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350 for 50

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350 fo 50_2017We are very excited to announce this year’s winners of our annual writing contest! Writers ages 9-16 were challenged to compose a short, 350-word story that included the sentence “Immediately, it was upside down.” In addition to having their stories illustrated with original artwork, each winner enjoyed a $50 online literary shopping spree. Congratulations to all!

Illustrations by Aliisa Lee

PENCIL
By Xinyi Xie, age 9

I am up high, part of a monstrous Oak tree. Every day is like the one before: I find myself a bit taller, the morning sun hurts my eyes. (I do not have eyes), I wait as creatures pass by, during noon, my leaves gracefully soak the sun, then it gets dim and stars twinkle above me.

Today is like any other day- Suddenly, my ears heard an eerie rumbling noise (I didn’t have ears). A creature uses a thing to cut down me like the ones that they used to cut down my treemates. The creature put me on a truck ( I did not know what a truck is) then the world is black.-I mean it totally wasn’t.

I get put on a track and entered a silver box and when I came out of the box, I am a small cylinder and I have black stuffing inside me, I am coated in yellow, and I have a bouncy pink thing an end of me the thing takes me to a place where my end without the pink thing gets sharpened. “Aaaaaaah!!!” (I can’t scream). I am put in a box where I wait, wait, and wait when I finally get to come out. I look around and I realize that I am surrounded with tons of creatures. I panic.

The box was better than this. Now, a giant creature loomed over me and its sweaty hands were grabbing me. I stared out the window looking at the trees. Immediately, it was upside down. My sharp end smashes into the floor and I shut my eyes because I am scared. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh” I found out that I got shoved into a hole that made me sharper. A big hand grabs me. My heart starts pounding (I do not have a heart) “Marcus! What did I say about using the sharpener in the middle of class?” The big creature taps me with my pink and sharp end. Every day is like the one before. Until I get snapped in half and a creature throws me into the deep, black void.

UNTITLED
By Wonbi Kim, age 11

Today was the day. Deep down, I knew it had to be someday.

I roll out of bed and throw on some clothes. Walking downstairs, I’m not surprised that Dad is not here. He really hasn’t been, ever since…My mom died. On that fateful day when the cancer had finally taken her, everything changed. Now I was alone. But, today, maybe it would be different. Mom had left one last message for me before she passed. I found it a day later, taped under my lamp:

Annabelle,
There is one last thing I must give to you. This joy has been yours all along. Whenever you’re ready, tap on the back of Grandma’s mirror three times. What happens next is forever yours to treasure.
Love, Mom

I don’t know if I am ready, but would I ever be? Trembling with both fear and anticipation, I slowly walk down the hall to Grandma’s mirror. I couldn’t hesitate and I couldn’t turn back now. I delicately turn the mirror around and tap three times.

Everything spins. Streaks of vibrant colors dance before my eyes. The wall in front of me begins to flip. My whole world begins to flip – sideways and backwards and in ways I don’t understand. Immediately, it was upside down. And, in that upside down, is something beautiful. A universe of radiant color and light and life lie before me. Strangely, peaceful understanding settles over me as I gaze into this mystery. I take one timid step into the land before me. I look up into the heavens, searching for any sign of my mom. And, just in case she is up there, watching this land, watching me, I fall to my knees and think: thank you for all that you’ve done for me. Thank you for blessing me with this land of beauty and peace. Yes, I will treasure it forevermore.

And then I whisper the words that I’ve been waiting to say for so long: Thank you so much for being my mother.

THE ACROBAT
By Adela Sullivan, age 14

The girl knew she could fly.

She had only felt it briefly before, the freedom of soaring through the air like a bird freed from its cage. So although she stood firmly on the acrobat’s platform, her legs were shaking. The spotlights made her glimmering costume blink like a golden beacon towards the audience. How easy it would be to simply watch someone else, their lives of no consequence! For the crowd, it was just entertainment. But for her, the amount of things that could fail was enormous. A millisecond of error could mean freefalling to the ground below. She had imagined this moment in her dreams and it followed her around every corner.

All she had to do was jump. Of course she could do it, but only in practice. She could easily visualize the long family line of flyers that came before her. Generations of acrobats soared back long before her time. Sometimes the girl could feel the weight of her lineage crushing her, squishing her into a mould that didn’t quite fit yet. Still, the freedom of soaring through the air released her ever so temporarily.

