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I won!| | I placed 2nd and 4th in the TCC NE Writing Competition! I'll get prize money for 2nd place. I won't get prize money for 4th because they have to honor 4 students, so they gave 4th to the next lowest scoring entry. Still, I got mentioned in the email as one of the only people to have two entries place and get published. WOO! I NOW HAVE PUBLISHING CREDITS!
I'll post the winning entries soon. Too tired right now.
So stoked, though.
EDIT:
Here are the winning entries. "Socks" won 2nd place. I've never posted it before, so enjoy. "Rage" won 4th place. I've posted it before, so it may be familiar to you.
Socks
It is well known in the community of my bedroom, which consists solely of my wife and I (sorry, kinksters), that I tend to wear my socks during sex. Don’t ask me why. In the beginning, I think it was because I just didn’t think about it. You could probably write psychological tomes about the warmth, comfort, and security they offer, but really, they’re just one of those silly little jokes that you have with your spouse. I wear my socks during sex – it’s funny. Yes, it is, so shut up.
My wife and I have a habit of practicing personification in our daily lives. We imbue inanimate objects with personality, then speak for them. Yes, it’s funny; no, it’s not deranged.
Shut up.
During our last bedroom foray, I noticed that she had left her socks on, too. “My socks are cool,” she said playfully as she jumped into bed.
Quite used to our silly little games of personification, I replied frowning, “My socks’ feelings are hurt! You said they’re not cool!”
Now, in all actuality, her socks are cooler than my socks. I’ve had a close, dare I say, intimate relationship with Hanes crew socks since my teen years. Morpheus might say they’ve become part of my residual self image.
But my wife’s socks were black knee highs with a snazzy blue and silver argyle pattern; not the garden variety argyle that your grandpa wears with his ten year old loafers and bicycle shorts. No, this argyle pattern was stylin’– it makes the emo kids at Hot Topic cry and wish they were cool enough to wear it.
In the midst of all the sweat, sex, and passion, it occurred to me that she hadn’t said my socks weren’t cool. She simply said that her socks were cool.
It’s funny, the things you think about during sex.
But this isn’t about the sex. It’s about communication.
My mind rocketed far above the planet and spied all of the arguments and fights occurring across the world of humankind. From families to friends arguing, opposing tribes fighting, or different cultures warring, it occurred to me, idealist that I am, that communication could probably solve all these problems.
Then my thoughts drifted to the Christian upbringing I’d left so many years ago. I heard all the “literal vs. figurative” arguments all over again.
I’ve always been an implied meaning kind of guy. Communication has always been something I’ve been good at, and I tend to take it for granted. I like to think that we’re all good at communication, or at least should be good at it, so I get frustrated with people I come across who simply aren’t good at it.
Intuition can’t be learned. But perhaps if people were less defensive and more willing to understand, there would be less personal wars, which could lead to less global wars.
Back to the socks. In our silly little game, my implied meaning was that her socks were cooler than my socks. But she didn’t actually say that. She simply said her socks were cool. My own insecurities heard that her socks were cooler than mine.
If the Christians would stop thinking the Muslims hate their socks, we would have more equality and acceptance. Perhaps we could finally have a forum between the two religions, finding the similarities and common ground they share.
If the Republicans and Democrats would stop bad mouthing each others’ socks, and the third parties would stop trying to get by wearing flip flops in winter, perhaps we could unite this country and get things back on a positive track.
If only...
The straights and gays; the blacks, whites, yellows, browns, and reds; the left and the right; the educated and uneducated; the fortunate and less fortunate; rich and poor; “civilized” and “uncivilized”; the theist and the nontheist; men and women; brothers and sister...
We’re all brothers and sisters in this human race.
That’s a funny word, isn’t it? Race.
Yet we shouldn’t treat this as a race. Survival of the fittest aside, we should strive for equality and acceptance, love and forgiveness, peace and hope. We should help our brothers and sisters along so that we all may visit the finish line.
