Creative Writing Contest 2006

April 24, 2006

Islesboro's Twelfth Annual Creative Writing Contest

Coordinated by Bonnie Mowery Oldham.

This year 's theme was based on a Johann Bertelsen image that hangs over the principal's office, which depicts a Manhattan winter scene. Students were awarded at an assembly March 17, 2006.

Middle School Level grades 6 - 8

PROSE:

Third Place: "Winter Worry" Jesse Tutor, grade 6

Second Place: "Birthday Money" Claire Boucher, grade 6
First Place: "A Day On the Streets" Jeffrey Lewis, grade 8

POETRY:

Third Place: "The Winter Cold" Patric Skigen, grade 7
Second Place: "O City Streets" Jeffrey Lewis, grade 8
First Place: "Life from Sky to Ground" Samantha Durkee, grade 8

High School Level grades 9 - 12

PROSE:

Third Place: "The Meeting" Emily Thomas, grade 9
Second Place: Untitled piece Krysti Hall, grade 11
First Place: "White Wash" Chloe LaPointe, grade 12

POETRY:

Third Place: "Still Standing Tall" Richard Coombs, grade 10
Second Place: "Up Comes the Blizzard" Michael Pisciotta, grade 9
First Place: "Blowing Madness" Nicholas Porter, grade 12

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 And a special thank you to Sara Hayes for all the keyboarding
and to the 2006 Contest Judges: Seth Johnson, Brenda Craig, Mary Hauprich, Craig Olsen, Katie Hall, Sandy Oliver, Bonnie Hughes, and Lisa Satchfield  

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Similar Johann Bertelsen image

Notes on the Johann Henrik Carl Berthelsen Painting:

Berthelsen was born in Copenhagen, Denmark in 1883. At the age of six he and his family immigrated to America. He graduated from Chicago Music College in 1905 and toured the United States and Canada as a baritone opera star. Taught voice at Chicago Music College and at the Indianapolis Conservatory of Music. He started painting under the direction of Wayman Adams, a famous portrait painter of his time. These two men were such good friends that they got married in a double ceremony at St. Paul's Trinity Church in NYC.

In 1920, Berthelsen opened a studio in NYC where he taught voice and painted. During the 1920s his studio, and Adams, was at 200 West 57th Street. In 1932 he started painting full time. He could be seen through his studio window, painting from early morning until late in the evening.

New York City snow scenes were his favorite subject to paint. He worked in pastels, water colors, and oils. His pictures were sometimes painted thinly, with little paint, and at other times with impasto, a heavy buildup of paint. He signed his works, but didn't date them.

Berthelsen is considered to be a late American Impressionist painter. His paintings most closely resemble Claude Monet, the "father" of French Impressionism. Both artists put figures in their cityscapes. A trademark of both artists is the depiction of the same scene at different times and in different moods. Both artists used flags or other color additions to highlight their cityscapes.

Berthelsen, at the age of 89, died in 1972 in Wisconsin.

The painting at school notes that it was presented by Veda and Alvin Harnes. To whom, when, and under what circumstances it came to be a familiar presence at school has been lost in history.

(Anyone reading this who knows something about the painting is encouraged to contact the Islesboro Central School.

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2006 Winning Entries

Third Place Poetry - Middle School
The Winter Cold - Patric Skigen

In the winter cold,

Many await the warmth of spring:

When the flowers bloom.

Second Place Poetry - Middle School
O City Streets - Jeffrey Lewis

O city streets, sharp and black, you are my only home,
My life has seen you every day.
From Empire View and sound of men and machines.
I never wish to leave you.

From the Wide River to the Lady in Robes,
And to the buildings that tempt to scrape the sky,
My domain is majestic.
You are what keeps me strong.

From paved sidewalks and majestic heights,
I have ventured by foot all of Gotham City,
And weary bones have taken in the shape of the town.
They know every curb, man-hold, and block.

And though I've grown to love you so,
You are not the place I used to know.
Where once lay cars of friends of mine,
There are new machines that are strange to me.
These new machines are choking the cool air and blurring the crisp morning light.
My everlasting notion to wander alone has gone.

Even the snow has hanged from day of old.
What I thought had the least to do with you, a block of concrete, has changed.
Became an unpleasant surprise on my tongue.
You have done this to yourself.
You.
My first and last love.

