Winning Prose Entries
 Observation by Rachel Bene
“I just don’t feel like my life is worth anything,” I say to
the counselor at Linden Oaks. The room was small, with grey
everywhere; walls, carpet, ceiling. I am sitting across a desk from
this counselor, two empty seats beside me. My parents are in the
other room, my mother crying and my father talking to her . . .
Onetwentyfour by Simone McConnell
The day you died it snowed. It snowed through the night,
to the next day; all the next day. It snowed that night and for a
week. It was like without you, the world couldn’t bear its cold
heart anymore. The sky opened up and mourned for you. It sobbed and
screamed . . .
Moonbeams (For Bessie Smith) by E. Shaffern
I sleep in moonbeams and fade like the stars. I rise with the sun
and sometimes the dogs. I owe my education to the gutter.
Girls and guns parade my vision. (A few dollars gets pretty far in this
town.) I say hello to the mistresses on Merchant, the drunkards on
State, and the bankers . . .
A Careful Brush by J.M.U.
Colors and words are thick, voluminous, and moist. They take on
shapes and textures and are read by the ears, hands, and eyes—one
language. Even emptiness, or a lack of substance speaks. The men and
women in their ironed shirts and pants know this and have known,
this all along.
"I can't..." she starts to say . . . |
 |
Winning Poetry Entries
The Blowout by Mike Bonifacio
Our wounded chevy cavalier / hurtles down the asphalt ribbon /
blaring songs of freedom from / two blown speakers, while / in the
white city / ahead / steak-fat failed financiers . . .
Grace by Emily Hansen
My knees dig into your fleshy thighs as I grip each side of your
pig pink face / Silver spindle spun silky thread; threading,
treading into your head / Tracing, I jump and jab into the middle of
the prison painted room / Delirium, Diazepam dreams, Dark different
dances drifting into schemes / Schizophrenic scaffolding falling on
my head-dead but crazy . . .
Jury Duty by Kara Ponce
On my sojourn in Justice / the wheels crunch upon the weeds
that tumble / over and over each other in the blistering sun /
Like cows we line up in the corral / perhaps just as guilty as
those on trial / serving our own time for freedom in jail
/ Three spokes turn slowly in the timepiece on the wall /
delineating what's left of service . . .
Hill-Top Ballet by Aaron Wiley
A valiant sea / Of blue branched jays / Dance on the beams / Of the
ballad’s rays. / Violet pedals join in, / Fluttering their feet- / Lush
pools of sin / Bathe their tumulus seats. / These mounds stand tall- / A
noble arching greet . . . |
