1st Place – Poetry Category Grades 7th – 9th “Ghost in This World” By Marlee Day

GHOST IN THIS WORLD

In this world I am invisible To peoples eyes I am a nothing In my home, I am a ghost

As I walk through the halls I feel llike I am the smallest thing I am the ghost who is left alone

When I walk down the street I look into those glass walls I see nothing, not even my own reflection. I am a ghost in this world who has nothing, feels nothing, and who is treated like a nothing.

I am a ghost in this world and I will be nothing more.

2nd Place - Poetry Category Grades 7th – 9th “Imagine Yourself” By Roza Lane

Imagine yourself

Alone in your head

You’re hanging, dangling

From a silver thread

Empty, alone

With the monsters within

Internally screaming

You just want to give in

Now imagine that’s you

Everyday, every hour

Forever sinking

Like a wilting flower

You try to tell your dad

And you try to tell your mom

But they say you’re being silly

You’ve just got to move on

Because teens don’t know sorrow

Nor the hardships of life

They’re just kids with imaginations

Just looking for attention, right? Imagine Yourself Page 2

You think there is none

Who know how you feel

You’re just so alone

But the feelings- they’re real

Useless, neglected, forgotten,

Distressed, alone, afraid, but

Mostly depressed

And your friends

They go on

Like nothing has changed

‘They must not care’

Your thoughts whisper

The lies in your brain

You can’t escape it

Trapped in your own skin

You’re ugly

You’re hated

But you mask it with a grin

You hate what you feel

So instead you feel nothing

Your insides are numb

Your confidence crumbling

You look to other things

To stop the pain Imagine Yourself Page 3

Cutting, pills

But it gives you no gain

And the people around you

Shout abuse your way

“You’re hurting yourself, stop it!”

That’s all they ever say

No matter how you plead that

You’re broken inside

They turn the other way

They run, they hide

They say you’re foolish

It’s all in your head

What they don’t know is,

Inside you’re already dead

1st Place – Poetry Category Grades 10th-12th “Compass” By Brittany M. Jones

Compass

Lead me South to the sea North to the sky Lead me, my compass of the night

I’ll hold it close, like a watch in my palm Following the light, feeling the calm Lead me, like a star I’ll wish, a wish to follow it

It comes and goes, no one knows how to describe it Can you taste it like sweets? Or smell it like candles? My mom says it flutters, while my sister says it dances

The feel of flowers, the warmth of spring A tickle I feel when I see his face He’ll lead me, my star, my compass of the night Showing me the radiance of stars in the sky

Lead me Compass Page 2

West to my heart East to lust The tangles of rust

Explain this sensation Too overwhelming to be a crush The word, I know this word I say it aches, while he says it breaks

Don’t direct me to pain, breaking my compass and cancelling spring Fragile, was it really ever there? I want to be rid of this compass

2nd Place- Poetry Category Grades 10th- 12th “A Silence Came Into the Room” By Emma Montemayor

A silence came into the room as the footsteps died away A minute passed and another minute. A young girl hid underneath her covers And she waited and waited for her mother to return, And while she waited, she tried her best not to fall.

A shot sounded in the distance and suddenly, It wasn’t so silent anymore. She could hear everything, A scream here and there. Another shot. A knock came from the door downstairs. Sirens blared from outside the window.

The girl wasn’t sure what was happening, She fell asleep before she could find out the truth. She was with her parents now. They were happy.

Finally.

3rd Place – Poetry Category Grades 10th – 12th “DEDICATION” By Will Allen

Waking up earlier than the rest, Just to make sure that I am at my best. Exercising at my max, While the others just sit back and relax. Waiting for my time to shine, Dedicated to not sitting on the pine. Playing in college has always been a dream, Just to suit up for a big 12 team.

Dedicated to making this my future, I will no longer be this loser. To sit around and wait, I need to make it count before it is too late. If I really want this life style, I need to go past the extra mile.

I need to train the hardest, And be the mentally smartest. To show everyone, My career is not done. Competing with my best stuff, Dedication Page 2

Will sure enough, Make me a better person, And show I am determined. Also this is an illustration, To show my dedication.

1st Place – Poetry Category Adult “Meditation” By Sheryl L. Nelms

Meditation

a quarter section of hybrid sunflowers in a North Dakota field at sundown reminds me of a congregation of pioneer women praying

2nd Place Adult “fishing for monsters” By Sheryl L. Nelms

fishing for monsters

it was dough balls and stink bait mixed days before

then we had to wait for the night of the full moon

we’d go at dusk to Lake Afton

spread out Grandma’s old quilt

bait the hooks loft them out set the tensions and wait

in the darkening July night with the water-cooled breeze chattering the cottonwood leaves

we would listen for the whine of a reel or the flop of a giant cat

as the cicadas packed seventeen years of buzz into one blitz

and late in the night we would eat fishing for monsters page 2

white bread sandwiches of cheddar cheese and mustard

and I would squint at the moon-rippled water from my spot between Mom and Dad

and imagine my life

3rd Place - Poetry Category Adult “BANTAM CITY” By Loretta Diane Walker

BANTAM CITY

My garden in crowded like Manhattan; the sky generous with rain these past weeks. Miss Spring skipped through my flowers, shaking her head like a wet shaggy dog and raking her fingers across my small share of the earth. She scratched until flakes of green dandruff flecked the sandy bed and spilled onto its stone headboard.

Summer! There’s a bantam city outside my patio door with queer citizens. Six foot blonde sunflowers are skyscrapers with rough hairy legs and bushy coarse mops. There is no intimidation in their buttery seedy eyes as they stare into the sun weaving baskets of heat. They do not blink at bees, squirrels, wrens or ants tramping across dirty streets.

Conceited zinnia floozies look hot and sassy in their short crimson skirts. They have no shame in the way they attract butterflies and allow hummingbirds to serenade them. Oh, if they would learn modesty from the plump marigold missionaries in a neighboring block.

They do not bow their hardy heads while worshiping the sun. Their demeanor is humble, genuine as they offer up hundreds of yellowing soft teeth in perpetual smiles of praise. How patient they must be to cohabitate with those begonias and the pink petticoats—such drama queens, so demanding, such whiners. We want the canopied corner. More food. More water. We’ll wither if we don’t have these things.

Bantam city Page 2

See those neurotic morning glories creeping about. They scale fences, walls, and the thick legs of moonflowers in their quiet beauty. Their Para-Para is to show off their agile long arms and pastel tattooed bodies. Gangs of lilac, white and blue crowd against the city’s stone gate to cheer them on, or maybe they are decoys sent to distract me from opening this new package of gardening sheers. Para-Para synchronized line dancing

Honorable Mention- Poetry Category Adult “MONLOGUE OF A PAPER TOWEL” By Loretta Diane Walker

MONOLOGUE OF A PAPER TOWEL

Fat quiet hovers around the ceiling, the meat of sound gone home with the children. With pad, pen and book, she heads out to job number two at the Texas Oncology Center. It is work to sit in the chair, balance small talk, sleep, and words. Her mind, that bulldozer, pushes back tears, packs them in the bowls of her eyelids. But with two strong breaths the concrete of her resolve can crack, send wet tracks down the avenue of her cheeks. Her body switches professions; the skin above her heart a pincushion— needles drive a line into the port stitched in her vein. With eyes gripped shut, she collects other people’s years like paychecks—twenty, ten, five years free while machines chit-chat and drip poison from their small plastic mouths into her. Not crying is her new vocation and sweat is a disease spreading on her clothes; she uses me like a tongue to lick her overnight condition, squeezes me as though cancer is a spill she can wipe away.

1st Place – Short Story Category Grades 5th & 6th “Bittersweet” By Aprill Xi

Bittersweet

Note: Eareth is NOT Earth

My mother died. Since I was small, we had some amazingly horrifying arguments about things I did not yet understood, and yet I felt sad and dreadful about the whole story. How she died was a question I asked myself, and oh, where she had gone. The questions ringing in my head, not very clear about the giant situation, I suddenly fell into a spiral hole, sucking me up. All went dark, the blood rushing through my ears, until I could hear no more. It had been three years since the accident. I had already forgotten about it. I had met a few friends, but my best friend was Thistle. Yes a weird name it was, but in my stupid neighbourhood that was worth as much as the dirt in my clothes, it was quite the beauty. His name fit him quite well. He was bittersweet, like a thistle on a rose. That was how he got his name, but I still could find many better names for him. I woke up to the morning birds, such as the Dove that brings peace, and the sunshine dropping vividly into my room, forming beautiful lights of pink. All right, that’s not what had happened. My bedroom’s wallpaper was pink. But still, the sunlight was clearly amazing! “Petunia! Time to wake up.” “Coming!” I cried as I literally tumbled off the bed in the hurry. As fast as a thirteen-year-old girl could be, I took off my pajamas, revealing my exposed skin. Then, as fast as I could, I tried to find my school uniform under a huge jumble of clothes. I finally found it, put it on, and ran downstairs to find an annoyed Thistle. Yes, we were living together ever since my mother had died, and it really was not surprising to find him annoyed. As I said, he was bittersweet. The aroma of pancakes filled the dining room as I helped myself to the great pile.