Perhaps I am wrong.
Perhaps it is not one that you have brought upon yourself.
It was me.
It was us.
It had to be.
We made you.
Made you great.
Loved you.
I know I loved you.
I know I still love you.
Bur we also destroyed you.

I can still picture walking the streets,
The slush at my ankles.
Light fog is all around me.
Others are there, but they don't matter.
This is my moment.
Your moment.
Our moment.
Together.
I know that you will never leave me.
At least not completely.
I will leave you in a not too distant time.
Just as long as I can still remember.
Remember your Golden Age.
When everything was still right.
You're not the same.

First Place Poetry - Middle School
Life from Sky to Ground - Samantha Durkee

O the snow falls down in sheets,

Covering what's in front of thee.

It whips in circles,

Down like rain.

Tiny balls of glass,

Shattering in the midst.

Will they fall forever small,

Or blend into its kin.

I once was told they have a designed course to live,

Like an individual.

Life from sky to ground.

Third Place Poetry - High School
Still Standing Tall - Richard Coombs

Wind whipped, flapping in the breeze, lashing the air, roaring, shouting, begging for rest, but still standing tall.
Flickering, growing dim, then growing bright, casting shadows down towards the ground,
but still standing tall.
Running, shouting, cursing the wind and all that comes from it, shirts and coats flying,
but still standing tall.
Covered in white, touching the clouds, shivering yet standing still, rooted in their place, but still standing tall.
Honking, flashing lights at those that pass, blinded by the snow and flicking it off quickly,
but still standing tall.
Windy city streets, all elements within them, torn asunder by nature and her scorn, alone,
but still standing tall.

Second Place Poetry - High School
Up Comes the Blizzard - Michael Pisciotta

Winds blasting,
horns honking,
people shouting,
children crying,
everyone winning,
blizzards forming,
sidewalks crowded,
man falls,
woman yells,
radios silenced,
TVs quiet,
heaters rumbling,
signs twitching,
freezing cold,
eyes sealed shut,
friends are sighing,
while hobos are huddling,
now only,
If New York,
Were Hawaii

First Place Poetry - High School
Blowing Madness - Nick Porter

Blusteringly, Blowing Madness
Mindless snowflakes silently, secretly tumble
Streets, millions, Snowflakes and people forever on, they go

Calm, Chaotic, Complexity
My mind reels at the multitude of compact cold
Blowing Forever and to Eternity

Constant change and ridiculous unrest
The cold seeps and breaks and drives the unknowing.
The absurdity of the situation makes me halt.

Again this cold bites my tongue and steals my dreams
Snow falls and hopes crumble I steal away, and yet I am caught by the beautiful hatred

Of Winter

Third Place Prose - Middle School
Winter Worry - Jesse Tutor

Henry and his mom hurried across the snowy city street. The constant hysterics of the city were muffled by the white powder. "Dumb stuff," Henry grumbled as he glanced at a passing snowflake. He didn't like snow and grumbled like this every time a blizzard came. For Henry, snow was imprisoning. It forced him to stay indoors, unless he put on an excessive amount of clothing, and stopped him from roller-skating all across their neighborhood. Henry hurried on, glowering at the snow, and would have missed the door to their apartment building if his mom had not called him back.

He and his mom climbed the musty stairs to floor five and from there to Apartment 47. As they entered their petite home, Henry's mom exclaimed, "Why, this house has seemed to double!" which is what she said every time they came in. Henry and his mom placed the groceries they were carrying on the dented counter which they called a kitchen. As Henry opened his new book, his mom tried to call a friend but was unsuccessful due to the very faulty telephone line and so resigned herself to knitting a scarf for Henry's dad. Henry read his book for more than an hour, engrossed in stories about fire breathing dragons and valiant knights.

At quarter to five he looked up from his book to stare out a window at the now torrent of snow whipping around outside. He bookmarked his page and went over to their ancient radio to listen to the next episode of The Shadow, his favorite radio program that was broadcast every weekday at five. He listened for awhile but switched it off when he realized he had heard the episode last week. As he turned it off, he realized with a pang of dread that his dad should've been home by now but wasn't too worried because he was late every once and awhile. He did start to get a little agitated when his mom started heating the meat loaf leftovers that were for supper and his dad still had not returned. They ate in silence, both knowing what the other thought.

