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350 for 50

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350 fo 50_2017Announcing the winners of our annual 350 for 50 writing contest! Young writers were challenged to compose a short, 350-word story that included the sentence, “The directions were unclear.” Winners from our four age categories enjoyed a $50 shopping spree on Amazon. Congratulations to all!

Illustrations by Aliisa Lee

WOW, THE FUTURE REALLY IS A SHOCK
by Scarlett Gong, age 10

Benjamin Franklin and Alexander Hamilton handed the Tesla dealer a stack of $100 bills and said, “Sir, we would like to buy a car.” The dealer seemed quite puzzled when he saw both Franklin’s face and the $100 bills! Franklin quickly excused himself.

“Your grandpa looks so much like Franklin on the $100 bill!” The dealer whispered to Hamilton.

Hamilton coughed nervously. “Err, does he? Sir, I just came from the Caribbean and don’t know much. May I ask what people usually bring when they leave their house? ”

“A smart phone, of course!” Pleased with the sale, the dealer started chatting nonstop with Hamilton.

Franklin and Hamilton finally regrouped. “This world is really a shock compared to 1777. My time machine works!” Franklin said. He began to research the new Tesla. He tapped Tesla’s touch screen with his quill. After some reading, he informed Hamilton, “The directions were unclear. Oh this garage is dark!” He took out a match and a magnifying glass from his pocket, “We must investigate this car further if we want to bring it back to Washington.”

Before he could light up his match, Hamilton stopped him and turned on the flashlight of a phone, “Mr. Franklin, I have something better!”

“Dear lord, what is this? Much better than my match! The light seems like the electricity I captured on my rod.” Franklin cried.

Hamilton grinned and showed him the phone. “It’s a phone. The car dealer sold me this. Look at this messaging App. You don’t have to use horses to send messages anymore! Also, a website here called Google can answer all your questions! ”

Franklin’s eyes were wide with shock. He scratched his head. “Wait,” he said slowly. “What if we use this so-called Google to find out the ending of the American Revolution? We can see if we won! ”

Hamilton’s mouth stretched into a grin. “Should we? I’m very firm we will win, even though the current winter in Valley Forge is harsh. Besides, Mr. Franklin, do you see any British flags in this future world?”

LOST IN A TRAIL
by By Emily Tang, age 11

Towering trees swayed and creaked in protest as the raging storm lashed the forest with pounding rain and fierce winds. My siblings and I huddled together in our nest, our feathers fluffed against the chill, as my mother impatiently waited for the storm to pass.

“ I have to get you guys food before you starve to death! “ She cried over the roaring wind. And then without hesitation, she spread her wings and launched into the stormy sky. I watched as she started to become a tiny dot in the distance. The thought of my mom being gone made me anxious, but worms sounded good to my stomach.

As the storm started to clear up, I really began to worry. It had been past an hour but my mom still hadn’t come back. The things that could’ve happened ran through my mind. Then, determined to find her, I mustered my courage and spread my wings for the first time, ready to venture into the unknown.

The forest was a chaotic mess. There were tree branches and muddy puddles at every corner of my eye. Suddenly, I spotted a bright yellow feather that lay on the ground next to a knocked down tree. And then I saw another. Then another. I thought they were a trail leading to my mom, but they weren’t. The directions were unclear. The feathers were all over the place, like they were scattered. I called to her but only the echo of my own voice responded. It was then when I gave up. I flew to the nearest tree branch and let the drizzle of rain sink into my feathers.

While I sat on the edge of a tree branch, I heard a sudden rustle behind me. I thought it was a squirrel but when I turned around, my heart leapt with joy as I spotted my mother’s familiar form perched on a branch. She was safe, but her feathers were ruffled, and she looked exhausted.
“ Mom! “ I tweeted loudly. Then I flew faster than I ever could and sat next to her.

MESSAGE NOT DELIVERED
by Emma Peppler, age 14

It was probably a dumb idea to agree to meet my friends in the middle of the woods at an unholy hour of the day. But here I am, making a left at the collapsed shed and a right at the fork in the road. Once I reach the tree that fell down during some tornado, I’ll make a right and be with my friends.

The directions were unclear. They didn’t specify which of the thousands of fallen trees to turn at! My friends’ voices surround me as I walk and my feet, that are stuffed into wedge sandals a size too small, ache. My hair whips my face as wind rustles the trees and frogs noisily croak in the distance. My feet start to feel numb, which gives me relief from the excruciating pain of the sandals.

I turn, hearing Mari’s voice, my oldest friend, sharp and clear like pristine water on a tropical beach. Knowing she has to be close, I run off the path through a stone archway covered in moss. On the other side sits weeping trees and mannequins on a rusty bench. A little merry-go-round statue stands by the bench with zebras and tigers on it. Creepy.

