Everything was going along as usual, that is until I questioned reality during my Friday evening bus ride. Then the day seemed computerized and messy. The week felt empty, filled only with dust-covered wires and sluggish internet connections. Life appeared to be some low-budget reality TV production, scripted with just enough familiarity to make everything feel fake. Happiness had officially vanished like sugar in hot tea. Or maybe happiness just gave its boss a lame excuse to go home early, like that ditzy secretary who marinates in Chanel No. 5.
Anyway, after hours of pretending that my career is legitimate, I started believing that this whole productive member of society bullshit is overrated. Instead of coping with cubicles and khaki-clad liars, I contemplated the subtle benefits of laziness, balancing days of video games with nights of Cinemax soft core porn. After all, what good had striving towards greatness done for anyone? As the bus lunged forward, I daydreamed about ancient African empires, all of which had been crushed into Saharan sand. This made me wonder how culture becomes exploited and why destiny often gets tilled into irrelevance.
Soon, within the confines of my degenerate mind, the pointless began to have purpose. Then, right before I considered giving up completely and crawling into that special section of Hell reserved for politicians and couples who wear matching outfits, the bus stopped, and so did my commute, and so did any thought of changing the world that I live in instead of simply living in a world that changes.
Second Place Entry:
The Long Ride Home
by Chad R. Worcester
Everything was going along as usual, that is until I woke up Sunday morning at my grandparent’s house—knowing that today was the end of another monthly visit with my father. One weekend a month—that was one of the few things he and my mother did agree upon when they divorced.
I hated Sunday. The smell of bacon and [my] over-easy eggs crept into the bedroom, but my appetite was replaced by sadness. Besides, the lump in my throat would have made it difficult to swallow even if I was famished.
Trying not to cry on this day was impossible, and every month I would give my grandmother a new reason why there were tears in my eyes. I thought I was fooling her. More fool me.
The drive home to my mother’s felt like a funeral—gloomy, quiet, hopeless. Helpless. My head in my dad’s lap, watching the raindrops stream down the window—and thinking my face was the glass, while the passing trees waived to me in sympathy.
Back at home, my eight year-old body stood in the driveway staring at the passenger side of my father’s car—contemplating my get-a-way. I leaped into my dad’s arms like the gravel path had been yanked from under my feet, and held onto him for dear life. My head ached from crying so hard—and begging him not to leave—“Please…don’t go, daddy.”
As his car turned the bend, I began counting down from 30—day by day—until I saw his headlights shining on me again.
Third Place Entry:
Kayaking
by Madelyn Lorber
Everything was going along as usual, that is until Big Guy had an inspiration: celebrate his sixtieth birthday learning to kayak. Being Siamese mates—joined at the idea for over forty interesting years— I said, Sounds Great. Often we had peered down embankments at boats shaped like smiles bouncing along curly ribbons of river wishing we were bouncing with them.
We signed up, signed waivers, skipping lightly over ominous words like death and injury, and paid, cash. Seven the next morning at a charming park with grassy fields for football, a children’s playground, jogging trail, and beaver pond, we joined our first class: two women in their twenties, robust, toned, gung ho, one fellow who probably had thirty candles on his last cake, and the even younger instructor.
Among many things we should have done was buy and don wetsuits. Goose pimpled, teeth chattering, we learned to paddle, balance, race, zigzag, play tag, follow the leader, Eskimo roll, and exit while overturned. After two sessions we were ready. Bring on the mighty Colorado.
Although the instructor explained currents, eddys, strainers, boulders, hypothermia, and white water, there was too little mention of degrees of difficulty involved with each; no illustration on how to execute ninety degree turns; no demonstration on how to paddle upstream against raging currents; no mention of the age factor. In retrospect, amplification was needed. Tortured by helplessness, we damned near died.
And yet, somehow, repeated nightmares later, we are left inexplicably glad for the experience.