After eating, his mother tried to call the office in which his father worked but the phone was still not working. Henry read a little more, growing more anxious every minute and all the time watching the snow fall more and more, swirling like a white typhoon. "Time to go to bed, Henry" his mother said as she washed the dishes, her voice shaky. Henry slowly brushed his teeth thinking that his dad was fine and nothing had gone wrong but really not believing himself.

As he walked to his bed, he stared at the door, willing it to open and his dad to walk cheerily in, but to no avail. As he climbed into the bed a lump began to fill his throat thinking of what he and his dad had done together: racing on roller-skates in the alley outside their apartment and the joy of finally beating him on one cool summer day, or going to see a Dodgers' game and eating so much Crackerjacks and hot dogs that he threw-up on the way home. As Henry thought of these joyful times, a tear slowly rolled down his cheek when he thought that he might never see him again and he fell into a restless sleep.

When Henry finally awoke the next morning he opened his eyes not wanting to see who would be in the room but too curious not to look. "Hey bud," a familiar face said. "Sorry I was so late. The storm was just horrendous!" Henry clambered out of bed, a wide grin on his face as he hugged his dad, realizing for once just how much he loved his family.

Second Place Prose - Middle School
Birthday Money - Claire Boucher

It was a crisp Saturday, and New York was covered in a fluffy blanket of snow. Jamie was eating a strawberry pop-tart at her breakfast table. She couldn't wait to get going. Her dad had promised to take her ice skating at Rockefeller Center for her birthday. Janie didn't get to see her dad very often, because he was always working. It seems like he never had any time for her.

Jamie had perfectly straight red hair that fell to her waist, and stunningly bright blue eyes. She was a ninth-grader in Stighngrove High School. Jamie wasn't popular, but she wasn't unpopular, and that was just right for her. Her mom had passed away when she was an infant, but Jamie had never really wished she had had a mother in her early ages. Now that she was older though, she wished she had a mother more than anything.

Jamie heard her dad thump down the stairs. "Dad, why are you in your suit? We're going ice skating," Jamie reminded her dad as he appeared in the kitchen.

"Honey, I'm sorry. I just got a call from the office. Apparently, they're holding a very important meeting that nobody bothered to tell me about," her dad said fixing his red and green-striped tie.

"But Dad . . . you promised, and . . . "

"I know, I'm sorry. Maybe we can go to Rockefeller Center tomorrow. Happy fifteenth birthday Pumpkins."

Jamie just turned away. How could she have thought that her dad would actually have time to go ice skating with her? She should've been used to these kinds of let-downs by now.

"Okay, Dad. Bye. Have fun," Jamie said sarcastically as her dad pulled on his coat and shoes, and hurried out the door with the car keys.

Jamie washed her plate and glass. She was going to go ice-skating with or without her dad. It was her birthday, and if her dad did not have any time for her, she was just going to have to make time for herself. She went upstairs and put on her favorite jeans and a sweatshirt, got her hat and gloves, and headed out into the cold, muffled city.

As she strolled down the snow covered sidewalk, she passed a man dressed in rags. He was sitting on a tattered blanket, and jingling a small tin can. Next to him lay his skinny dog. Jamie just walked by without even the slightest sign of sympathy, thinking that someone else would surely give this man some money.

When Jamie reached Rockefeller Center, she slipped on her ice-skates, and glided onto the crowded pond. It felt so good to be on skates again. Jamie glided across the ice with ease. She wished it would snow. It would make this moment so much more magical. The city was hurried, but on the ice, time just seemed to stop. For some reason thought, Jamie couldn't get the man and his dog she saw on the way to Rockefeller Center out of her head. She could see the dog's eyes pleading to her, as if asking for help. She wondered how the man had become homeless. Had he dropped out of school or gone bankrupt?

Suddenly Jamie ran into a girl and fell. The girl apologized and asked is she was alright. "Yah, I'm fine," Jamie replied, and the girl glided away.

She wasn't "fine" though. Her ankle hurt. She had probably twisted it. She got up and half glided, half stumbled over to a bench and slipped off her skates. Her ankle was swelling already. Since she obviously couldn't skate on her ankle, Jamie decided to catch a taxi home, since she didn't really want to walk on it either.