Another narrow and tunnel-like archway isn’t too far off in the distance and so I run into it, convinced that my friends are just on the other side. Halfway through, I collide with something in front of me. Glass? I wonder. I run back to the beginning of the archway, but another pane of glass appears. Other than the throbbing of my heart, all I hear are two words repeatedly running through my brain: I’m trapped, I’m trapped, I’m trapped. A quiet ping brings me back to reality- a text from Mari.

Girly, u here?

Freaking out, I quickly text Mari back, no attention to punctuation or capitalization.

i dont know where i am

I sink into the cold ground, the pressure of a menacing nonexistent hand pushing me down. A little red exclamation mark and three dreaded words pop up on my screen:

Message Not Delivered

WHAT THE WATER GAVE HER
by Anjali Harish, age 15

The witch was a small man, but otherwise rather ordinary. He had white hair— like snow, not silver—, kind eyes, and a fondness for darjeeling tea. He called himself Mother.

The directions were unclear. But it was unwise to question a witch so she paid that as little mind as she could. The slip of paper bearing the directions crumples in the tight clutch of her fist, the writing surely too smudged and sweat soaked to be of any use to her now. She is glad that she had the sense to commit it all to memory before she began the journey.

Again, she thinks. Go over it again.

1. If you ever had a name, forget it. It is no use to you now.

2. When the bullfrog croaks for the third time, wade into the river until you see him.

3. He will give you a choice. Despite what he may tell you, it is a choice. Choose.

The river is a gaping maw when she reaches it. The reeds and rocks that line the bank form a fiendish grin. The water itself is the color of ink spilled across parchment and it blots out even the moon. It laps at her toes, gentle freezing nips, like snowfall, like delicate daggers.

A fat, bulbous frog lunges for the rock beside her, and croaks once.

Twice.

Three times.

She doesn’t breathe until the water goes over her head.

She doesn’t have to wait long. In fact, when he arrives, she wonders for a moment if she is dreaming it, because nothing has changed. Like he’s been with her the whole time. With a shudder, she realizes that he has. He stares at her, all bones and sharp shoulders, all artless boyhood and innocence, all nursery rhymes and ghost stories, and she sees him for who he is: the child she came here to destroy.

I shall consume you, her wicked unborn son sneers. It is decided.

He opens his mouth. A baby’s cry. A hyena’s cackle. Wide as the river.

She beats him to it.

No. It isn’t.

350 for 50

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350 fo 50_2017Announcing the winners of our annual 350 for 50 writing contest!  This year, young writers were challenged to compose a short, 350-word story that included the sentence, “The numbers changed quickly.” Winners from our four age categories enjoyed a $50 shopping spree on Amazon. Congratulations to all!

Illustrations by Aliisa Lee

THE LOTTERY
by Sasha Greenfield, age 10, California

Amy chewed her bubblegum slowly. It was a hot South Carolina day and her visor stuck to her forehead. Her summer job at Joe’s Convenience Store was excruciatingly boring. The few times the door chimed the costumer who had opened it only wanted a soda or a lottery ticket.

Suddenly, Amy was pulled out of her dreamy state. The door chimed and a tall man walked through it. “Hello.” Said the Man. “May I purchase a lottery ticket?” He asked. “Sure.” Said Amy, further sedated with the dullness of the purchase . She scanned the ticket. “$2.99”. He handed her the money. The man walked out of the store; the door flapping closed behind him.

A few moments later the door chimed again. Then again. Soon the store was full of people, all wanting lottery tickets. Amy scanned and scanned. She looked at the screen of the cash register. The numbers changed quickly. A wide grin spread across her face. At this rate the amount she was going to be paid at the end of the week was enough to keep her out of work for the whole summer. She had really won the lottery.

KID IN A CANDY LAND
by Maddie Morris, age 11, Mississippi

Would you like to spend your summer vacation in a land comprised of candy? Where I come from, as soon as vacation starts, everything turns into sweets! Sugar flowers bloom, boulders become rock candy, and chocolate waterfalls flow. It’s a kid’s whimsical dream! I looked down hastily at my watch; time seemed to drag as the minutes counted down until summer. When the school bell finally rang, I practically flew like a bird down the front steps. This year, I want to do something extraordinary with my best friend, Maria.

I biked over to her house as quickly as I could manage. We had been pondering what adventure we should have this summer. I had an idea so earth shattering that I had to tell her immediately: we should build our own gingerbread treehouse. Maria and I decided on what additions we would make, and then we got right to work. What took the longest was baking the gingerbread. It took us a while to find an oven that big! Once that was completed, we built a Life Saver tire swing and an Airhead slide. When we finally finished, we gazed through the isomalt spyglass that permitted us to look down on the sugarscape of sweets below.