Bittersweet Page 2

“Petunia,” Thistle said as he was getting his pancake, “There’s an oil stain on your skirt.” “Oh, whoops,” I mumbled with a mouthful of pancakes, “I just hope no one notices on the first day of high school.” “No one will notice,” Thistle replied, impaling his pancake with a stare that showed little concern for the situation. There was silence, and for a while I thought I had blushed. Finally, to break the awkward conversation, I took my plate, put it in the sink, and ran upstairs to brush my teeth. Afterwards, I tried my best to clean the stain, and when nothing worked, I decided not to wear it and switched to another skirt. I believed it wouldn’t matter and that the shirt was the most important part of the uniform. Thistle walked me to school and twice the time I took a break to check if I had all my things. Even though the school was really near our house, along with the other breaks, I wanted to go to the restroom. Although, secretly, it was to check my hair, but to Thistle, well, I didn’t know what he thought, but he waited impatiently outside. The rest of the way my heart was pumping and I was nervous, and no, not because Thistle was holding my hand, but because my new school was supposed to be for “special” people, and I was wondering what they would think of me. The school was huge, as I had thought, and looked wondrously beautiful, with amazing pillars that stood well above four stories. It had the flag of our country, Madrix, and even a banner on the top of the white marble building, saying, “The best of all schools in our world, Eareth.” To me this one sentence was enough to make me faint, but Thistle remained calm. The school looked quite like the White House in the ancient planet, Earth. As we walked inside, we had to wait in line to sign up, and it was tiresomely long. It was a good thing that class started late today, because it was the first day of school. Finally, it was our turn and we signed up. I saw a strange boy with black hair, which was normal, but when he looked at me, I realized that he had amber eyes! Thistle saw me, and he whispered in my ear, “Don’t stare, it makes you seem rude.” I quickly obeyed his order knowing it will do me good, and quietly I walked to my class while Thistle went to his. I finally saw it, room Id10t. I almost laughed as I saw the classroom’s number. “Well,” I thought, “Idiots we all

Bittersweet Page 3 are.” Suddenly, for some reason my nervousness came pouring back out. My heart beating like crazy, I slowly opened the door. It creaked and I closed my eyes hoping for a normal classroom. I opened my eyes again, only finding everybody staring at me. At once, I felt like a fool, but at the same time relieved to find what I had hoped for, a normal classroom. The teacher was passing math worksheets out to begin the class. I quickly and quietly found my seat and sat in it. I looked around the classroom after finishing my work and unpacking my supplies, putting and sorting everything neatly in the box under my desk. Unexpectedly, there was the boy with the amber eyes, and in my class, too! I did not know if I felt joy, shock, or both. I suddenly wished that Thistle was here to help me, but he was not, since he was one year older than I. If I had felt joy seeing the boy, it was gone, and I had a sudden outburst of nervousness. Because of this, I did not hear the teacher, named Ms. Floria, asking me the question for number thirty on the math handout. “Petunia!” I suddenly jolted up from my seat. “What is the question for number thirty?” Ms. Floria, clearly angry, asked again. “T-twenty nine.” I replied, stammering. It was not yet break time and yet I was already in trouble. Finally, the bell rang. I eyed the boy with amber eyes, whose name was Tor, which sounded quite like the Japanese word tori, which means tiger. Tor was reading a book called How to Kill a Tiger and, unfortunately, quite interested and engaged with it. I finally stopped looking at him, remembering Thistle’s words. Then I joined Thistle and went outside the classroom to the playground. After a few months, during which I was doing extremely well in the class and even became the teacher’s pet, the suspense in the locker hallways began to grow. A couple of times I had seen Tor being bullied by the bullies. I was walking down the hallway when I heard a chorus of “Fight! Fight! Fight!” from the growing crowd, surrounding, believe it or not, Tor with one of the strongest and meanest bullies, Grimler Blones. Grimler was beating Tor up, and yet Tor was doing nothing about it. I quickly ran away. When school was over, I was walking home with Thistle, who had also seen the commotion in the hallways. There, Thistle and I saw the creepiest thing ever, and there it Bittersweet Page 4 was: Tor was tied up and Grimler and the other bullies was about to push him off the cliff. And I was standing there doing nothing! I quickly ran to Grimler, grabbing a stick and smacking him, yelling like a madwoman, ignoring the protests of Thistle and cries of “Petunia!”. Suddenly, I felt something push me really hard, and I felt myself falling. “Is this the end?” I thought. I closed my eyes, thinking of my mother. How nice she was, before she and my dad divorced. And then the arguments came. My ears, if they could see, were blurry and yet I could hear Thistle’s voice. Thistle! My eyes popped open and right away I felt something or someone holding me. There it was, Tor was carrying me! He put me carefully down next to a tree and I saw the most horrible thing ever. Grimler was dead. What I had missed, I did not know, but Thistle was scared, more than I could have ever imagined him to be. “Cats have nine lives,” Tor exclaimed to the crowd. He talked some more, but I was not focused on that. I saw ears, tiger ears, popping on his head and a tail on his behind. It seemed like I was the only one to see it, and suddenly I felt special. Actually, Tor looked cute, even though I knew that he was a tiger. This one thought gave me an intense shiver, which ran down my spine. Afterwards, Thistle and I walked home. Neither of us spoke a word, and were unusually quiet as we walked back. It was morning. I woke up and followed the daily morning routine. After, Thistle and I, like usual, walked to school. But with the clearly vivid picture of Grimler’s death in our minds, we did not talk. It had already passed three months. I was in the classroom, working on a project. Tor was absent, and I did not dare to talk about the incident, even to pesky curious people. My worst fear was that someone would call me and question me about Grimler’s awful death, and those claw marks across his throat, his eyes looking at the sky. I shivered and realized I was thinking too much. It wouldn’t happen, I just knew it. Thistle was sick, but why I did not know, so I had to walk home myself. I came across a meadow with bright, beautiful flowers spreading across it like giant wings. Then, surprise came over me. There was Tor, engaged with the pleasing smell of fresh air and wild flowers. Noticing me, he said, “Join me, Petunia, abandon that stupid friend of yours and come to my world, in a Bittersweet Page 5 different universe.” I was clearly not surprised because he was not human (I was already quite sure he was not born from a tiger and human and came from our world). And plus, having a tiger and a human for parents just doesn’t fit together. I was also mad that Tor called Thistle stupid, but was also blooming in the inside that he, out of all people, was literally asking me out! But, unfortunately, my anger got out first. “You know nothing about Thistle!” I cried. “You’re more “ I broke off as I realized that he was not listening. In fact, Tor, smiling, out his hand! It was that moment of awkwardness that happens in every girl’s life, and here it was enveloping everything else. I was just thinking whether to take his hand when a sudden outburst of laughter erupted. Hipster, one of Grimler’s friends, cried, “Hahaha! Look at that!” Too bad, for no one else was there. Ha. Hipster looked around expecting to hear people laughing at us. The wind’s howl and an icy stare from Tor answered him, and he quickly ran away. I, more embarrassed than you could ever imagine, not knowing what to do, ran home, retreating to it and Thistle. Another month passed, and it happened again, this time with Thistle around. There it was, two of the loveliest boys ever, fighting each other, and hopefully, for me. I stood there, feeling for the first time boastful about myself. The argument ended, but eventually Thistle left us and joined his new girlfriend, Primrose. I know nothing about her except for her name. She must be somewhat like Thistle, I guessed. Tor and I moved to his world, called the Fantasy. Even though I knew I had left my best friend behind, I had no pangs of regret. It is beautiful there, with no pollution and majestic animals roaming in the magical lands with pride. Great mountains loom over fascinating skyblue lakes. The color emerald green is the dominant color, representing the lush greenery of the plants growing there. There is no end to the organic luxuries of this world. It reminds me of our once beautiful world, before humans got selfish and greedy for Eareth’s treasures in her hands. Sometimes I will have an urge to go back, although thinking of leaving this fantastic Bittersweet Page 6 world brings that horrid thought to an end. If there is one thing I could wish for, that would be for Eareth to become, once again, like Fantasy. For Earethians to not pollute anymore and see what their deeds had done to their world. Memories of my childhood brought excellent dreams, but I had indeed never forgotten Mother or Father and their horrifying arguments. But most of all I had never forgotten Thistle.