The city was busy despite the blanket of snow that lay on the ground. After trying to get a cab for about 15 minutes, Jamie decided to tough it out, and walk home. As she started limping down the side walk, she spotted a woman in an old baggy dress and a faded red coat. She was feeding the birds that surrounded her, they were pecking at her shoulders. The woman was probably homeless, like the man and his dog. Then the woman spotted Jamie, and for some reason Jamie couldn't break their eye contact. The woman started walking toward her.

"You better take care of that leg of yours," the woman said. She must have seen Jamie limping. "It looks as if you've taken a nasty fall."

Jamie wasn't sure what to say to this "homeless person", so she said nothing. Then the woman rummaged in her picket, and took out a little brown package, wrapped in a paper bag. Not sure if the brown package was for her or not, Jamie didn't reach out her hand and take it.

"Well, I don't bite . . . take it" the woman said, extending her hand with the package in it.

"Thank you." Jamie answered, suspicious that a random lady on the street of New York City would give her a present. Jamie took the present, not sure whether to trust this woman or not. The woman, taking notice of Jamie's hesitation said, "I understand if you don't trust me." These words struck Jamie. Did she not trust her because of what she wore?

"Thank you," Jamie said again, more under her breath than out loud. Jamie gingerly unwrapped the little brown package the woman had given her. Underneath the crumpled paper were two porcelain turtle-doves. They were white, with a pink bow tied around the doves' necks. They looked like something a grandma would pick up at some random flea market, but there was something special about these peace birds. Jamie then remembered something. She took out $10 of the $40 she got on her birthday, and gave it to the woman. Jamie had plans for the remainder of it. The woman just smiled warmly, and that was even better than a thank-you.

As Jamie walked away she slipped the package in her jacket pocket. She couldn't help feeling so great. She knew that she had put her birthday money to good use, and her dad wouldn't be mad, like last year when she had spent the money on band posters. Jamie turned left and walked into a small butcher's shop. She bought a big fat sausage and started limping, walking down the side walk.

When she passed the man and his dog, she found that the man was in a restless sleep, and the dog was lying down. He looked like a pile of bones lying on a tattered and torn blanket. She placed the sausage into the dog's empty bowl, and the dog immediately perked up, wagging his scrawny tail and started eating. She slipped the rest of her birthday money into the small empty tin can the man carried. At that moment it started snowing. It was the kind of snow that sparkled in the winter sun.

"Now the moment is more magical," Jamie thought. She looked up into a store window and saw the fifteen years of her life, reflected and staring back at her. The good feeling that she felt before got unbearably strong, and she collapsed into a heap on the snowy sidewalk, crying. They were happy tears because she knew she had done the right thing. They were sad tears because she knew people like the woman who was feeding the birds was so generous and even though they don't have much to give, they give and give anyway, and people who have so much to give don't even bother. People that have so much are so blind to generosity, so they don't have much at all. People who don't have much to give, give anyway, so they're the ones that have more. They have a life worth living. Jamie couldn't believe that it had taken her 15 years to figure that out.

First Place Prose - Middle School
A Day on the Streets - Jeffrey Lewis

"Come on! Hurry up! It's freezing! It's freezing" she calls to the men. I'm more polite than that. It is very cold, though.

She's running out the front door of her hotel. Her Grand Hotel. Slush is flying from under her boots. She has a small entourage of two men, both carrying her luggage. Luggage full of perfume, makeup, expensive ivory handled mirrors, velvet coats, and French Champagne, I suspect. She is beautiful, though. Her golden locks falling down upon her snow-covered shoulders from under her felt hat. She is wearing a fur coat, and red lipstick. I'll bet she's from California.

And all I have to offer her is transportation; my own cab. A chariot to her, she's probably thinking. She is used to limousines and wide seats.

Her bags are heavy. She insists that I handle them carefully, though. Watching me as I load them in the trunk. She's wearing high heels. In January, on busy Fifth Avenue. She must be crazy.

As soon as she gets in, her perfume fills the cab. It's not as bad as some of the other women's. It's actually quite pleasant.

She wants to go to Grand Central Station. That's not too far away.

In the rear view mirror, I can see her face. She's putting more red lipstick on. She sees me looking at her, and smiles. Maybe she's not too bad.

