Kevin Leahy is a junior at Northern Illinois University, where he writes a weekly column for the Northern Star. His writing has appeared in Salon, Bookslut and Sweet Fancy Moses. Contact him at kleahy@northernstar.info
So now, it’s finally over, and the empty ballpark stands quiet enough for Lee to hear the hum of the night game lights as he emerges from the dugout, his entrance onto the field his baptism as a retiree. The others have already left to celebrate, and Kathy has gone home with the kids, but Lee needs infield dirt on his shoes, needs one last look around from this side of the bleachers, one last taste of the game.
Because this game is all he knows, and he has no idea what to do now. There are offers – manager, commentator, the corporate lecture circuit – but none of these hold any meaning for him. The game makes sense to him. The game has rules. The game is played on a diamond, the most perfect of earthly designs, and Lee has internalized its symmetry to the exclusion of all else.
There will be champagne later, in the VIP room at Torque. There will be too-loud music and searching looks from women who are not his wife.
He drops his gear bag and takes out a ball. His whole career, his whole life, Lee has kept this ball within the tight box bounded by a batter’s shoulders and knees. He has always faced inward, always in one narrow direction. No more. He turns toward the outfield and hurls the ball as hard as he can. He watches it disappear in the halo that wreathes the bank of lights along the scoreboard.
And waits to transform into something new.
Second Place Entry:
New Ways to Ruin an Automobile
by Adam Meyers
Adam is 23 years old. He graduated from college a year ago and has been working against his will as a customer service representative for an auto accessory company. If his parents ever read this, He is planning on going to Law School next year. If they're not reading, he'd like to not go to law school and to become a stand-up comedian (or another equally low paying entertainment oriented profession).
So now, it's finally over...my parent’s lovemaking may never be the same. Be careful when the day comes that your mother suggests living in the family car would be good for togetherness. Two years ago my parents sold their house and moved us into the car. My parents lived in the Master Bedroom, also known as the backseat. I took the Driver Seat so as to provide me with the maximum amount of distraction (steering wheel and all) and to prevent me from witnessing adult things that occurred behind me in the rear passenger area. I won’t go into details but I remember my father’s hands being held over my ears on occasion, probably in order to prevent me from hearing my mother complain. Holiday time was the least pleasant. My father, a Catholic, and my mother a Jew would divide the car up into their respective religious rituals. The Christmas tree would stick out of the sunroof and make getting proper sunlight difficult, while my mother’s Hanukah candles would constantly char the leather interior. This would lead to further argument about whose religion was making the car more unclean. They either wised up or went insane, but they finally decided to move into a real house again, like ‘normal’ people. Plus, grandma is supposed to visit in a couple of months, and I doubt she’ll find the passenger side (also known as the kitchen) all that appealing, since that’s where we store most of our food.
Third Place Entry:
Quarter Past Midnight
by Julie Ann Redoble
Julie is a 24-year old marketing professional who serves as an offshore consultant for a firm in Evergreen, Colorado. She has a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology from the University of the Philippines. Julie spends her nights and most of her weekends writing or dreaming about writing. One of her works has been published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer’s “Young Blood” collection. She also worked as a section editor for a Manila-based magazine. Her muse had previously taken an unbearably long vacation, and Julie is glad to know that she’s back (hopefully for good).
So now, it’s finally over.
She knows this because her eyes are starting to focus. The pearl in the ceiling becomes a trembling ball, then a gyrating orb, then finally, a tiny flickering fluorescent bulb.
She had been swimming in a confusing whirl of colors and scents. Now, rising from the chasm, she has an epiphany – black has countless hues, putrid has infinite bitter memories.
She stares at the ceiling, still hearing the grunts and moans that had, only minutes ago, been her sole link to reality. A reality that she had long since learned to distort. A reality that she had long since learned to justify.
The snoring emanates from beside her. As a drizzle at first, then as furious torrents. Loud, obnoxious, inconsiderate. Sometimes, this sound meant reprieve. Today, it seems a more painful intrusion. Today, in its rasping resonance, she hears a rhythm without melody, a song that is not a song, a story that is not her life.
She feels herself swimming again, and she grips the sheets to keep from drifting. But her hands feel not the abyss that engulfs her each night, but the dampness of her blood.
Tomorrow, as with too many tomorrows, she would have to rinse the silk and pray that her anguish would leave no stains. Tomorrow, perhaps, she would have the strength to change the sheets. But that’s tomorrow. For now at least, it’s finally over.