1st Place – Short Story Category Grades 7th – 9th “The First to Outsmart an Owl” By Steven Graham

The First to Outsmart an Owl

Once upon a time, there lived a small family of gerbils. This family lived deep in the tundra of Canada, a bit odd for gerbils, but Father gerbil always wanted to be unique. They had no knowledge of humans so they thought the owl was the smartest living being in the whole world.

Father and Mother had three children, Tamara, the oldest daughter, Kimli, the second oldest, and Phri, the youngest. Tamara acted like a second mother to her two younger brothers which was quite irritating to both of them. Kimli thought he was brave, but would never go out of their den, always saying, “If that old owl would leave, I would explore every part of the earth.” Both Tamara and Phri would laugh and snicker at this, ruffling Kimli. Phri was quietly creative, always venturing out at dawn and sunset, bringing home new berries or leaves. When Father and Mother scolded him, saying that the berries might be poisonous, Phri would surprise them all by splashing the bright berry on the shriveled leaf, exclaiming, “This berry holds a wonderful hue I have never seen before!” Mother and Father were a tad worried about Phri’s sanity thinking that they had never seen any gerbil do anything except eat berries. One day, in the middle of winter, Phri challenged Kimli, “That ‘old’ owl is surely asleep now, why don’t you go see how much snow is up there?” Kimli bristled and said, “Surely, don’t you know, he will wake up at the smell of my luxuriously soft fur, wishing to gobble it all up!”

“Oh, come on, he can’t smell a thing! He’s asleep! Can you smell when you’re asleep?”

“Well, I—er, I—smell in my dreams!” Kimli choked out triumphantly. “Kimli,” Tamara said in a matter-of-fact tone, “of course you can, but can you small Mama’s yummy acorn pies, or her pecan flavored bread that she makes for breakfast?

“Er—not quite. But I do dream about it!” Kimli exclaimed happily. “They are soooooo good!”

The First to Outsmart an Owl Page 2

Suddenly Kimli’s eyes grew as wide as a tea cup, and he whispered so quiet Phri and Tamara could barely hear him. “Do you suppose the owl is dreaming about me and my luscious fur now?

“Of course not!” Phri almost yelled, “And, you do not have luscious fur, It is exactly the same as ours!”

“Now Phri, what does Father say about you hurting Kimli’s self-esteem?” Tamara scolded.

Phri exasperated, sighed, “He says, ‘Treat your neighbor or your brother like yourself.’”

“Exactly,” Tamara said, “now, I don’t want you to ever”-

“But I don’t think my fur is ‘luscious’!” Phri shouted, “So I shouldn’t have to believe it with Kimli! This is getting boring, so can we please just go look at the snow?”

Tamara rolled her eyes and pursed her lips, “Yes, you can go outside, just watch for the foxes.”

Ahhhhhh! That too why do we have to be so small?” Kimli whined.

“Ugh, come on Kimli we can just hide in the snow if we see one.”

Tamara just shook her head at her two brothers and said, “Don’t forget your jackets, the cold can take tails away with frost bite.”

Phri grumbled, “We don’t have much of a tail anyways…”

As Kimli and Phri clambered out of their cozy warm den, they both completely forget about all the dangers of predators at the prospect of building a snowgerbil twice the size of both of them. They set to work with the vision of building something so noteworthy, maybe they could call the Vermin Today and ask them to put a picture in the Life and Arts to show how amazing gerbils are. Maybe they could even get whole winter’s supply of acorns and berries for winning the Snow Vermin of the Year award. Phri jumped with anticipation at the idea while Kimli just kept working saying, ”Oh no! I forgot about the predators! We have better finish this snowgerbil before something spots us.”

Phri only laughed at his brother’s antics and chunked a large pawful of snow at him. As it hit Kimli he whirled around screaming, “Agggghhhhh! Phri, it’s got me get Tamara she”ll know what to do!”

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Phri rolled over in the snow shaking with laughter and Kimli’s expression.

“You just have to be safe, Phri. You should thank me for keeping you alive!” Kimle mumbled with his whiskers quivering.

Phri, now hiccupping said, “Kimli, you definitely just-Hiiic-saved my tail.-Hiiic-I forever owe you my-Hiic-whisker for now and –Hiic- forever.”

Kimli just set back to work, grumbling about his little brother’s ignorance and disrespect.

Just as the sun sat on the western horizon the bickering brothers were finally finished with there now 12 gf (gerbil feet) high snow gerbil. The tantalizing odor of their Mother’s satisfying berry cakes sent them head over heels into their dining room.

“Mom, Dad, guess what Phri and I did today!” Kimli shouted. “It took me a while to convince Phri to go outside with me, but he was finally convinced,” Kimli’s voice turned haughty, “but only with my black belt in defense class!”

Father put down his edition of Vermin Today and looked at Kimli from over his glasses, “Son, I don’t remember you taking that class.”

Phri shot an angry glance at Kimli and changed the subject, “Well, Dad, we thought that we could enter our snowgerbil into the Snow Vermin of the Year contest and maybe we could win the contest, getting food for the entire winter!” “You know that contest cost a whole 10 vermin notes to enter. So I think you may have to split the cost of it between yourselves.” Mother shouted from the kitchen.

“Awwwwww! Mom, but that’s half of what we have!” Phri and Kimli said at the same time, using the same seemingly telepathic trait that all children have whenever they truly want something. Their parent’s faces stayed resolute and Father put down the paper and said, ”It’s good to learn hard work.”

“Even at only 14 moons? Really, Dad?” Phri was on the verge of tears.

“Yes, if you learn hard work now then maybe you can have enough vermin notes to buy a huge den when you grow up, even twice the size of ours!”

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So Kimli and Phri sulked to their room, whimpering at the thought of emptying their walnut banks. When they reached the privacy of their room, Phri cried despairingly, “I didn’t tell Mom because I thought she would get angry.”

Kimli narrowed his eyes, “Tell her what?”

“That the contest now cost 100 vermin notes, and I already spent all ten of mine on a toy boat?”

“What!” Kimli yelled incredulously, “Now we’ll have to work for it,” and do know how dangerous it is for little gerbils like us to work in the open?”

“Yes,” Phri moaned, “but we just have to.”

“Do you have any idea what kind of work we can do for that amount of notes before winter is over?”

“Again, yes we could shovel other vermin’s walkways for five vermin notes.” Phri said with his eyes glistening.

Kimli looked at the door, as if Tamara or their parents were standing outside, listening. “Should we tell our parents?”

Phri looked disgusted, “Of course not, don’t you know what they will always say?” “I guess so,” Kimli’s head hung in embarrassed shame, “I just thought they might be able to give us something to protect ourselves.”

“Let’s go to bed, as if everything is normal and then wait till Mom and Dad leave for work and then jump out the window with shovels and jackets!” Phri whispered quite loudly.

Kimli still looked unsure of the idea. “Aw, come on, we’ll be back before anyone will notice. We’ll just shovel two a day, and we’ll have enough in only 18 days!” Phri said confidently.

“Oh, fine, I guess it wouldn’t hurt…” Kimli succumbed to the dream of winning the Snow Vermin of the Year.

For the next six mornings, the plan worked perfectly, but then, Kimli’s worst fears came true.

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On the seventh morning, the two brother’s slipped out of the window and scampered away on their tiptoes. As they neared the den of their next customer, a dark, silent, shadow glided towards them. Kimli’s scream erupted behind Phri.

Phri whipped around not to see Kimli’s fluffy face, but dark pools of malevolence rimmed in white hurtling towards him. He screamed,

“Kimli, grab my paws! Please, Kimle, Please!”

Kimli was encompassed by the knarled feet of the owl, unable to move, sure he was going to die.

As the owl glided over Phri the only thing that touched his paws was cold and wet, Kimli’s tear.

Soon his own tears were pouring down his face as he stumbled towards his den, mumbling, “It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”

When he finally reached his den he barreled into Tamara, gasping out the whole story. His sister instantly forgave him for his boldness in carrying on such an operation without revealing any of it to his family, realizing there was not time to spare. Tamara grabbed a large pot. One so large that Phri could fit in it. Phri was quite puzzled but stumbled after her as she scampered out from there den. As they ran towards the old oak where the owl lived, Phri felt his heart grow heavy with fear. Kimli was screaming. The screams pierced the heavy silence inflicted by winter, pushing all the way to Phri’s guilty heart, causing his regret to increase greatly. He turned to Tamara, the tears now frozen to his furry face, “What are we going to do?” he cried. She leaned over and whispered the plan to Phri. His eyes grew large at the concept of him doing such a reckless thing, but he silently nodded his head.