So she is from California. San Francisco. She is not used to limousines and wide seats. Nor does she have a velvet coat. She does not live richly as I had suspected.

People are the worst. When they get behind the wheel, they become dangers to the world around them. Even I, the experienced cab driver, get a little crazy. The snow and mist don't help either. My windshield is continuously covered with slosh from the other car wheels.

The heater is not working. It just stopped. I don't think that she's impressed with my choice of language. I can just see my breath.

Still not working. Hitting it does not work. Well, we are very close to the Station. Just four more blocks. She looks like she is very happy about returning home. I am, too.

The street is almost empty. I pull the cab to the side. The air is very calm. Light snow is falling around, and melts on my coat.

Stepping out of the car, she stands on the sidewalk and stretches her arms. She stands while I unload her luggage. Not as heavy as I remember.

The train is rumbling down the misty track. I'm standing with her at the bench in the station. I have to go.

I wait till she gets on the train and then walk back to the street.

My cab is still there. I get in and the heater starts working. Great. Now that she's gone. Well, it's time to go home. Another day on the streets.

Third Place Prose - High School
The Meeting - Emily Thomas

The plow trucks were shaving off the layers of caked on ice and snow to clear the way for the busy busses and taxis. Frost coated the window panes and a thick cloud of lingering snow hung over the city, wrapping every person in a cocoon of chills. It was by far the coldest day of the year. Golden beams of light fought their way through the haze and clouds, but it was much too thick. Somehow the day looked bright, despite its fight to be dark.

Her jacket flapped as swirls of snow danced around her. The taxi driver honked his horn as she scurried across the bustling street. The sidewalks were still frosted, so she tried to keep from slipping in her heels. She had to make it on time since this was by far the single most important meeting in her life. The frigid winds whipped across her face as cars sped past her. Once up the granite stairs, she burst through the double doors into the warmth. The ding of the elevator rang in her ears as she scuffled over and stepped inside. The doors slowly slid shut. She looked down at her diamond-encrusted, silver watch; twenty seven floors to go and only one minute. She unbuttoned her jacket and neatly folded it over her arm, taking deep, calming breaths to relieve her anxiety. She tried to ease her mind but thoughts kept flashing through her head. Would the board really choose a woman to be the CEO of their company? And not just any woman; herself. Of all the companies, very few had any women working in them at all! And if they did choose her, could she handle the pressure? Another ding of the elevator signaled her arrival.

Second Place Prose - High School
Untitled - Krysti Hall

It was a gloomy day, an excellent day to match her mood. It was bitterly cold outside, the wind was blowing and it was snowing. Despite the horrible weather, people were still out doing last minute shopping. She was always the type of person who, as soon as Thanksgiving Day was over, would go out and start shopping. She would also get all her shopping done within the month so she didn't have to stand in lines and compete with other people to get the last item off a shelf. This Christmas, however, she didn't do much shopping, she only bought a few things for her friends, because these days she was the only one left in her family.

She sat in the cab, staring out the window at all the people bundled up in their winter clothes trying to keep out the bitter cold of winter. Memories of past Christmases came back to her. She smiled to herself briefly while thinking about her parents, but then thoughts of their deaths came back to her and her mood turned back to a dreary one.

She sat back and stared down at the floor of the cab. As she sat in the cab, memories of the past summer came back to her to the time she had been told of her sister's death. She had been going to meet someone about her sister, Valerie. The man had called her early one morning and by the tone of his voice, she had known something was wrong. She had been in a taxi just like the one she was currently riding in. She sat in the car tapping her hand on her knee, a nervous habit, and watched the cars go by and the people walking on the side of the street.

"Miss, this is your stop," the cab driver said looking at her through the rear view mirror.

"Um, thanks," she relied quietly, while gathering up her bags and paying the driver. She got out of the cab and a cold wind blew, sending a shiver down her spine. She stared up at the large building that loomed in front of her. She walked into the building, feeling the warmth melt away the cold of winter that tried desperately to cling to her. She wasn't quite sure she wanted the chill to go away either, it was in a way comforting. This was the same building where had had met Inspector Marlow that summer. He had told her about her sister's death. Again the memories came back to her.

"Excuse me? Miss Carlotta Giani? Inspector Marlow," said a man in a black suit, holding out his hand for her to shake it.