This was the best summer of my life! We had so many adventures, and I really felt free. At the end of summer, Maria and I devoured our candy treehouse. It took us some time, but we invited our friends and families to come help us with this impossible task. On the morning of the first day of school, Maria and I met at the spot where our treehouse once was before we ravenously finished it off. As we counted down the minutes til the end of summer, we remembered the fun times that we had. My favorites were climbing a tree made of peppermint bark and jumping a candy-floss rope. Suddenly, I glanced down. The numbers changed quickly! Five… four… three… two… one… and summer was over. We can’t wait until next summer, minus the stomachache.

REMEMBER THE PAST
by Rafael Ramos, age 14, New Jersey

Sitting at my desk, I typed vigorously. This ‘job’ I had was the worst, but I had to do it. I needed to. Typing a bunch of old stories on a computer was unsurprisingly boring when doing it for hours straight. News outlets stated that the world’s remaining governments ‘hired’ a ton of unemployed people because the rising sea levels stole homes, including mine, but in reality, it was enslavement. The previous generations neglected to look for solutions to their own problems and we paid the price. I’m not saying this generation of people is any better because my ‘employer’ decided we should leave for space. This is why I was typing.

From movie scripts to baking recipes, thousands of people with my job were creating an archive that would serve two purposes – they told us. One archive to send to the stars and another left on Earth for the unfortunate who are left behind. Oh yeah, only the elite would leave the place. World leaders, influential corporations, and some celebrities got to say “sayonara.” The rest of us were left here to suffer mother nature’s retribution. Talk about fairness.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. My sector’s lunch break started. My coworkers and I in our white jumpsuits all stood up almost simultaneously and headed to the cafeteria. We walked down a wide hallway with a counter above. It tracked every person who passed through it so we were accounted for like products, going up one per person. The numbers changed quickly. Armed guards and cameras watched our movements so nobody ever picked a fight. I sat isolated from others, the way I liked it, and ate. After lunch was over and I had to head back to my sector, I felt a hand on my shoulder while getting up. Before I could turn to see, a voice said, “I remember who you were in the past. I got a plan to leave this prison and I’ll need you.” I then whipped around only to see another white jumpsuit disappear into the crowd.

WHAT HAD ONCE BEEN PERFECT
by Karen Yang, age 16, New Jersey

What did you expect? It was never going to be perfect. You took a look at the machine and sighed. You had spent eons coding, working on this hunk of slow-moving computer, tweaking the controls until you could indicate a year and the computer would broadcast a memory about your family, your friends. Likewise, thanks to your efforts, the computer should’ve been able to show the lives of the people you had left behind.

But now, it was all for nothing. The machine would need years to recover from the pile of scorching red nuclear ramen noodles you had accidentally spilled. Though it was useless, you had wiped the oily noodles away, revealing a red film of fat where the computer glowed with the present year, 2081.

You started groaning but stopped when the computer began buzzing again, awakening from its hours long hibernation.The numbers changed quickly. 1994, 2004, 1990. Memories flashed on the screen; dances at Long Beach Island, Mom and Dad cutting a slice of peach pie as a baby (you!) watched on. You glowed as the computer continued to hum. Perhaps, in a miracle of all miracles, it had worked! You inched closer to the screen, eager to remember Maisy’s squishy pug face, to taste the texture of pistachio ice cream, to hear the song your friends sang in the underground library, to honor what was now gone.

You grimaced at the next number: 2021. The year you had left this all behind, this life that had once been perfect. The computer, as if understanding that your life had ended this year, decided to crash as well. It shut off, accompanied by your loud wail.

It was all futile then. There would be no speculating, no looking to see whether Mom and Dad were still well, still eating fruit pies in their salmon colored beach house. There would be no spying on Maisy, watching for her antics in the dog park. There would be no more memories, no more cathartic songs and orange juice the next morning. There would be no more guessing, no more you.

350 for 50

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350 fo 50_2017It is with great pleasure that I announce the winners of our annual 350 for 50 writing contest! Each writer was challenged to compose a short, 350-word story that included the sentence, “The surface began to move.” Winners from each of our 3 age categories enjoyed a $50 shopping spree at Labyrinth, our local bookstore. Congratulations to this year’s talented authors!

IMPACT
By James Bertrand, age 10

Impact artwork by Aliisa LeeI checked the clock. 11:59. One more minute until I turned eleven. Beep. I sat up, bumping my head on the concrete wall above me. Groaning, I gingerly touched my forehead with my hand. Ouch, I thought. Dragging myself out of my bed, I thumped through the hallway and down the stairs. I didn’t think about the fact it was the middle of the night. I just crept through the ghostly rooms, silent. That silence was broken by an eerie creak when I stepped on a broken floorboard.