He swallowed once and tiptoed toward the oak. When he reached the base of the twisted tree he called up in a small voice, “Hey, you big, merciless, feather-brained, owl! Give my brother back or I will have to come up there myself?”

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The owl poked his head out of his hole and just stared and the small rodent threatening him. Then, he began to laugh, a deep, echoing, menacing laugh. “You care defy me. You know what? Thank you for coming! You will make a wonderful dessert after I consume your brother!”

Phri quivered but never broke his stare at the owl. It dove towards him, and seconds before he could grab the small gerbil, Phri shoved the large pan over himself and held tight. As the owl slammed into the hard, iron pan, he fell back dazed, and did not see another small rodent racing up towards his home. The owl, intent on not being outsmarted by a rodent continued pecking at the pan, but could not get a grip on the smooth, curved sides. Tamara raced down the tree, now carrying a bound Kimli and dove into the snow. The owl continued pecking and yelled, “Come out you useless vermin! No one has ever outsmarted an owl!”

Phri held down the sides with all his might and yelled back, “Then I will be the first!”

This comment infuriated the owl and his efforts began anew, but to his vast knowledge, he did not know that Tamara and Kimli had burrowed beneath his feet and where now inside the pan with Phri.

Tamara whispered, “Only one more part of the plan to complete! Come on Phri, let’s go home.”

And with that, the three gerbils tunneled their way out of the pan. The three siblings finally made it home and after they jumped into their den, they collapsed into each other’s arms crying. Tamara looked Kimli in the eyes and said, “Phri and I will never, ever make fun of your cautiousness again.” Phri laid his head on his older brother’s shoulder, “ Will you ever forgive me?”

Kimli took a step back from his two lamenting siblings and smiled, “I forgive you both. Also, maybe we won’t be in the paper for building the best Snow Vermin, but we will be in the paper for being the first to outsmart an owl!”

2nd Place- Short Story Category Grades 7th -9th “Atomic Clock” By Grayson Blalock

Preface

4 June 2018

Op..______

Classified Information

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I, the ______, believe based on ______, that there will be an ------______------The device ------does not yet have the potency to t------if it will be ------from a ------like we believe it will. Since China and North Korea allied and threatened to ------on Russia unless their ------is moved to Vladivostok, it seems clear that they will attempt ------This would give them power to control the world. Therefore, I will activate------to ensure the safety of the ------

13:45 PM

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Chapter 1 Flight 817 From Vladivostok, Russia nonstop to Denver, Colorado USA

Well, hello. My name is Grayson Blalock. I am 17 (almost 18) and am en route back to the US from Russia. Today is June 4. We (the FBI) believe that North Korea and China will attempt to take over the world. We also believe that this flight will be hijacked in about 30 minutes, then land somewhere in Mexico. The hijackers will escort the passengers off the plane and warn them to say nothing. They may even hold the passengers hostage. My job is to make sure the flight is not hijacked, and with the poor Russian security, I smuggled some things on Board to assist me with that. Also I installed a control system outside the cockpit (another example of poor security) that will override whatever the pilot says. And, I put more fuel than necessary in the plane just in case (man, their security is rotten up here!). However, they may try another plan, which involves hijacking the plane later in the flight and dropping bombs directly from the plane and then crashing it. I am sitting in the back of the plane so I can see everyone. Oh great, they’re hijacking it now. We’re south of the Aleuts. I kinda need to stop this, so hold a sec. YOLO!!!!!

6 June 2018 Ok, that’s better. If you’re wondering where the hijackers went, let me just say they’re not on the plane. In fact, the plane landed safely. The hijackers have been captured and are now in a classified location. The hijacking failed. But we learned that the hijackers worked with another terrorist organization whose mission was to blow up the atomic clock … you know, the clock that controls the ENTIRE world’s time. Man, what I wouldn’t give to be watching their faces when they find out that the atomic clock had been removed from the building they destroyed just moments earlier. Atomic Clock Page 3

Well, I’m gonna watch the news for a few minutes. It should be on … oh, there it is! This is HILARIOUS! This is what the CBS news anchors Mark and Valerie are saying: Mark: “Well, Valerie, we just got some exciting, breaking news from the studio! After the unfortunate and devastating terrorist attacks a few days ago, there is some bright news!” Valerie: “What might that be Mark?” Mark: “I know this will shock all of you folks, but the atomic clock is safe! Currently the US government, or someone in their system, possesses the atomic clock! They will not, however, divulge the location for fear of a similar attack. Stay tuned for more updates!” Valerie: “And now to Pete for the weather- Pete?” Pete begins to give the weather report. Time to turn off the tube. I have to admit, though, that was pretty exhilarating. I’m going to a party with some old friends from Texas. I don’t know who will be there, but it should be a ton of fun seeing people that I haven’t seen in forever!

7 June 2018 That was AWESOME! I haven’t had that much fun in forever! I saw so many people I can’t even list them all! At least I don’t possess the clock anymore, which . . . wait a minute? Which government official asked me for that clock. Oh no, they’re gonna kill me if …

3 hours later

Yep, I’m deader than a doornail once they find out …wait, here’s a call. I think they found out. Oh brother, I should probably take it.

8 June 2018

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Ohhhhhkay. There is some great news, some good news, some bad news, and some terrible news. I’ll go from worst news to best news. Worst news: We don’t know how many nuclear weapons they have. Not good. Hopefully a war with nukes doesn’t start, because the explosions would block out the sun for decade, therefore killing everyone. Bad news: They sided with Pakistani militiant groups. Good news: America is currently allied with: (major powers first, then minor powers, and all caps if we allied with them yesterday). MAJOR POWERS: Great Britain, RUSSIA, INDIA, France, Germany, Japan, Israel. MINOR POWERS: INDONESIA, Canada, South Korea, Australia, Spain, Portugal, The Philippines, Brazil, and South Africa. We’re basically allied with every other country outside the Middle East, which is on this side of China/North Korea. BEST NEWS: They didn’t get the clock!

9 June 2018

After the events of yesterday, I have been informed that I will be in charge of activating operation SANDANT in several major US cities (since WW3 just began this morning) with assistance from my friends. This should be…interesting-to say the least THE END

1st Place-Short Story Category Grades 10th – 12th “A Shot at Christmas” By Michael Lewis

“Working at the North Pole is the worst job in the world. ‘Specially if you’re a polar bear working for Coca-Cola.”

I’m a stand-in actor for Clyde the world famous most talented commercial actor of the year. I mean the guy can barely act, and he gets the contract.

My name is Van. Yep, you guessed it. Vanilla. Most people call me stub tail, seal breath, or my favorite, “hey you.” “Hey, Van.”

My human friend, Gary, ran up behind me in his white winter coat, looking like a marshmallow in search of chocolate and a graham cracker. He threw his hands in the air. “You gotta see what’s happening in the break room. It’s awesome.”

My shoulders slumped. “I’m getting cocoa.”

“Forget the chocolate man this is better than a fudge tornado. A cameraman made a comment about how funny an elf looked in his green tights and the elf lost it. The little guy picked up a candy cane prop and gave the knucklehead a nose Rudolf would make fun of.”

My ears sucked in every word coming from his lips. “Get outta here.”

“But the best part…” He bent over and wheezed. “Another elf grabbed a can of whipped cre…”

“ Food fight!” My paws were kicking up snow before you could say “fluffy white goodness.”

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We dashed inside a large building with bright lights and snowmen for the upcoming shoot and rounded the corner to the break room.

Grown men and elves hurled cupcakes at each other like baseballs. Whipped cream was everywhere, in their hair, on the floor, even in their ears.

“It’s like Night of the Living Pastry Men.” I pointed at a man covered in cherry pie.

Team Elf flipped a table on its side to block an incoming barrage of gingersnap cookies.

“Take that, midget.” A stagehand shouted. “Hey, old man, a walrus phoned and said he wants his face back.” An elf doubled over laughing ‘til his face was painted lemon torte.

Gary nudged me in the stomach and handed me a Coke can. He gave a quick nod toward the chaos and put two stripes of chocolate syrup under his eyes.

I knew Gary well enough to know I didn’t want him as an enemy. We gave each other a nutcracker smile, shook the life out of those cans, and charged the elf fortress. For less than thirty seconds we were like G.I. Joe, Batman, Clint Eastwood with a dash of Norris all rolled into two, but what phenomenal moments they were.

Gary dove over the table and cracked open his can. Coca-cola spewed out of the homemade cannon like jack out of his box.

I gave my can one last shake, popped the top and lobbed the grenade in the bunker.

Must-a-been a bull’s-eye ‘cause the elves scurried from their stronghold, red cheeks sizzling with fizzy foam and their last ounce of pride dripping on the floor.