The acrobat’s swinging bar awaited her.

Her heart pounding in her chest, she bent her knees. Forever, the girl would remember the feeling of leaving everything when she leaped. Nothing but the raw terror of being completely alone filled her now.

With a start, she remembered her freedom and those who came before her. Had they felt the same on their first flight? The thought invigorated her. Adrenaline and euphoria coursed through her, easing her fear. She twisted mid-air. She flipped. She somersaulted! Below her, the world spun simultaneously. Immediately, it was upside down! A laugh of pure joy bubbled out of the girl as she flew from her cage.

The crowd gasped.

The girl’s toes touched the edge of the second platform, her body sighing with relief. A thunderous applause shook the arena as she took a low bow. She steadily recognized nothing else could stop her; she had flown and was free.

A FISHERMAN’S YARN
By Gillian Appelget, age 15

The watch boat lingered on the horizon. The ocean was a mirror held to the silvery sky, and seabirds trailed overhead on long white wings. I knew, however, that the stillness only concealed teeming water beneath, as small baitfish would rise to the surface.

I assumed they sought refuge from the chaos below, but found only the gulls. I, too, intended to disturb the silence here. I dropped my line in and watched the bait fade from white to blue to nothing as sunlight was filtered out by the sea. My kayak cut sharp eddies through the latent water while I pedaled. The gulls circled in the clouds like vultures. A breeze sent small wind-waves running north.

Before I could relax, my rod was almost torn from my hand, bending into a sharp arch. The line flew from the reel with an insectoid buzz. I scrambled to set the drag while the kayak turned sharply to starboard. The line went slack and my stomach sank with disappointment before a form rose violently from the water. The marlin leaped, then crashed back into the sea, dragging my kayak behind it.

Immediately, it was upside down. The salt stung my eyes and the cold water shocked me motionless. The ocean expanded in every direction around me, and a cloud of bubbles swarmed towards the surface. I followed them, gasping frigid air and reaching for my overturned kayak. The marlin, undeterred, nearly dragged me away. I managed to grab the side of my kayak, using my weight to flip it over. Dizzy from the chill, I somehow struggled back in.

I fought the fish until the sun stained the sea gold. Only then did it begin to tire, and my kayak came to a rest off unfamiliar coastline. The marlin’s bill pierced the surface and I apprehensively reached for it, but recoiled after the fish thrashed. The marlin’s fierce blue eye reflected the yellow of my kayak, of which it was nearly as long. I reached out again, and cut the line. The gulls called quietly as it darted back into the deep.

350 for 50

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Three cheers for this year’s winners of our 350 for 50 contest, now in its 15th year! Young writers were challenged to compose a short, 350-word story that included the sentence “The sound was impossible to ignore.” In addition to having their stories illustrated with original artwork, each winner enjoyed a $50 online literary shopping spree. Congratulations to all!

Illustrations by Aliisa Lee

THE SIREN’S SONG
by Annie Wang, age 10

I know better than this, I told myself. I know better than to sail into a cave with mermaids who can sing you to death. And I know better than to drag my friends into this too. Still, we keep rowing. Each time the oars hit the water’s surface, I feel the siren’s presence. I glance behind my shoulder, and see a green fishtail. We were officially in the siren cave.

The next step was vital. Get tied to the mast for protection. Only then could I listen in safety. Listen as the sirens sang their songs. Unfortunately, before my friends could tie me up, the sirens began to sing, I couldn’t resist. The sound was impossible to ignore. Before anyone could react, I dove headfirst into the water. Behind me, I could hear my friends shouting my name, but the siren’s song swallowed me, and I disappeared.

Immediately, I was thrown into a different world. The sirens sang about my past, and how I became a sailor. The verses were different parts of my life, with one thing in common, the loneliness and feeling of rejection from everyone I knew.

The last verse was different. The sirens didn’t sing about my past. They sang about my future, as if personally calling to me. They sang to me about the world I longed for where everyone loved me, and hugged me like I mattered, even my sister shared her toys with me. My teachers praised me for doing good on homework, and I had someone to sit with during lunch. This alternate universe was everything I had imagined, and it could come true. All I had to do was reach out to the sirens’ outstretched hand and hold on tightly.

