down in a label. She seemed nice, albeit a little strange, but I was still shocked when she sat down. “And just so you know,” she said, “most of the people at this school are idiots. I wouldn’t listen to anything they say.” As quickly as she sat down, she got up. “Have to go to the Photo room. Later,” she told me. So I made an acquaintance, big deal. There is absolutely no way that I’m letting my mom know. She’s one of those girls. The ones I know my mom would adore. Besides, I don’t think she is anywhere near normal. I didn’t see her the rest of the day, though, and had to endure snickers and pity-looks for my attire. When Mom picked me up after school, I was ready to kill. “How was your day?” I leaned my head against the window and groaned, “Um, let’s see, mom—HORRIBLE! I can’t believe I let you talk me into wearing these! This is your fault! Nobody should be allowed to make clothing from that material. I am going home and burning these pants!" “That bad, huh? Well, did you make any new friends?” she asked tentatively. “How can I make friends? I’m wearing a big ‘ol fashion no-no. All the cool girls ignored me. Nobody talked me all day except for this weird chick with an eyebrow ring!” It was then that my mom stopped talking, which struck me as odd. She looked at me, but I refused to meet her gaze. She finally decided to speak once we turned into our driveway. “Sometimes,” she sighed, “the weird people are the coolest ones.” I just walked into the house without saying a word. Mothers—what do they know? -- Brie H., age 14 Third Place A Day in the Life of a Modern Professional Philosopher 6:53--Awoke when an intrepid ant ventured into my nostril. Smacked it away, crushing it, before I was fully awake. After deciding that animal instincts should never be allowed to overpower conscious decision, and that the bug did not present a threat to my life and so could not be killed for self-preservation, I accepted full responsibility for the life taken. Mourned by meditating for half an hour on the insect's role in providing a contrast by which men can judge their own purpose and capabilities. 7:38--Dumpster-diving for breakfast. Struck gold in the dumpster behind Roma's Pizzeria and scrounged several slightly-burnt crusts. My newfound bounty was greater than my present need, so I walked to Central Park to share with the pigeons. Feed them while contemplating whether a charitable act is truly charitable if the person doing it does so to feel good about him/herself. Concluded that the only true act of charity is one committed by a misanthrope, against his or her will. The inherent paradox entertained me for the next few hours. Approximately noon--Determined that time as we know it is an arbitrary system of measurement, and that the only necessary information is whether an event happens before or after other events. After 3,671 heartbeats, I decided to acknowledge the societal value given to time by its widespread usage, especially since it was almost time for the soup kitchen to open, and I wanted to get there before all the vegetarian options were gone. 12:42--Lunch. Slurped lukewarm minestrone and hoped that vegetables aren't conscious. 1:14--Banged my head against a wall in an attempt to shake my body out of the illusion of the ordinary and onto a level of higher perception. Gave me a strong headache. Went to lie down and discover a less physical method for reaching the infinite. 4:25--A dream of ballroom dancing with the ant, my shoes clacking in perfect counterpoint to the ant's spiny legs, stayed with me as I awoke. Elated by both my contact with the other plane and the insect's implied forgiveness, I danced out of the alley, feet moving to steps learned in my youth and since half-forgotten. Brushed against two women as I skipped past, and gave them a courtly bow of apology without breaking my steps. They gave each other aghast looks, whispering, "Drunk, probably." Would have explained that I wasn't drunk, but merely recognized the utter irrelevance of societal constraints, but they had already bustled off, avoiding eye contact. 6:27--Mad Hattie's cardboard roof was stolen during the night. Helped her find a replacement outside the packaging plant. She offered me a small ceramic toad as payment, but I turned her down, saying that service to the community is the only universal meaning life can have in the absence of a higher power. She nodded, then ducked into her repaired shelter to have her afternoon scream. 7:53--Walked the streets with a slow, ambling stroll until I reached the shore facing west, then watched the sun slide from the sky, leaving yellow bands blazing across the sea. Began by reflecting that the inhuman beauty of a natural landscape lies in its potential dangers, but eventually my thoughts trailed off. Stood, silent and still, and watched my breath form pink-tinted clouds in the chilly evening air. -- Julia H., age 18

contest winners 2007