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The stage crew whooped and hollered, chanting our names. Things couldn’t have been better, ‘til the brain-dead Grinch named Clyde showed up.

He wore a Santa outfit and held a glass bottle of Coca-Cola. He gasped and his mouth, like the Coke bottle, hit the floor.

The elves heard the glass shatter and must have thought he threw the bottle at them.

The hyped-up mini-mob tackled Clyde like the annual reindeer football team. One wrapped his arms around Clyde’s massive head, and another one bit his toe. Clyde howled and kicked his foot sending the little guy on an airborne ride he’ll never forget. “What’s going on here?” A less than jolly voice boomed.

Silence snuffed every corner of the warzone.

The elves froze in place except the one Clyde turned into a mini-missile.

If my fur could have turned red, it would have, because this bear didn’t have to be

Smokey to know things were going to heat up real fast. Santa Claus was in the room.

“We’re here to film a Christmas commercial and you…” He stepped forward and held out his hands. “…My most trusted employees have a food fight?”

“But, Santa, they...”An elf pointed at Clyde. “…called us asparagus legs.”

“And short.” Another elf squeaked up.

“Well by-frosting you are short.” Santa tucked his hands in his bulky belt, and not a smidgen of a smile hid in his beard.

The elf sniffled and lowered his head.

Santa laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “But it’s the shortest person who has the biggest heart.”

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The small guy hugged the man in red, and gave a smile that would’ve melted the heart of a tax attorney.

Benny, our producer, hobbled over carrying a clipboard in one hand and coffee in the other. “So sorry this happened, sir. I can assure you this won’t happen again.”

Santa rehearsed his Christmas Ho-Ho-Ho’s and slapped him on the back. “We have a saying here, what happens at the pole stays at the pole, now come here.” He lifted the short man off his plump legs with a once-a-year Santa hug. Benny straightened his pants and papers. “Okay, okay. No need to get all touchy-feely.”

He drew himself as tall as he could and stomped over to Clyde. “A word in my office.”

“Cubical.” Gary disguised the word under a cough.

Clyde followed the man into his office and shut the door.

“You big, white, goofball! Are you trying to kill the commercial?” For a short man he had some huge lungs.

“Hey, that wasn’t my fault. If anything it’s yours for bringing those elves.”

“How. Dare. You.” Benny stretched every syllable.

“I dare and I quit.” Mr. Perfect stormed out of the room, and threw his Santa hat on the floor.

Benny came out of the room yelling. “You’re just like that purple pinhead Barney.” He gazed at the surrounding crowd. “And you’re fired.”

I scooted over, and picked up the cap.

Benny looked me up, down, and sideways “What’s your name?”

I stood at full height and shook my fur. “Van, sir.”

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“Van. Your hired. Meet me on stage in ten.”

It was my turn to nudge Gary. “Maybe the North Pole isn’t a bad place to work after all. ‘Specially at Christmas.”

2nd Place Grades 10th- 12th “Pride of the West” By Joshua Lewis

Wooden fan blades slapped the air like a lazy cow swatting flies with her tail providing only temporary relief. A sparkling crystal chandelier shed candle light on the dreary saloon. The aroma of foggy smoke from cigars and cigarettes shrouded the room. Dice rattled against the corner of a wooden table as several-out-of town gamblers stood certain of a big win.

Two poker games and a game of blackjack in the middle of the room enticed cowboys with the promise of a few bucks reward as the sun hung high over the town of Franklin,

Arkansas. Ranchers came from the stock yards and cowboys drifted in from the herds to take advantage of the cool indoors, and a taste of anything to cut the dust in their mouths. Not everyone who worked with his hands decided to stop by the Lucky Nine. Old man Wilson and

Doc Irwin sat at one of the booths inside the saloon, laughing over a hearty meal of pork and potatoes.

Another man sat alone at his table. A black felt hat, with no signs wear, shadowed his face. Age colored his eyes. Scars and the harshness of life painted extra years across his face.

Not having shaved since last night’s event added anxiety to the image of the man. A cold stale cup of coffee and a Colt .45, with engravings of a horse on the grip occupied the table beside him. His fingers tapped against the wooden surface in a repeated rhythm.

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His calf leather boots carried no mud. He wore a pair of trousers and silk waistcoat only a man in his line of work could afford. Under his coat, a belt slipped through the loops of his tailored pants displaying a brass buckle for all to see. His badge of glory hid beneath his coat next to his heart. He was younger than most for the position he held, but with his war reputation the job was an obvious choice.

He slid his hand into his pocket and pulled out a stopwatch. Twenty to noon. His heartbeat matched the ticking of his watch, only louder. Harder. A wiry drifter from somewhere south of the border watched him from behind a mug of frothy beer. The man set his drink down. “You know where I come from a man of your authority would have shot him dead for what he done.” He picked up his beer, slurped a swig and confirmed, “Yep, that’s what you shoulda done.”

Doc Irwin swallowed a mouthful, still holding his fork ready for the next bite, and added his silver dollar’s worth of thought. “Man’s got a point, Caleb. He had no right to bust up the place and challenge you to a draw.”

Fingers still tapping, Caleb sat straight in his chair. He turned to the mess on the floor from last night. Or was it early this morning? A broken window still needed to be swept and the door could sure use a patch up.

Caleb rolled his head and gave the man a sideways glance. “You know I can’t shoot a man for being drunk.”

“Drunk? He ain’t drunk. He’s mad. No sobering up from that.” Doc Irwin shook his head.

“If I was you I would have at least done something besides trying to talk him down.” The Doctor brushed at the wrinkles in his striped blue suit.

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The drifter’s spit made a sloppy splat in the spittoon. “Talking never done nothing for men like that.” He smelled like he hadn’t bathed since his boots were new.

Caleb gave him a dismissive stare, what do you know of men like that? “I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

The man shrugged and gulped the smooth brown liquid in the glass and slapped it down on the bar. “Now he’s gone and called you out, nothing you can do, but go and kill’em.” “Brave talk for someone who’s never faced a loaded gun.” Caleb wanted to knock the man upside the head. Did any of you hear him boast of the seven men he’s killed in duels, not to mention the countless others he murdered? I can’t go up against that. “He’s a professional gunslinger from Kansas, tall as they come.”

Caleb’s fingers hovered over the tabletop and picked up the rhythm again. Whispers floated from one of the poker tables, he tuned in to the private conversation. “You think he can hold a candle to that man’s trigger finger?”

“Not a chance.”

“Hey.” Caleb pointed a finger at the two men. “You mind your own business.”

The two men buried their heads in their cards.

He shook his head. I can’t believe you people, isn’t betting on one game enough for you?

His eyes went to his pistol; it was a good weapon but hadn’t seen much action of late. In the war he was familiar with its feel, but the gun held heavy now. He had settled in and started a new life; there was no room for both.

Time ticked by and the listener’s attention moved to other gossip. The stopwatch came out again, ten minutes left.

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Boots scuffed the floor and a tall, imposing man took the chair opposite him.

Caleb’s eyes narrowed and his lips tightened, “Can I help you mister?”

“Name don’t matter, what does matter is the problem you got on your table.” The man’s eyes cut to the Colt. “Your clothes tell me you got it pretty nice.” He shrugged as if the thought just came to him. “For a small fee I could fix your problem.” In a sweeping motion the man pulled his trench coat back to reveal two six shooters. “I don’t mind taking care of situations.”

His lips twisted to a lopsided grin and his hand massaged the handles of his pistols.

Caleb’s eyes burned and he glared at the imposing stranger. “You’re knocking at the wrong door mister. Find some other place to go before I shut the door on your side-steppin’ face.”

The man’s grin fell to a scowl. He almost knocked over his chair rising to his full stature.

His eyes narrowed and he stuck out his chest. “Hope he puts one right in your gut,” He hissed and retreated to the bar.

To think I would hire some man to do my work, is that what they think of me? Have I been cowardly? I’ve always stood my ground, just because I don’t go picking fights don’t mean

I’m afraid. Caleb could feel his heart pounding against his chest, reminding him of what was to come. His mind raced and his legs felt weak to the bone.

This was never supposed to happen. This is a quiet town. They told me I’d never have to face hired gunman. A little voice whispered in the back of his head, there is more than one way to humble a man.

His gaze darted to a back entrance leading out to the alley. Caleb knew where he’d be, in the hotel watching the lobby clock. He wouldn’t be focused on the back door. I could sneak up

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behind him and have Mercy cocked and aimed at his back. It wouldn’t be clean, but he’d be dead and I wouldn’t. It’s not exactly square, but better to put the bullet in than take it out.

The thud from his chest beat against his badge of honor, reminding him of his oath. No I won’t. I won’t kill a man in cold blood. All this waiting is going to kill me before the gunslinger has a chance. He rubbed his face to keep himself alert.