We’ll all cross the finish line whether we’re wearing cool socks or not.
But we’ve got to depend on each other.
If your feet are cold, you can wear my socks.
Share?
Rage
Yanked, pulled, shoved from the dreamy world of sleep, my muscles aching with a surge of adrenaline. My drunken muscles fight the melatonin. Adrenaline charges to war in my veins. I hurtle myself into the darkened light of 4:30 in the morning.
Instinct. Preservation. She is mine and I am hers.
Danger. She is in danger.
The war in my muscles makes me angry. With each running step closer, I shake and pound with fury. I grunt and growl and force, no, will the adrenaline into my muscles. Unbottling a finely controlled rage, disappeared for years but kept just under the skin for this moment. For this time.
Yes, this will be my weapon of choice. This will be the instrument of his death.
I am a screaming savage. I am contorted with rage and fury, fear and anger.
My body is a battering ram. I am a cage fighter. I am a sumo wrestler. I am 1,500 pounds of solid fury as I throw myself into him.
Can't think. Shouldn't allow myself that. Betraying thoughts of fear and what if dance around my sullied consciousness, taunting me like demons from the terrifying darkness.
I will silence them.
Wasn't I just asleep? Wasn't I just basking in the infinite darkness of slumbered reality? Now, pulled from that land, only --
My hands are claw hammers. My hands are big, stupid blocks of meat, made precise only by the rage of how dare he touch her. How dare he think he could do this.
My hands are pistons. My hands are vice grips. I tear into his skull with so much fury like a kid at Christmas. Blood. Red. Shards of bone. And in my gut, mixed with the sick fear and fury --
Satisfaction. Keep going. Don't stop. Can't stop. Can't blink, can't breathe, can't think. Can't let him have an edge.
Stop, she yells. No, she yells. Sure, I think. Better than the stop and no you would be crying right now.
No, I won't stop. Yes, I will keep going.
I will break this motherfucker into fucking pieces before I even consider stopping as a viable option.
Grasping, clutching, punching, snarling. Blood, sweat, adrenaline.
Wasn't I just asleep? Am I dreaming? Yes, that's it. Vision blurry, world surreal, spinning. Must be dreaming.
Stop, she yells.
Shaking. Trembling. I arise more than a man. I am savage. My heart beating with a thousand million ancestors, coming to know the knowledge of murder.
Oh yes. You will never do this again, you motherfucker. I will shake the very life from you, you fucking piece of trash.
Should I tell you of the pleasure I derived from it? Should I tell you how time slowed and allowed me the luxury of deciding how and when my next blow would land? My fingers had eyes. They probed his opened face and skull. Suddenly, I knew how it was all put together and how it all worked. I savored the pain in his eyes, the fear in his face, and the what the fuck in his mouth. I pulled him apart with the dexterity of a surgeon. Yes. He was afraid now. And I would make sure this cunt died that way.
Chest heaving. My lungs stinging with the acrid scent of blood, sweat, and fury. Arms numbs. Hands tingling. Forearms red, pock marked with shards of white, yellow, and crimson.
My world spinning. She at the center of it. She is okay. Shaken, crying. How did this happen? But alive. And okay. Protected. Not sullied by this mongrel and his cruel intent.
I kick the motherfucker in the groin for good measure and consider clawing his balls off. I approve of his sick, gurgling groan. His agony is USDA Certified Grade A. I'll buy that steak for a dollar, Johnny.
But then, clarity.
so awake. so asleep.
Sleep. I just want to sleep now.
Chest heaving. Eyes stinging. Can't breathe. Sobs racking my body.
What have I done?
What brought this poor man into my life in this way? What had he done to leave him with this choice? But it was his choice, wasn't it?
Painfully aware now. No. I want to run. Must find that land of slumber and whisper and infinite blackness again.
I was a murderer. I lay as shattered as my quarry.
But I did it for her.
And I would do it again.
| | | Posted 5/14/2009 9:55 PM - 19 Views - 6 eProps - 5 comments
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