"Yes, that's me," she replied, shaking his hand. He looked as if he was in his early thirties, he had dark hair and dark eyes, his looks seemed fitting for his career.

"Please, have a seat," Inspector Marlow said as he and Carlotta walked over to a table. "You said this was about my sister, Valerie," Carlotta said anxiously.

"Yes, I'm sorry, but your sister was murdered last night," Marlow said quietly. Carlotta just looked at him until realization slowly sunk in. She didn't cry, but she became very silent and just stared out the window for a few minutes.

"Do you have any idea who killed her?" Carlotta whispered so quietly Inspector Marlow almost couldn't hear her.

"No, not yet, but the evidence we find will lead us straight to the one responsible," he tried to reassure her. "Do you have anyone you could call in case you don't want to stay alone?"

"No, I'll be fine by myself, I just want to have some time to think," she said standing up and heading towards the door.

Carlotta decided she would walk instead of taking a cab, she didn't feel like talking to a stranger right now, she needed to let this sink in so she could be over it as soon as possible and get back to her everyday life of waking up early, going to work, and coming home late.

Before she knew it, she was standing in front of Valerie's house. There was police tape up and a few people lingered to see what was going on. Carlotta went inside to see what was going on, a man tried to stop her but she explained that she was family, so he let her inside.

When she got inside it was a mess. Valerie had put up a fight and trashed her house in the process. Carlotta asked one of the police where Valerie had died, and they told her in the bathroom. She had been strangled with the cord from the hair dryer.

Carlotta walked throughout the house. When she got to her sister's room she sat down on the floor and started to cry. Valerie was all Carlotta had left, their parents had died in a car accident two years before and they didn't have any other siblings. Her face stung from the tears, but she couldn't stop crying. Finally all the stress, sadness, and anger had built up enough so one she started crying, she wasn't able to stop herself. After some time had passed, she managed to calm herself, and as she was looking around the room she saw something under the bed.

What she found was a video camera, it wasn't Valerie's because she didn't own one. Carlotta pressed play and inside there was a five minute long tape of Valerie's tenth birthday party. It showed Valerie blindfolded and Carlotta spinning her around in circles and then sending her off to pin the tail on the donkey. She watched the video a few more times and then she realized that there was a man in the background. He was standing across the street from the party. The man looked as if he were in his forties, he had graying hair and a short beard. He was standing by a beat up truck and he was just watching the party.

Carlotta had seen this man recently, in fact he was one of the people who had been standing outside the house when she arrived. She ran downstairs and went outside to see if he was there, but by this time the police had sent everyone away. Why didn't she ever think of it? She has seen that man every day for the past three weeks, he was always standing outside where she worked and Carlotta even remembered Valerie saying something about a creepy old man that had been standing outside her house.

A police officer came into the room and told Carlotta that they were leaving for the night and that she should go home as well. They told her that there wasn't going to be an autopsy done on Valerie's body so Carlotta could start planning the funeral. The police officer went downstairs and Carlotta followed. She went home after making sure the police locked up Valerie's house.

When Carlotta got home she started to think about the funeral. It was late, so she decided against calling anyone until the morning. She did call the church to see when she could have the funeral. She planned for the funeral to be in one week so she could have enough time to call family members and friends.

The week passed rather slowly, and when the day of the funeral came around Carlotta was glad to get it over with. She put on a black dress and went to the church. There were some people already there and after the priest made a speech, everyone went outside to the cemetery. Carlotta and others stood by the grave and watched six men carry her sister's casket towards the grave. The priest made another speech and after praying, the men started lowering the casket into the ground. This all went by as a blur for Carlotta, she wasn't paying any attention to people who were talking to her, when they asked her questions she would mumble a reply and then continue staring at the grave her sister was being buried in.

After the funeral was over and everyone had left, a man came up to Carlotta. It was the man who had been in the video and who had been outside Valerie's house the night after the murder. Carlotta didn't notice him walking towards her until he started talking. He went on about how death is a terrible thing and how loved ones should never die. Carlotta just stood there looking at the grave stone that had her sister's name written on it. She turned to ask the man who he was and what he wanted, but when she turned to ask him, he was gone. She looked around for the man that was talking to her, but he was no where to be found. It was getting late and she was the only one in the cemetery so she decided she needed to go home and get some sleep.