Both hands aimed at twelve. Every second from now on is borrowed time. He slipped his grandfather’s watch in his pocket, next to the picture of his wife and baby girl.

A third option would be to run home, take the family and leave—the coward’s way out.

No one would have to die. I’d get to be with my wife and he’d be called the winner. That’s all he wants anyway. The reputation. The glory.

“Caleb! I’m calling you out.” A deep, strong shout came from the street.

The games stopped. Heads twisted to stare at the man sitting alone at the table. They called themselves his friends, but none would stand with him. They would watch him die through the protection of the windows.

“Did you hear me?” The voice mocked and grew louder.

Caleb’s hands ran along the barrel of the gun, his fingers ended at the handle and he gripped the weapon. He rose from the chair and gently returned the tool of the law to his holster.

His right hand went to his badge of courage to make sure it was still there.

It weighed less than a deck of cards, but carried more authority then he ever wished to hold. Caleb re-pinned the badge just above his heart.

He commanded his legs to move.

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“You comin’ out or am I gonna have to come get you?”

Caleb walked to the doors and pushed them open. “Quit your belly aching, I hear you.”

He took his position in the middle of the road.

Onlookers scurried for protection. The gunslinger stood thirty yards from Caleb, hands resting against his hip, eyes fixed on the target. He had all the makings of a stone cold killer, steady hands, hard face, and hungry eyes. “Take your best shot lawman.” He hissed behind his handlebar mustache.

Caleb shifted his weight to one side. “Lawman goes second.”

The two men of the west sized each other up. Eyes unflinching, legs spread wide and planted firm, hands hovering just above their guns.

A crow screamed from a rooftop.

Neither man moved.

A horse nickered and kicked the dirt under his hooves.

Fingers twitched.

A dog howled.

Lightning fast reflexes whipped out two pistols. A thunderous roar of guns let loose a stormy hail of bullets…

1st Place – Short Story Category Adult “Whale Rider” By Michelle Cottrell

The beast floated dead in the water beside them, but the ship had sustained too much damage. It was the largest and most splendid of the King’s Fleet; a reminder of Amyranth’s power, even after one hundred years of peace. Twice the size of other battle ships, it was still dwarfed by the massive gray carcass.

Sailors scrambled in every direction releasing shore boats, and pulling down any bit of wood that might keep a man above water. Someone had opened the lower hatches, freeing the few animals they had on board. Chickens darted underfoot, and the mule brayed in terror.

Raven ran through the bowels of the ship, checking every room and nook, kicking in doors when she had to. She had found three prisoners on the starboard side and set them free. Like the animals, they would be left to their own fate now. As she reached the end of the corridor she pulled herself up the ladder. She made one last sweeping pass through the mess hall and kitchens, before bounding up to the deck. It was mostly clear except for the fools who wasted time looting for coins and jewels that would only drag them quicker to the ocean floor.

The helm was abandoned. The doors of the captain’s cabin clacked open and closed with the wind and rocking of the waves. She thought surely no one remained there yet she climbed the curving stairs two at a time and stuck her head into the chamber to be certain. Half the ceiling

Whale Rider Page 2 was caved in, and there he stood looking through the open space that had once been a wall. He was watching the carcass, one hand on his sword, as though he did not trust the creature even in death.

"Nathorn!" She shouted. "We must go now!"

He turned slowly. "I will not abandon my men."

"Your men have abandoned ship."

"You follow them. A captain goes down with his ship." As he spoke a large wave tossed them and the sea poured in through the open wall. Nathorn, as steady on the rocking ship as anyone on dry land, barely swayed.

As the water swept over her boots, Raven braced herself without looking away from him. "There is no reason, none left to save. I have seen to it myself, while you mourned the whale!" She could not believe he meant to die now and for nothing.

"I mourn the men that whale took. They died in my service. Died because I would not refuse you passage. I will go to the sea with them."

It was true. The thing had come for her. He could have thrown her to it and lost no other lives.

She would carry that guilt the rest of her life, but she could not bear to add the captain to her list of regrets.

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She had been raised her whole life for one purpose, to defeat the Rising Darkness. Her training had included every kind of combat, physical and mental endurance, and strategy; but no one had prepared her for the weight of her destiny. She was prepared to die, that had always been clear, but she never expected so many others to die before and because of her.

"You have more sense than this. If a pox had come aboard, you would not lick the deads’ sores and wait for that grim death. Do not do it now!" Fear seized her. She could not forsake her calling, to die here with him, yet she could not abandon him. "I will not leave you!”

"The lighter your burden later." He told her.

The words stung, but she did not let it show. She turned to leave. Instead of moving for the door, she spun in a circle, bringing her arm up as she did. Her fist caught him above the ear.

She struck him as hard as any man could, and harder than many had ever dared. He hit the floor before she could catch him.

He was only an inch taller than her at six foot two, and no better fed, but once she had him over her shoulder, she knew she could not tow him to shore alone. The waves lapped easily over the side of the deck as she hauled him down the stairs. The ship could go down at any second. If they were not dragged down with it, soon they would have to contend with sharks and other flesh eating creatures that would be swarming the whale carcass.

She saw a dingy, still suspended upside down, where it waited to be patched. With no time to think, and little other hope, she slashed the ropes that held it aloft. Flipping the boat, she hefted

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the captain into it as quickly as she could. There was no use trying to save him bruises now. It was fortunate that the deck was nearly level with the water; dropping the boat did not harm it any further.

She took the oars and began to row with long, hard strokes. She made good time, but it was no use. There were inches of water in the boat before they had even passed the damnable animal that had done this to them.

Raven heard a deafening crack, and the oars were yanked back by the force of the water. She lost one as she struggled to keep her balance. The dingy was dragged back. When she looked behind her there was no ship, no sky, nothing but a wall of water bearing down on them.

When it broke around her, there was nothing to be done, but hold on. With her whole body she shielded Nathorn, bracing her arms and legs under the wooden benches. The dingy was pummeled by the waves; bobbing under the water and back up, only to be pushed down again.

Each time they surfaced she took a great breath into her lungs and held it until they burned. She closed her fingers over Nathorn’s nose, still hoping to keep him alive.

On their third ride under the waves, Nathorn woke, struggling against her and shouting curses no one could hear. When they surfaced he saved his voice and gulped air, just as she did. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her shoulder as they were tossed down again. When the waves relented, so did his hold on her. Finally the water was still enough for them to stay afloat. There was not enough of the dingy left to hold water, the benches skimming

Whale Rider Page 5 the surface. They were even farther from shore. With no oars they took turns- one kicking off towards land while the other rested- until they began to see fins.

"Shark," her voice calm. "Get back in the boat."

"Would that I only had a boat," Nathorn replied, wasting no time pulling his legs above the surface. It was a perilous balance to keep the jumble of planks afloat with both their weights

Circling them once before losing interest, the fin continued towards the whale. "That's it," Raven muttered to herself.

She pulled a small knife from her boot, and hastily cut the longest length of rope that was still attached to the boat. She then cut a large swatch from the sleeve of her shirt, and without warning sliced her palm open, allowing the fabric to soak up the blood.

"What are you doing?" Nathorn looked at her as if she'd truly gone mad.

She tied a knot around the bloody cloth, and dropped it into the water. "We're going to hitch a ride."

The whale carcass floated between them and the shore. Up to that point they had given it a wide berth, hoping to avoid scavengers. The tide was going in and they were all heading towards shore. They might have a chance to swim for it, if they could stay afloat long enough.

Raven didn't like their odds on the crumbling dingy.

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"We'll be dragged into a feeding frenzy," He said. "I'd have preferred drowning to being eaten alive."

"We won't even look like food next to a giant slab of blubber."

"I don't know if you're mad or brilliant." He shook his head. Whatever she was, she certainly lacked no bravery. He wondered if her courage stemmed from knowing how she was meant to die, and that it was not in the belly of a whale, or the jaws on a great shark.

"We're about to find out." She tilted her head toward another fin slicing through the water towards them. It took the bait without hesitation, thrashing just below the surface and bumping their vessel until they were sure it would collapse. Then it took off again, speeding straight towards its free meal. A few yards away she released the rope, and their momentum pushed them right up against the carcass.

It was just as she had predicted. The sharks paid the ramshackle vessel no more attention than they paid each other. They rushed at the whale, ripping chunks the size of children loose and darting away. Smaller fish were swarming after the crumbs of flesh that peppered the water.

Soon the birds would be circling as well.

Raven felt a pang of sadness when she reached out to touch the smooth white skin. Yes it would have killed her without remorse, but this creature was one a kind. Even the vast sea could not sustain a race of such monsters. It had seen thousands of years, and might have seen thousands more had its terrible masters not sent it on this errand.