The hand wasn’t one of the sirens however. My friends had come to rescue me. But the sirens had already won my trust. I couldn’t be pulled away. I could still join the sirens but, would I sacrifice my friendship for a better future?

THE HALLWAY HOUDINI
by Zachary Wen, age 12

As I stepped out the door of my dorm room, I heard a click behind me…and froze. The sound was impossible to ignore. It was the sound of stupidity. It was the sound of locking yourself out of your own room. I threw my bookbag to the floor, and snapped back to face the door. Filled with dread, I put my hand to the handle, praying it would still be unlocked. It wasn’t.

I felt sick to my stomach, and paced the hallway, thinking of ways to get back in.
My first instinct was to brute force it. Putting my foot against the wall, I pulled forcefully. When the door didn’t budge, I really started to panic.

Luckily, bad ideas were my specialty. Thinking I was some type of 007 agent, I attempted to get into the ventilation shaft. Taking a breath, I jumped up and found a handhold. The only problem was that our dorm rooms weren’t exactly what you’d call “premium residences.” Meaning all ceiling tiles within a five-foot radius fell down in a mess of dust, white powder, and Styrofoam boards. Along with it came a side of unnecessarily loud sounds: clattering, crashing, and smashing.

Our neighbors in room 207 came out, blinking in confusion. They feasted their eyes on the mess.

“Cool,” one of them said, while munching on his Lay’s.

Then their door slammed.

Deciding to clean the mess later, I continued brainstorming ways to get back into the room. Deciding to go with the “international spy” theme, I tried to picklock the door with a paperclip from my class notes .

Recalling knowledge I had acquired during the summer, I wiggled the “pin,” and finally heard a click—the sound of the paperclip getting stuck. Trying to yank it out only got me friction burns. Then, to my surprise, the knob twisted, as if of its own accord. I jumped back in surprise.

The door swung open, I stared into the face of my disoriented roommate, still in his pajamas, a large dollop of shaving cream on chin.

“Dude. What are you doing?”

SOUNDS OF MUSIC
by Shreya Visvanathan, age 14

I stepped on stage, my nerves tingling, my mind a jumble of thoughts. I drew in three long, deep breaths and tried to exhale out all of my worries and angst. I rubbed my sweaty palms and gripped the back of my violin firmly. I tightened my bow to allow for a smooth, melodious tone and plastered a smile on my face. The spotlight was on me now. My first solo concert.

Now remember, a voice echoed in my head, Exactly 8 beats before you come in. I nodded and started counting.

…1…2…3…

I slowly turned my head to look at the audience.

…4…

I squinted ever so slightly only to make out entire rows of hunched heads and drooping shoulders facing lit up screens.

…5…

Not a soul looked at me and I was about to start.

…6…

PHONES! People were on their PHONES! Here I was shaking with fear trying to seek validation from the audience and no one cared enough to look up. All the hours of diligent, intense, repeated practice until the tips of my fingers resembled the rich, dark shade of my crimson dress. What if I didn’t play? Would they know? Or care?

…7…

I closed my eyes. I see musical notes floating above my eyes and the opening refrain playing in my ear. The Beethoven doll that sits on my piano waved his baton at me. I reflect on his determination, despite insurmountable odds, to write beautiful music. Suddenly I realized I owe it to him. I’m playing but a tiny piece of his work, and I owe it to him to get that at least right.

…8…

I smiled genuinely for the first time. My hour of glory.
…

I placed my violin on my shoulder and began.

I confidently struck a chord and gracefully pulled my bow through the strings of my violin to play the opening note. The sound of yearning, the sound of hope, so powerful, so euphonious yet so poignant. The heads moved up like synchronized swimmers and stared right at me.

The sound was impossible to ignore.

#3799F
by Willow Yoo, age 16

She winced as the chip passed into her veined arm, “Do we have to keep doing this so often?” The doctor’s eyes were covered by a plastic shield, his eyes covered as he stood above her. His mouth was set in a firm line, his lab coat pristine without a speck of dirt or stain to be seen.

