Young Adult Department
The Teen Club sponsored a Teen Writing Contest this summer. We received 30 entries to the contest. These entries were printed in the September/October issue of the library's Teen Talk literary newsletter. The winners are: Poetry *1st Prize* Evelyn Duffy, 15, "Children Are Our Future" 2nd Prize Colleen Scholl, 17, "Because Somebody Cared" 3rd Prize Liza Monroy, 15, "Hands of Love"
Short Story *1st Prize* Evelyn Duffy, 15, "Old Wilson" 2nd Prize Lisa Vermillion, 15, "The Stranger" 3rd Prize Danielle Trucano, 15, "Judgment"
The Winning Entries *1st Prize* Evelyn Duffy, 15 Children Are Our Future Child,
grow up now,
time to see the cold harsh world as it really is. Child,
grow up now,
learn that lies make the world go ‘round, and
learn to lie yourself. Child,
grow up now,
learn that you are all alone, and
learn to think that is right. Child,
grow up now,
and learn that patriotism goes no further than the portrait
on that green bill’s face. Child,
grow up now,
learn that the world is moving fast around you, and
that you must run fast and lose all to keep up. Child,
wake up now,
time to see the only way out from under is
to surface as the one who makes it what it is. Child
wake up now,
and learn to pull the very strings you
were once attached to.
Colleen Scholl, 17 Because
Somebody Cared Old and alone, the poor man is walking. Whispering quietly, to whom is he talking? The words he speaks are those of praise to God above for help through his maze. He has no family, friends, or a home. His hair is knotty; he can’t afford a comb. His clothes are old, torn, and smelly. He has no cash to put food in his belly. He walks down the road and looks at a sign. “Soup kitchen open from eight until nine.” He steps in and smells an aroma of food. The friendly atmosphere brightens his mood. With a warm smile, he is served his meal. Looking around he says, “Is this for real?” The poor man’s life has just been spared, Because somebody took the time to show they cared.
Liza Monroy, 15 Hands of Love Deepest purple I’ve ever seen On a lady’s skin I walk on by A fetish grin A weak chagrin This lady smiles She’s from Madrid I’m sinking in My loser touch Leaves a print Give us a wink Lady Slinky taste I want erased Fleshy lips At fingertips My lonely breath Breathes for no One else for me
*1st Prize* Evelyn Duffy, 15 Old Wilson Old Wilson shuffled through the snow and crumpled newspapers to the concrete doorstop that would serve as his bed tonight. Glancing nervously around the deserted alley, as if afraid he was being followed, he dropped heavily upon the stoop. Meticulously arranging his coarse green blanket around his body, he made himself as comfortable as possible before bringing out a bottle from one of his damp paper bags. An hour later Old Wilson was as warm as he could wish, and he soon fell into a deep stupor. Despite the alcohol, he awoke early the next morning, the cold creeping through his blanket and assailing his old, stringy body with its piercingly sharp teeth. His creaking bones and pained grunting were the only sounds in the alley as he rose from his stoop. They echoed off the blackened, sagging walls until they came back to his own ears, eerie and ghostlike. Stuffing bits of a scavenged newspaper into his ragged shoes and wrapping the decaying blanket around his stooped shoulders, Old Wilson slowly made his way to St. Anne’s church, the basement of which housed the only nearby soup kitchen. Even at this early hour, the good women of the parish were there to set out warm oatmeal to those who had need of it. Old Wilson, a daily visitor, joined the line, ate the oatmeal, then shuffled away still clutching his plastic bowl. Hours later, Old Wilson halted his wanderings at his normal sidewalk square on one of the city’s largest pedestrian walkways. Settling against the cold stone wall of the imposing bank building behind him, he scraped the now-frozen remains of his oatmeal from his bowl with his black, brittle fingernails. When this was done, he set it in front of him and withdrew, from some inner pocket, a small hand-carved flute.
Sometimes, when he was sober, he could remember the long curls of wood
falling to the floor, the red blood seeping from his hand after he’d cut it,
and the pride he had felt when it was finished.