That had been one of the hardest times in Carlotta's life, but now was even harder. Christmas was coming and she didn't have any family close to her and she didn't know what to do. She left the building that had brought back such awful memories. She stood outside on the sidewalk watching the cars go by and the happy families walking from store to store. It was bitterly cold, but people were still outside doing shopping. She watched as a woman in a red dress crossed the street to meet someone standing on the other side. She watched the two people as they greeted each other happily. She then thought she saw her sister sitting on one of the benches across the street. She thought she was going insane, it was just the snow blowing in her face, the person she was seeing wasn't her sister, it was just another one of the many shoppers.

Even thought Carlotta didn't think it was really her sister, she couldn't help but continue watching the person across the street. A bus drove by, honking its horn, breaking Carlotta out of her trance like state. After the bus had gone by, Valerie was gone and Carlotta was left standing in the cold, wondering.

First Place Prose - High School
White-Wash - Chloe LaPointe

Pitiful.
It was the only thought running through his head as he leaned back in his chair, lightly puffing on his pipe.

Rocking back and forth on the back legs of his seat, arms crossed, and brows furrowed, he inspected his work.

It needed something. The image before him was so bland, so . . . unoriginal.

It frustrated him to no end that it didn't look right - that his three-month long obsession still didn't please him.

He sighed deeply, releasing a large veil of smoke before hoisting himself off of his wooden chair and shuffling over to the kitchen.

It was a shocking contract to move from the dark, hard-wood coated living room to the blinding egg-shell blasted kitchen. The walls were white, the floor was cream, and the counters were a light grey.

He was suddenly surrounded by white.

But that was okay because most artists are surrounded by white - the white of the canvas alone was haunting.

He would know. He saw it in his dreams at night - incomplete works, spinning and spinning around him and his paints on a hardwood floor.

Pushing up his glasses, he set about a task to chase the white from his mind. He picked up the kettle, filled it with cold water from the tap, set it upon the stove, then went about finding another menial task to occupy himself with. This brought him back to the living room. The frighteningly dark living room. He proceeded to pace, glancing every now and again at the painting upon the easel, muttering darkly to himself about its imperfections.

Maybe this was because it was blue.

Blue wasn't his favorite color, though that was the primary base coat for the painting. Deep blue sky, bluish-grey buildings, bluish-black roads, lampposts, the blue of the American flags, and the blue of the cotton jackets of the people in the street. Everything was blue, and it had distressed him.

So he added red. Red on the stoplights, red jackets, red post-office boxes, and red taillights.

But the image still didn't look right. It even perhaps looked worse than before. And it still needed something.

He forced himself to look away from the work, and picked up a cast-iron poker. Absentmindedly, he prodded the simmering white-hot coals. It amused him that the description of "white-hot" had occurred to even though the coals themselves were a burning orange with a little gold encrusted on the edges. He didn't like the red. It was too bright, too in-your-face, and far too hot for his tastes. And yellow - yellow wasn't a great color either. It was too blinding and it reminded him of sunny days with clear blue skies that were far too hot for his liking.
Blue wasn't great either.
Neither was purple -
Or orange -
Or green.
They were too bold, too brash, or just too . . . colorful. He hated them all.
The tea kettle whistled and he stood brushing some grey ashes from his pants before moving towards the source of the sound.

Instantly, he was assaulted by a billowing mist of white, and he froze.
Not . . .
Moving . . .
An . . .
Inch . . .
It was wonderful, being surrounded by the dullness. The colors of his living room were muted, and yet held an almost magical essence in their faded hues. Abandoning his tea, he strode over to his canvas and began to paint. He painted without aim or intention. He just . . . painted. But he used no colors. His brush was loaded with white, dipping, dabbing, and dotting all around until the cityscape was hidden in snow.

Then he wet his brush, and without drying it, saturated the tip in his beloved brightness again.

Swish!
Swosh!
Swoosh!
Again and again he watered down his paints before slapping more upon his dripping canvas.
Steam was starting to cloud his vision and before he knew it, he was in a deep fog from the waist up.
And he didn't care. Because his masterpiece was complete, and the only thing it had needed was something that he needed and loved all along -
To be washed away and lost in a blur of white.
A white-wash.