The pure blankness of everything was pretty creepy. I could see dust particles float and twirl in the slightly chilly air. I peered at the living room table. Then the surface began to move, pieces sliding and grinding away from each other. Then I remembered. Today was the meteor shower, right on my birthday. Traversing through the hall I found my presents. I was really tempted to open them right then and there, but I didn’t.

I stepped into the kitchen to find my phone lying on the counter, buzzing. I walked over to the island and I turned it on. I had tons of texts from my friends about my birthday and the comets. Then my phone beeped again. It was happening now! Climbing out the front door, I wondered how amazing this would actually be. As my feet touched down on the wet, soft grass, I heard sirens. Nothing unusual, I thought.

People were screaming and crying, sirens were blaring and my heartbeat sounded so loud, I thought people in China could hear it. I didn’t understand what everyone was so scared about until I glanced at the sky. Sure enough, there were meteors. A large white rock was hurtling across the sky, growing larger each second as it got closer to the ground. I didn’t have time to think when someone yelled “Brace for impact!” I dropped to the pavement and curled into a tight ball as bright light and the smell of smoke enveloped me.

Taken Literally artwork by Aliisa LeeTAKEN LITERALLY
By Jieruei Chang, age 12

Don’t fly into a rage, my father always said. I never knew he
meant it literally, until now. This is the story he told me.
One day, my father tripped over a rock.
“THAT ROCK!” He yelled, kicking it over and over.
At that instant, there was a blinding flash of light. The surface
began to move. He was lifted off the ground by an invisible pair
of wings, flew through the air and landed headfirst on a
deserted island.
“That rock,” he muttered.
As he brushed himself off, he noticed a sign that said,
“Welcome to Arage, where what you say is reality.”
As he looked around, a pack of hikers flew through the air and
landed in quick succession on top of him, still arguing when
they found themselves in a much hotter climate.
“How do we get out of here?”
“The only way is to swim.”
“Yeah, right,” another hiker responded with a sarcastic tone.
“As easy as falling off a log.”
The hiker fell off a log that had somehow appeared.
“Ow!” he said. “How’d it get here? I think I have a concussion now.”
“Quit that! There’s an elephant in the room! We have to get off
of this place called Arage!”
All of a sudden, they were in a room. An elephant appeared,
smashing through the door and waving its trunk in the air.
At that moment my father understood. “Whatever we say
actually happens.”
“So that means…”
“When the cat’s away the mice will play.”
Playful mice appeared. The elephant’s eyes nervously swept
side to side for a few moments before it crashed out the door,
making another hole in the process.
“Now that’s proof. I think I know what to do. We’re all in the
same boat on this, right?”
A boat appeared and they all were thrown onto it. “Well, let’s get out of here!”
And so they rowed through the night (and a knight for good measure) back to shore.
So hold your temper, or you really might fly into Arage – but at
least now you know what to do.

I CAN’T CONCENTRATE
By Abigail Reytblat, age 14

I Can't Concentrate artwork by Aliisa Lee“The surface began to move,” she says, and then stops reading.
“What?” she asks.
She’s annoyed. I can tell because of the way her eyebrow twitches, for just a moment, before she speaks.
“Nothing. I just coughed.”
She looks at me, for one, two, three moments, and then raises the textbook to her eyes again. “ The surface-”
“But,” I interrupt, “That sentence seems very cliche. I mean, it’s not descriptive at all. It’s redundant, actually. It’s already told us before what happens during an earthquake.”
She glares at me. She knows this game. It’s a dance I play, one that she hates. “Tam, it’s a history textbook. About an earthquake from 1906. No one cares if it’s well-written. All you have to do is read it.”
“I care. I think many other people would care about it more, too, if it was well-written.”
“Tam!”
I grin. She touches her glasses, compulsively, pushing them farther up on the bridge of her nose, so that for a moment her eyes are covered. “Fine. Do you want to read?”
“No, no. No, you keep on going. I’ll be quiet, I promise.”
“No, you won’t”
“No, I won’t be.”
“Tammie, this project is due tomorrow.”
I’m just saying that, perhaps, the author should have chosen her words more carefully.”
“No. Focus.”
“Focusing, Samantha, focusing.”
There is silence as she flips the pages, trying to find the right one. “The San Andreas Fault- what? ”
“Hmm? Nothing, nothing. Nothing at all.”
She starts the sentence over again “The San Andreas-” and now she’s the one who laughs. “Is it going to be like this all day?”
“Yup, pretty much. We should take a break.”
Her mattress creaks as she rises. “I’ll be back. Just getting some water. You want to come?”
“No,” I say, watching her. “No, I think I’ll stay here.”
In a moment, the sound of her footsteps have faded from the hall. I pick up the fallen textbook, running my hand over the tattered book jacket absentmindedly, before opening it- “The surface began to move.”
I’ve finished reading by the time she returns.

Artwork by Aliisa Lee