He could never remember much more than that, and started to drink again,
but somehow he did know that those had been the best years of his life, and
that the little instrument connected him to then in a way that was no longer
possible for him to do himself. Some
nights, after straining to remember, he sobbed himself to sleep—only to wake
in the morning with his tears frozen against his cheeks and eyelashes. When the streetlight above him flickered to life, it woke Old Wilson from his fitful sleep. He found that despite the snow, which had been falling gently upon him for an hour, there were still a great number of people out on the sidewalk. Repositioning his bony elbows, he raised the flute to his lips and felt the sweet, silky smooth tones flow from his heart to the air to the hearts of the people nearest to him. A harried businessman, on his way to a late night meeting, broke stride and threw a startled look behind him. He continued on, seeing that it was only another drunken bum. A concerned mother steered her toddling son past Old Wilson, carefully not looking at him as she passed. The boy turned his head to gaze with wide uncertain eyes at the old man, and continued to do so until his mother led him resolutely around the block. The only people to actually stop and listen to the sad melody were a young man and woman, obviously in love and for some reason sad themselves. As the music drifted over their heads and across the sidewalk, a girl in the hotel across the street looked down at the small scene from her window seat on the third floor. The pure, clear notes penetrated even the thick window glass, and she yearned to tell the old homeless man and the young, despairing couple that she could feel the pain, and the longing to forget, and how much she wished she could help them. Even as she wondered what she would ever be able to do, the young man dropped a large handful of coins in the old man’s dish and, with a quiet word to his companion, broke the magic spell that had been holding them there. Arm in arm, the couple proceeded down the street. Hours later, the girl in the hotel awoke, quite stiff, still sitting on the window seat. Gazing through the panes at the pavement below, she found no trace of him. Though she hoped with all her heart that he had someplace warm to sleep tonight, she knew that it couldn’t be so. As Old Wilson settled onto another doorway with his bottle, he tried to remember when he had been young, like the people he had seen earlier. He remembered, and, between his gulps from the bottle and his deep racking, oddly rhythmic sobs, he fell into a troubled sleep. The cruel, cold wind swirled around him, pushing the soot and snow together in miniature hurricanes, then leaving them to settle on his small curled up form as the midnight blackness consumed him. Old Wilson does, in some sense, live on. Though he has never been seen again at St. Anne’s, the early-morning women think of him often. And, mostly on cold lonely nights, when she was empty of all else, the girl from the hotel though of him, and wished him well. “Poor old man,” she’d think, remembering. “Poor old man…”
Lisa Vermillion, 15 The
Stranger The stranger was lonely. He was lying on a grassy hill with his face turned to the sky. Looking up at the unfamiliar constellations in the night sky reminded him of how alone he was. He was billions of miles away from his planet, his solar system, even the galaxy he used to call home. He contemplated his life back home and tried to remember. It had been so long, his memories were beginning to fade. But he could remember he had sometimes hated his existence pack on his planet. He had been stuck in a “dead-end-job,” which was cleaning waste from the sewer systems in the city. He had a brilliant mind, but a succession of bad circumstances, bad choices, and bad luck had prevented him from going to college to further his education. He had lived in a bug-infested apartment the size of a closet. Most months, his check barely paid the rent. His childhood had been less than great, with his verbally and physically abusive father and the mother he had never known. He could remember one particular night when his father had come home after losing his job and beat him and his two sisters up. “If you weren’t so stupid and worthless, your mother never would have left!” his father had shouted, punching him in the face. The stranger closed his eyes in remorse. When he opened them, he heard footsteps approaching behind him. He sat up and turned his head in the direction of the footsteps. It was Falana, the one person that made his existence on this new planet bearable. She had been the only one he had confided in with his past, secrets, and feelings. “Hello,” she said in a computerized, metallic way. The silvery translator mask on her face distorted her delicate features, but without it, communication between the two wouldn’t be possible. The translator took her words and translated them into his language. Unfortunately, the computerized voice didn’t sound as lovely or melodic as Falana’s real voice. The mask was attached by a cord to a black box. Another cord connected the black box and an earpiece Falana wore in her ear. “Hello,” the stranger said, smiling. He saw her pause as his reply was “heard” by the black box and translated into her language through her earpiece. “Can I sit down?” Falana asked through the mask. “Sure,” the stranger replied. Falana sat down on the hill