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"This is my port, captain," she said, testing its buoyancy before taking hold of the great fin and pulling herself up onto the beast's back. "Care to join me?" She asked, reaching a hand out to him. He tested his weight on the fin and pulled himself up, slinging the tattered scrap of boat beside him.

And that was how the Prince of Amyranth, Nathorn the youngest son (by seven minutes) of

Thorn the Peaceful, came to be called Whale Rider. The story was told far and wide for many years, long after his children's children were dead. Over time the singers and poets began to tell

Nathorn as the hero and Raven a damsel in distress. Raven didn't mind, for she would be the hero of many stories.

2nd Place – Short Story Category Adult “Attack” By John David Brand

Behind a large boulder, I lay flat on the ground, staring down on the enemy below. Perfectly sheltered by the gray slate rock, I reached down to reassure myself, my weapon still remained at my side. The silence that engulfed the wilderness plain enhanced the fear I felt. Fear of betraying my presence to the enemy forces. Fear that the sound of my thumping heart, fear of my soft hurried breathing, might somehow flow down into the deep chasm which lay before me. I remained completely still, taking in the musty smell of earth. The cool grass below my cheek was a welcome contrast to the blanket of sun’s rays reining down on my uncovered head. Pale, freckled, and still beardless, I knew that I looked, and definitely felt too young for this mission. I was, in fact, the youngest person in our Company. Looking backward along my lean body, I felt reassured of the safety of my position, so well did my fatigues blend in with the yellow brown grass on which I lay. Behind me the winding path, completely deserted, ran for miles to the safely of our own people. Ahead, the grassy meadow flowed towards the edge of the deep ravine that held the enemy. It may have been left by an advancing glacier, or even a giant meteor falling to earth. Its sides sloped gently downward in some parts, fell sharply and presiptously in others. For the longest time I watched the mass of troops I’d come to kill, as though a reversed telescope, remembering that they too had loved ones left behind awaiting their return.

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My tense right hand held the means of annihilating the enemy. So tight was my grip that cramping made me loosen my hold, but not let go of the deadly device I would use agai8nst them. Chemical warfare was unacceptable to me. I knew how effective it was, of course, but that didn’t change how I felt about it. Still, the decision to use it wasn’t mine. As a soldier, my duty was to obey; to never question an order from a superior. The ravine was wide and deep. At the bottom I believe I could see water. Around its sloping walls, ledges provided walkways for the files of troops. The iron-rich soil gave marvelous camouflage to the men below. In fact the entire force might well have gone unnoticed, so well did they blend into the background. I tried to identify the Commanding Officer, but could not. Never before had I seen such disciplined, uniformed troops. Teams of workers carried large timbers up and down the dangerous slopes. They were as sure-footed as mountain goats, since one false step meant death. Finally I recognized an officer signaling to a squad to get a move on. I felt a cold sweat on my back as disaster struck. Suddenly a huge boulder broke loose and rolled down into the deep abyss, scattering the forces. For a moment there was panic. I marveled at their great discipline, and at how quickly order returned. Amazingly, during that crisis, the porters continued carrying large quantities of food in. After all, armies move on food, no on trucks. My heart turned over at the sight of what followed. With every nerve raw, I watched the stocky officer hasten on the medics who transported the injured to a holding area below. They came in large numbers. Some had limbs missing, others

Attack Page 3 severe crush injuries. Always in war, the dead follow the living. Even from that distance I could see the mangled bodies, some completely decapitated. The painful cramp in my hand finally brought me to my senses. To my real purpose in being here. I knew what I had to do. In fact I had asked for this assignment, even though some thought me too inexperienced for it. And what could I expect once I activated the detonator? Would I pull the trigger, then simply close my eyes, or look away? “You fire the big guns,” Uncle Bert once told me, and you never see what you’ve fired at. Until one day, he and his fellow soldiers were at the top of a hill “After the blast we saw them all right,” he said. “Bodies and legs and arms flying into the air. I’ll never forget it, “he told me. Uncle Bert served in the last war, and I know he’s glad to be out of this one. He took shrapnel in the leg, and still walks with a limp. Perhaps the memory of what I was about to do would remain with me forever, also, I though. No matter. Duty to my outfit. To my country. That comes first. Even if it meant my life. Weapon safely at my side, I drew closer, tightening my grip on the silver handle. Not even breathing, I listened intently. Not a sound. The sudden touch of a hand on my shoulder startled me, but I didn’t cry out. I knew, of course, he was one of ours. Looking behind me I saw to my surprise, my Commanding Officer. He bid me keep silent, and after helping me to my feet, he took the weapon from my hand, and with it, the terrible responsibility it carried.

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Still in silence, he dispatched me down the path to the safety of our own Company Headquarters. Walking backwards I watched him, standing tall and unafraid as he carefully aimed the weapon and fired the mechanism again and again, delivering charge after charge of the deadly chemical down on the forces below. I watched the billow of white vapors rise out the chasm. The enemy gave no resistance. As I made my way back, I instinctively knew they were all dead. Arriving at Headquarters, I encountered a familiar face. “My word, look at you! All that red mud. Off with your things. Every stitch, before you come into the house. However did you get so dirty?” I sat down on the bench and slipped out of my gear, piling it on the ground below. My C.O. returned and sat beside me on the bench. A small step sideways and I was on his lap. “Well,” asked mother, “did you kill all the ants?” I looked over my shoulder at father, and he nodded. “Yes, mon,” I replied. “Every one.” She sat down on the bench beside us, and her kiss tickled my ear. The goosebumps all over told me that I was now safe in the arms of those who loved me. And the silver handled chemical warfare device lay silently at our feet.

3rd Place- Short Story Category Adult “The Best Damn Radioman” By Melinda Richarz Lyons

“I want to go home!” he demanded, sounding more like a four-year-old than an octogenarian.

I knew that Dad would never go home, but I also knew he could not possibly comprehend the fact that he was losing his battle with an enemy called Alzheimer’s.

It was hard enough to watch my father grow older. But it was truly heartbreaking to see a once brilliant and accomplished man forced into a nursing home by this baffling disease.

Dad had conquered enemies before, successfully completing thirty-five intense missions with the 390th Bomb Group during World War II. On their twenty-first mission, their plane Cocaine Bill was shot down in Belgium. Luckily, they suffered no casualties and landed in an area that had just been taken from the Germans.

Now he was reduced to existing on a single bed in a stark room at the end of a dark lonely hallway, surrounded by fragile souls who were also ravaged by constant confusion.

Sometimes his inability to remember what was happening from moment to moment was a blessing in disguise. My father kept asking what hospital he was in, and to me, that was better than him knowing he was locked in an Alzheimer’s unit. I just couldn’t

The Best Damn Radioman Page 2 take the hope of returning home away from him.

As is typical with many patients, he could recall certain things rather clearly, especially things about his past. Unfortunately he seemed to remember his regrets with particular clarity.

1 “You know I washed out of pilot’s school,” Dad said, temporarily forgetting his request to go home.

After his dream of becoming a pilot was shattered, he trained to become a radio operator, and joined the war effort as a Radio Operator-Gunner on a B-17. He had always spoken with great pride about his team, made up of young men with nicknames like Snake, Hap,

Tex and Dixie, who had all been forced to grow up too fast.

Although he didn’t talk too much about the war when I was a child, I do remember how he described their missions as “terror over the skies of Germany.” He said he always knew when they were going on a particularly dangerous bombing mission, as they would be served fresh eggs at four in the morning, instead of powdered ones.

The few details he shared with me were hard for my young mind to imagine at the time, like the fact that it was seventy degrees below zero outside the plane, and sometimes “all hell was breaking loose” on the other side of Dad’s little window. He once told me he would never forget “that awful smell”—a mixture of fear, gasoline and gunpowder.

My father had his inter-plane radio in one ear, and would receive messages from the 8th

Army Air Force in the other ear. In the midst of all that the Radio Operator-Gunner had to fire a machine gun when enemy fighters approached, as well as literally kick the bombs out of the plane. Dad had performed all of these duties many times. The Best Damn Radioman Page 3

He repeated again, “I washed out of pilot school.”

I didn’t want him to focus on the one thing he considered a real failure in his life, so I said: “Dad, you were the best damn radioman in the Army Air Force.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“From your crew. Your pilot even told me that when we went to your bomb group reunion. They all said you were the best damn radioman ever.”

It took timing and a sense of rhythm, plus a great memory to be an efficient radio operator, and Dad had all of those skills. It was quite challenging to remember the transmissions and decipher the coded messages quickly, particularly since the codes changed each day.

“I wanted to be a pilot,” he whispered.