“It’s your planned monthly chip insert. It will be sore,” The doctor let the droplets of blood fall into a small plastic bag and scribbled #3799F.

“But my mom, she paid for the Plus plan so I didn’t have to do as many chip updates,” Ella protested, feeling her face growing hotter by the second, “She worked extra shifts at the daycare the past four months to be able to afford one semester of Plus.”

“I’m sorry, Miss, but haven’t you heard? Plus is now the same as Regular, the Head has introduced a Lux tier.” The doctor turned away and exited, his lab coat swishing as his squeaky chukkas traced the clean tiles of the floor. The sound was impossible to ignore.

Ella’s vision blurred as she gazed at the harsh slashes of #3799F at the top of her paper, smudged with fat tears, cursing the smiling woman in the advertisement below. She was leaping through a field of dandelions as glistening letters spelled, “Bring out your happiest self with BetterMind, Emotion Regulator©!” The gray bulge in Ella’s arm had been a constant since her mother had noticed her frequent sleeping and mood swings.

“Ella, don’t worry,” Her mother had said, “We’ll get you fixed up right away.” After her mother’s BetterMind app trial with Ella’s first chip implant, she hadn’t looked back.

Ella sat back in the crunchy paper on top of her chair, scrutinizing a transparent panel on the wall across. She got up, ignoring the every-visit-warnings of “Don’t do anything” as she made her way to the mysterious glass. Cautiously reaching up, she rapped on the glass before peering closer.

Staring back at her was a huddle of white lab coats, all smiling coldly.

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, “Each box had a story.” Winners from our four age categories enjoyed a $50 shopping spree on Amazon. Congratulations to all!

Illustrations by Aliisa Lee

THE STORY OF THE BOX
by Melody Yan, age 9, Hong Kong

The lights flickered in the tightly crammed cargo ship. I rocked back and forth, bumping into other boxes. If you haven’t already guessed, I’m a box. I won’t bother to tell you anymore. It’ll just raise more and more questions. Anyways, the ship stopped. Then a person came in. He picked up boxes and put them on a cart. We got pushed to a bigger box, and they started putting other boxes inside the big box.

“Hey kid, what’s your story?!” asked the big box I was in.

“Huh?” I asked, confused.

“Each box has a story,” said the big box. “I myself am made from many boxes, although it was quite painful,” he said, thoughtfully. Other boxes around also told their stories.

“Well kid, we’ve told you our stories, tell us yours,” said the big box, which was called Alfredo.

“I…I don’t really have a story,” I stammered.

“What?!” shouted Alfredo. “You think about that! Each box has a story!”

And then somebody opened the box and lifted me and a small box out. I was glad for that. Anyways, the person carried us to a hospital. The guy carrying us walked over to a lady sitting at a desk that read: Receptionist. He said, “Delivery!” The lady smiled and said, “Welcome! This way please!” She led him into a hallway with doors that had signs. He left us in one and after a while somebody came and took us to a room where there were two beds with girls on them. One of the girls said, “Hailey, you don’t have to do this.”

“Sarah, you know I would do anything for you. You’re my BFF,” said Hailey.

“Yeah, but a kidney transplant!” said Sarah.

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” comforted Hailey.

A man with a white coat came and said, “You girls have surgery now.” He opened up me and the small box and took out two identical, blue stuffed bunnies. All of a sudden, I knew what Alfredo meant. And I can tell you, everything was worth it for that smile.

TWISTED SCIENCE
by Sofia Lachmann, age 11, California

“G16! This is a G16 emergency!”

“What’s happening?” I yelled over the blaring loudspeaker as I ran. I was new to this company, and I still hadn’t been through all the training yet. What the heck does G16 mean?

“They’re bringing in a specimen that’s dangerous!” a man shouted.

I turned a corner and was left wandering empty halls alone. I wasn’t supposed to be here, but I was thrilled to be breaking the rules.

After a few minutes, I became uneasy. The hallways looked exactly the same: white walls, carpeted floors. There was no way I was going to be able to find my way back. Eventually though, I found a door labeled ‘DO NOT ENTER – RESTRICTED ACCESS ONLY’. I opened the door.

Inside was a balcony looking down to a huge lab. I peered over the ledge and almost fell off. This company wasn’t saving the lives of animals, they were experimenting on them! How could so many nice people be working for something so disgusting?