next to him. She followed his gaze to the starry sky. “Beautiful, aren’t they?” she asked. “Yes, but they’re so unfamiliar,” replied the stranger. “I’m used to different constellations than the ones you have—you do have constellations, right?” Falana paused as her translator took in the question. “Query ‘constellations’,” the translator block asked. It was still getting to know the stranger’s language, and he periodically had to explain words it hadn’t heard before. “Constellations are pictures in the stars,” the stranger explained. “Lines connect each star and form a picture of something on our planet, such as an animal or plant. We name these pictures and they are used for navigation.” The translator block seemed satisfied with his explanation. Falana was silent as it explained what he said. “No we don’t have any constellations,” she said in what seemed to be a sad voice. “But most of our culture and traditions were forgotten or destroyed in the war of 2566. We have practically nothing left of our history and culture.” “But that’s alright, isn’t it?” the stranger said. “I know the history of my planet isn’t that great, and we haven’t achieved half of what you have. Most people are sad, others are corrupted, and many are starving. It doesn’t seem fair because there are a few really rich that control everything and then everyone else is poor. There’s no balance. Sometimes it’s good to forget the past.” “And what do you think we have achieved?” Falana asked, the volume rising on her metallic voice. It could covey none of the emotion that was burning in her eyes. “Look around. All the beautiful buildings we have, all the instant meals, instant houses, technology, and beautiful, fit people. What is it all for? War! All the technology we have come up with is for weapons and destruction: new ways to kill. The buildings are used as control towers for bomber airplanes. Even the people have the gene therapy so they can be strong and able to fight. What have we strived and died for on this planet? Boundaries and ideas that one group tries to cram down another’s throat! We-- we-" Falana broke down and began to sob. The stranger moved over and put his arms around her. “It’s okay. Back on my planet, we have wars, too.” “But you still have the beautiful things in life. You have dozens of different languages, different cultures, different religions. You have art, literature, dance, acting. You have millions of different plants and animals. You have centers of learning and technology for bettering society. We have lost all that! Everything on this planet is for war.” The stranger held her closer. “Not everything on this planet is ugly,” he said, looking into her eyes. “You aren’t. I remember when I was first brought here in that horrible machine—“ “Yes, the one that had the malfunction,” Falana broke in. “Yes. I had no idea where I was and what was happening. Everyone was upset and appalled because of the way I looked. They were also disappointed that their transport hadn’t worked,” the stranger said softly, remembering. “Everyone was shrinking away from me, as if I were some kind of monster. Many ran screaming from me, but you didn’t. You stayed and comforted me and walked me through the masses of staring eyes. I want to thank you for that.” “I understood how alone you felt. I’ve felt that way many times myself,” Falana said. “I never agreed with the idea that war was the way to solve problems, and everyone else seemed brainwashed. Sometimes I felt like I was an alien.” “You made me feel welcome and at home,” the stranger. “I will always remember your kindness when I return home.” Falana’s eyes suddenly looked sad. The stranger couldn’t stand to look at them and looked at the ground. “I know they don’t know why the transporter failed and I ended up hear instead of one of you coming to my planet, but in time, they’ll find a way to send me home.” “It’s not that,” Falana’s computerized voice said. She looked at the ground. “Well then, what is it? What’s wrong?” the stranger asked. “You’re never going home,” Falana said, with tears in her eyes. “Of course I am, don’t be silly,” the stranger said, but there was doubt in his eyes. “No, you aren’t,” she replied. “That’s why I came out here. To tell you. To tell you that—” she broke off. Then, she steeled herself and continued. “We’re going to have a huge war. We have already bombed another faction on the other side of the world. They will retaliate with their alliances and bomb every major city here. Then our alliances will retaliate. The whole world will be dead from fusion bombs, or the fusion radiation afterwards. Nothing will be left alive. I just came down here to tell you.” The stranger was silent. “Stay with me,” he pleaded. “I will.” The stranger’s bright orange eyes looked into Falana’s pale blue ones. He took in her olive skin and straight black hair. “I know I could never be beautiful to you,” she said, “but over the time I’ve gotten to know you, I think I’m in love with you.” The stranger smiled. “It’s funny how fate works,” he said. She looked at his deep blue skin as her black voice processor asked, “Query ‘fate.” He turned to her and said, “It means I love you.” She smiled and took off her translator mask. Words between the two weren’t needed. They stared up at they sky together as the first missile came blazing into Earth’s atmosphere. It looked like someone had struck a match over the black velvet with diamonds scattered across it.