“If you hadn’t become a radio man on that B-17, your crew probably wouldn’t have made it through the war.”

“I don’t remember that!” he said with a scowl.

I had become more acquainted with some of the surviving members of Dad’s crew over the last several years. Dixie had told me the story about my father saving the entire squadron from the distinct possibility of being shot down.

Funny, I had heard all about Dad’s washing out of pilot’s school, but I had never heard about him being a hero. In fact, until Dixie informed me about the incident and the story

Dad had written about their brush with death, I didn’t know anything about that harrowing day.

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When I finally discovered the story, I read and reread it, soaking up all the details that my father so carefully included, like the fact that weather, enemy fire, equipment failure and the extreme fatigue of the crew after a mission could make the return trip quite perilous. Many times, some of the B-17’s would be so crippled that they had to ditch in the North Sea.

“You were coming back from a bombing mission over Chemnitz in February of 1945.

Remember Dad?”

I relayed parts of the story to him that he had written many years before entitled A Close

Encounter. In it, my father had described how their lead operator had apparently turned off his radio like many others in their squadron. The mission was over. They thought they could relax, even though turning off their radios was against orders.

But Dad knew those orders were for a reason and in his story he wrote, “The only communication between aircraft was the radio and only essential messages were allowed.

But those messages were crucial for the survival of the entire bomb group.”

My father had also written that suddenly that day the radio “crackled alive and a new route for England was given to the entire group.” If they followed the original route back to their home base, they were going to encounter massive fighter attacks.

Dad tried in vain, but couldn’t raise the lead operator. He had to do something. They were about to fly into heavy fire. How frightening for a twenty-two-year-old kid from

South Texas to realize that it was up to him to save his comrades from a probable death trap.

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“Remember, you took down the entire message in your log in code, and then quickly decoded it.”

“Oh yeah,” he recalled. “I was good at that. I had a knack for decoding things pretty fast.

You had to be able to concentrate with a lot of distractions too.”

I had almost gotten used to Dad’s jumbled memories, but it still amazed me that he could recall key facts about his stint on a Flying Fortress sixty years earlier, but could not tell me what century we were living in or the name of the current president. It didn’t matter.

All that mattered at this moment was the fact that he was remembering something positive about his past.

“You got the emergency information to your pilot, Jack Bouton. He called Lt. Kenny in the lead ship with that vital message, and he immediately changed the return route,” I continued.

“He was a great pilot and leader. He saved the day,” Dad sighed.

“No, Dad, you saved the day. If you hadn’t been so vigilant, think how many men could have died that day.”

I had heard that on two previous missions, they suffered heavy casualties, losing almost

120 airmen. This could have been even more disastrous. But because Dad hadn’t logged out, he heard the frantic call to change routes, and their trip home was a safe one.

I patted his withered hand, the same one that used to feel so big and strong to me when I was a child. He wrapped his fingers around mine.

“You see, you were the best damn radioman.”

He closed his eyes and smiled. He began to relax his grip on my hand and seemed to

The Best Damn Radioman Page 6 drift off to sleep. For a few minutes my father’s life was peaceful again, free from the anxiety of being trapped in a mind full of scattered thoughts that came and went like crashing waves.

Suddenly he squeezed my hand and opened his eyes.

“You know what? I was the best damn radioman in the Army Air Force during the war.

They say I probably saved the whole squadron. Do you want to hear about what I did?”

“Yes, Dad,” I answered, choking back the tears. “I’d love to hear the story about the best damn radioman.”

Honorable Mention-Short Story Adult “Catch Me When You Can” By Ja’Niece Slater

The young woman shivered as icy coils of misty fog curled themselves beneath the thin bloody shawl she wore.

Please…please don’t let him find me here.

She huddled closer to the wall and grimaced, looking down at the wound on her shoulder.

It oozed a sickly red.

Swallowing the sudden sob that rose in her throat, she looked up, her eyes gazing to the sky.

Above, the rain clouds had begun to dissipate, allowing scant rays of the full moon to flood down onto the streets of White Chapel. Though none shone where she hid.

She risked a quick peek around the crate she hid behind.

Nothing.

Sighing in relief she again slumped back against the wall.

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Upon seeing him, she remembered, the gentleman had seemed harmless. His dressed simple yet held an air of wealth, his chest visibly broad even from beneath his onyx colored overcoat; a stark difference to the sullied men who usually frequented the brothel that time of night. And when his dark smoldering eyes had locked onto hers she had felt a strange tightening in her chest.

With a coin in one hand, he had held out his other to her and she readily agreed when he politely asked they conduct their…business in a more private area. A place, he had whispered, where he could do anything he wanted to her.

They walked on a bit. Down empty streets and twisted alleys, strolling side-by-side but never touching. Once they were alone, however, he had pressed her against a stone wall and kissed her passionately. Touched her lovingly. Stroked her tenderly. And for the first time in a long time, she had lost herself in him.

And in that moment is when he struck.

A sharp searing pain shot down her arm and she screamed, pushing him away.

That’s when she saw the blade.

That’s when she saw the wild look of his eyes.

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“Run, run.” He said, his mouth twisting into a smile.

And she had ran.

And now she was wounded, hiding, and worst of all alone.

On the brownstone opposite her, she saw that moonlight touch the rooftop and slowly descend down.

Entranced, she raised a hand towards the light to try and touch it, and froze, her ears perking.

A muffled footstep, a rustling of cloth.

Steam rose from her mouth and she tried to keep her breathing calm and even.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Suddenly the gentleman’s voice cut through the darkness like a knife, “I can smell you…whore.”

And the footsteps quickened in pace towards her.

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Panicked, she sprang from her hiding place and bolted towards the opposite end of the alley, the driving need for survival pushing her passed her pain and fatigue.

The light. If I could only get to the light, then I would be safe.

She scrambled out of the darkened passage, and looked around at her surroundings. The moonlight shone more brightly here, though its light still not reaching her. It revealed a vacant lot filled with more crates and scattered cargo boxes stacked unevenly about.

She spun around once. Twice. Eyes searching anxiously for an escape.

An icy fear twisted in her heart.

She’d run into a dead-end.

She was trapped.

The moonlight would be her only ally this night.

If only...

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Something jumped in her belly, and in her chest she felt her heart hammering in violent strokes when she heard his footsteps slow to a rhythmic tap, tap, tap.

She slowly turned to face him.

He seemed to materialize from the dissipating mist, the darkness birthing him as its deliverance.

He was breathing heavily. But was it from chasing her? Or the thrill of the hunt itself? She guessed, in the end, it didn’t matter.

He advanced towards her, measuring her with a cool appraising look. His eyes roving over her body.

“What a beautiful sight you are,” He said, taking another step towards her. “I will remember you forever.”

Step.

“Your heart.”

Step.

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“Your soul.”

Step.

“I’ll cut them both from you.”

In his right hand he raised the sleek blade he had used to stab her, still stained and dripping with her blood. “Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.”

She turned to run again, but he was too quick for her, easily tackling her bodily to the ground.

His hands were rough as he pushed her down on her back onto the rough cobblestone, his fingers digging into her soft flesh.

Straddling her body, the madman chuckled. Droplets of moisture clung to his damp forehead.

His mouth twisted into a thin-lipped sardonic smile.

Just then, the moonlight broke through the clouds and shone down brightly.

“…please…” The word escaped her lips in the faintest of whispers, just as the illuminating moon blanketed them with its shining light. “Why are you doing this?”

He blinked, hesitating. His head cocked to one side as if her were weighting her question.

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In answer, he lightly fingered a loose tendril of hair on her cheek, trailing it down over her slender neck. Over the curve of her breast. And stopping just before he could touch the oozing wound on her shoulder.

His expression suddenly darkened.

“Because all little whores must die.” He whispered back matter-of-factly.

Abruptly, the knife plunged down, straight for her heart.

But before it could reach its mark, he felt his wrist caught in a vice grip.

Startled, he looked down and saw inky yellow eyes of the young woman staring back at him. Her once beautiful face now twisting, changing, elongating before his eyes.

Between his legs he felt her tremble and begin to grow in size, her bloody shawl and dress ripping from her body as bunches of muscles grew, revealing a taunt fur covered body beneath.

He had no time to scream before the newly transformed werewolf jerked its arm tearing his arm from his body. The beast threw the severed limb aside, where it disappeared somewhere in the clutter of crates surrounding them.

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Blood sprayed everywhere.

He screamed and rolled from atop the beast. Stumbling to his feet just as the beast rolled onto all fours and shook out its newly grown fur.

Its jaw snap at the air once, before throwing back its head and hoowwwllllll at the moon.

The man felt his bowels loosen when its eyes again met his.

“Run, run.” The Werewolf taunted, its speech deep and barely discernable.

And Jack did.