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted when another alarm blasted.

“777, there’s been a breach in the upper lab section. Report any suspects. 777.”

That was me, wasn’t it? I was the breach they were talking about. I heard voices and rushed, heavy footsteps coming and I ducked behind a crate, hoping they hadn’t seen me. 2 people walked passed, and I caught a bit of their conversation.

“…it was so sudden, I’m not sure if I locked the cage properly!”

When I was sure they were gone, I came out from hiding and ran to the stairs that led me to the labs down below.

The first of probably 8 or 9 glass boxes held a tiger with eagle wings. How did this mutant animal exist? Only when I got closer to the glass walls did I notice the labels. Each box had a story. A story about the animal inside. Medicines taken, surgeries performed. Scientists had made this poor creature.

I could feel my blood boiling under my skin, and I did something dangerous and impulsive.

I unlatched the lock.

THE PLAY
by Juha Lee, age 13, New Jersey

For months, Penny had excitedly awaited this day. Now, it was finally here. She stepped out of the car holding her mother’s hand. Walking toward the theater entrance, she giggled gleefully at the sight of the red carpet in the doorway. Penny strutted into the air-conditioned theater, pretending paparazzi and fans were cheering for her.

“Enough!” her mother snapped, dragging her by the elbow to the ticket window.

As her mother stood in line, Penny turned to people-watch. It was her favorite thing to do in public places; it was a fun way to pass time and it was relaxing, in a way. She smiled to herself as she imagined backstories for the strangers who passed by. This was another thing she liked to do in public places.

“Penny!” her mother hissed, gesturing for Penny to follow. “Come on! The play starts in 10 minutes!”

Eyes bright with anticipation, Penny babbled her excitement away as her mother led her down a hallway, around the corner, and into the auditorium. She was still rambling on when they sat down in their seats, asking her mother how she was staying so calm when all this was so exciting: oh, aren’t you excited, I am, this is my first play ever, oh I’m so thrilled.

“Hush now,” Penny’s mother said sternly, frowning at the way Penny was bouncing up and down in her seat. “And quit moving around so much, will you?”

Penny wasn’t the least bit dejected, and continued marveling at the huge, open space of the auditorium. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and she let out a small squeak of surprise. Her mother shushed her again, but Penny was literally on the edge of her seat now, craning her neck to see the first actress walk onto the stage. As she opened her mouth to speak, Penny fell silent and leaned forward, eager to hear the first line: “Each box had a story.”

MAIDEN, MOTHER, CRONE
by Stuti Desai, age 15, New Jersey

The meadow was empty except for you and your painstakingly gathered boxes: one, from the waters of the Kraken; another, from the camps of the Mahabharata War; and a third, found under Salem. Each box had a story.

You, dress flowing, hands bloodied, legs aching. You were not strong that you could shove galaxies apart to find your boxes, nor were you magic that you could summon history’s darkest secrets with a few words. But you were determined, and that was enough. But you followed the Triple Goddess, and that was enough.

The Kraken box, you charmed your way into. You lied your way onto a ship, stole scuba gear, and lied your way home. You found the box of the disappeared girl, clean washed oak, meant for holding jewelry. Maiden, alone.

The box from the Mahabharata, you won from distraught mothers of sons who did the right thing and mothers of sons who did wrong, all the same in the end. You heard them and held them, and they led you to your box, locked up metal, lest any other get their hands on it. You ran your hands across the mandala and wished them peace. Mother, forgotten.

The Salem book, you fought for. Not that it was difficult. The women were brittle-boned, malnourished. If not fight, what else could women with nothing to lose do? You pried the box from their unrelenting hands. It was fraying, on the verge of broken. Crone, scorned.

You opened two boxes. First, the maiden, so she could be free. Then, the mother, so she could find home.

You hesitated before the crone, before the violence that follows a woman’s life. Should women be entitled to suffer in silence, saved from becoming a spectacle? Without the crone’s story, women would hold all they were inside until their daughters learned to hurt the same way.

Stopping that cycle of hurt was enough for you. In the spirit of the crone, you kneeled and opened the box. What did it matter to you if the world suffered? The crone suffered, and no one had listened.