Danielle Trucano, 15, "Judgment" Judgment I heard a gunshot and felt a pain race through my stomach like I had never felt before. I fell to the ground and heard the faint screams of witnesses as I drifted out of consciousness. Suddenly, the pain was gone. I was floating. I turned and looked down to see myself lying on the street in a pool of blood. I tried to force myself awake to end the dream. Then I realized that this was not a dream. It was real and before me now was a light so vibrant and bright that I could barely stand to look at it, but I was drawn toward it. I walked toward it; it was warm and welcoming. As I started walking in the great light the ground disappeared and again I felt as if I was floating. I tried to look away but the light entrapped me. I felt as if I had been floating for hours when a voice spoke to me. The voice was deep and firm but at the same time very comforting. “Be not afraid.” The voice said. I expected that I would be but as the kind voice had instructed, I was not. I continued floating toward the source of this great light but I was never reaching it. Thoughts flashed through my mind. Everything I had ever learned came to mind but none of it applied to what was happening to me. It didn’t make sense; I didn’t understand. Suddenly, the light was gone and I was standing before a great altar. Everything around me was white and soft. The altar was a pale tan marble. The air was warm and fragrant of spring flowers. It was beautiful; quiet, inviting beauty that no words could begin to describe. There was a cool breeze blowing through my hair and the ground was soft on my now bare feet. I looked down at myself and saw that my clothing had changed. I was no longer in street clothes. I was draped in a white cloth that felt as if it was silk. I had to be dreaming. I closed my eyes and felt completely at ease. I was drifting in a daze when the voice from before broke me from it. “Look up, my child, and be not afraid.” I looked up and saw a man sitting behind the altar, smiling at me. There was another man to his right and left. “Why am I here?” I asked. “Judgment,” the man on the left said. It hit me; I realized where I was and who the people were. I was in heaven meeting my judgment; I had died. The man on the left was Saint Peter, the man on the right was Michael the archangel, and the man in the middle was God. I hung my head in sadness. I could not believe I had not realized earlier what had happened. Saint Peter handed God a book. The book was completely made of gold. I was in awe; I was actually seeing what I had only heard about. As God opened the book I became afraid. Was I as good as I had always thought? God flipped through the book and stopped on the page bearing my name. God read through the pages on my life and when he finished he looked up at me. Before he could say anything I dropped to my knees. “Dear God, forgive me. There were too many times in my life when I saw wrongdoing and I looked away. Too many times when I did not help someone as best I could, when I was selfish. I claim not to be perfect, I know I have sinned and I kneel before you now asking for your forgiveness.” God looked at me with a kind smile on his face and said to me: “My child, in this book is not a list of your sins, but a list of your triumphs.” A sigh of happiness escaped my lips as I got back up to my feet. I was awaiting my final judgment when God whispered something to the angel Michael. With that, Michael walked over to me and lifted me up. “It is not yet your time,” Michael said to me. Again I was in awe. I didn’t know what to think. As Michael began to fly away with me in his arms, I looked back over his shoulder at the pureness I was leaving. He carried me all the way home. He gave me a loving nod and smile before he faded from my sight and I was back on the street. I regained consciousness and found myself surrounded by people. “She’s okay,” someone yelled. “You’re going to be all right. There’s an ambulance on the way. Just hang in there.” A woman said to me. “You were hit with a stray bullet; you’re lucky to be alive. I then knew that I had had a marvelous vision. That vision made me realize how precious life is and how much we take it for granted. My encounter with death made my see how important every day is. And lying there when the ambulance arrived to take me to the hospital I recalled a quote I had read somewhere: “If you think every day isn’t a good day, try missing just one.” Now I know how true that is. Comments? Questions? Contact Head of Children's and Young Adult Services Helen Cowan Margiotti Vineland Public Library, 1058 E. Landis Avenue, Vineland, NJ 08360 (856) 794-4244, ext. 4246
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