Master PDF 1
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Division: Creative Writing--Youth
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 year old exhibitors)
06/18/2020
Fair Account: alamedaward
WEN: 26A54A
Exhibitor Name: Audrey Shotland
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
Audrey Shotland Poem June 1, 2020
Dear People By Audrey Shotland
As I log out of zoom my heart fills with gloom, another day turned to dust. Another class-no thank you, I’ll pass-another week gone bust. Another day is another waste, is what I say to myself. I shake the feeling of sadness, cause that feeling can’t be helped. I know this isn't good for me, it isn’t good for my health. But I persevere straight through the fear, and end up back in hell. I have to stay strong for who knows how long- I must be optimistic. But something is wrong, yes something is wrong. And how could I have missed it. I’m alone. I’m alone in my very own home. My social life is struggling, it’s not the same on the phone. The love of your family, the love of your friends- they come from two different ends. But they both have to greet to make ends meet, and secure your happiness. And this is where I’ve been lacking, this is where I went wrong. No social interaction, for god knows how long. For one hug from my friends-oh what would I do. For one day to spend however we want to. Dear world, please make this end. Dear people, I miss you.
GEOLOGY 101 REPORT
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WEN: 449268
Exhibitor Name: Emeline Halsted
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
Running River Emeline Faeth Halsted
Running River; Softly flowing; In it’s bed of pebbles.
Gently Flowing; Running Softly; Never sleeping; Never Resting. Always Running; Never Stopping;
Smoothly Running; Always smoothly. Always silently, softly singing.
WEN: 356623
Exhibitor Name: Emeline Halsted
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
The Battle for the Mares Emeline Faeth Halsted
Smashing teeth and slashing hooves; Over a band twenty mares, two stallions fought. Victory was what they sought; Grass was tread upon and flattened underneath their hooves. The mares stood in a bunch. Watching, waiting; Back and fourth, their ears were twitching; Who would win?
Each stallion fought his best; The bigger and the smaller; The taller and the shorter; Not stopping to rest. The smaller stallion beaten, turned and fled; The winner snorted mockingly. He urged his mares’ forward happily Holding high his head.
WEN: 8A4135
Exhibitor Name: Emeline Halsted
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
The Sun Emeline, Matthew, and Bill Halsted
The sunset is like roses on the dessert floor; The sky is like the sea; The sun is like a nuclear-bomb, dissolving, you and me.
WEN: BDCDFB
Exhibitor Name: Makena Inouye
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
The Barn: I remember
I remember the barn. I remember its smell. I remember the dust. I remember the horses. I remember the friends. I remember the tack. I remember.
WEN: 3533E1
Exhibitor Name: Nicole Targosz
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
Orange Picking
Oranges I see them Bright ready to be harvested
I go up And pick a few I think a moment I go to get a bag
Bag in hand I walk to the small tree And look for oranges The Sun’s Minor Fruit I grab one Twisting to see if ripe And pull It comes of But not too easily I move forward Picking oranges The Sun’s Minor Fruit I continue Some easier to pick While others took effort
WEN: 3533E1
Exhibitor Name: Nicole Targosz
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
The side I was on was bare Of bright orange fruit A bush was trimmed nearby I go through the thicket To the back of the shrub… And find a pot of gold! I pick oranges The Sun’s Minor Fruit Filling my bag And don’t stop until my bag is full of fruit
I hit the jackpot that day And it was confirmed When I bit into one Of Sun’s Minor Fruit Fresh, Sweet And nothing like the store-bought ones
I wait until next year Looking at the blossoms And when those blossoms Turn to fruit Once again I will be picking oranges The Sun’s Minor Fruit
WEN: 4E8338
Exhibitor Name: Riddhi Bhashkar
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
WEN: 650494
Exhibitor Name: Sameer Dhanvantari
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
Alone - The story of solitary confinement
Under the roof I stood At a place where men went mad I could see the grimy rags In which martyrs were clad. The screams rang in my ears Of the dying from long ago. Voices whispered their warnings - “ Stay with us. Please. Don’t go ” The cell I stood in was empty But my mind knew more was there For though I was the only prisoner Of the dead this was the lair. They hissed their thirst for vengeance. They whispered farewell to their kin. Their words slowly addled my mind As a punishment for my sin. This was where men were martyred, At a place where rebels were thrown. Here I sat in isolation, All alone; all alone.
by Sameer Dhanvantari
Based on the experiences of Indian freedom fighters imprisoned in solitary confinement in the Cellular Jail on the Andaman Islands. Prisoners often went mad and heard voices in their heads.
WEN: EDFAB2
Exhibitor Name: Selina Sumner
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
The Ocean
When the willow blows, the ocean will sing, seashells ablaze. Towards the northern star, you will find light to guide you in the darkest night. Searching in the midnight sea, you now have to flight, for secrets are hidden in the cracks and corners, there is nowhere to run, for you go to the afterlife.
WEN: 4136DB
Exhibitor Name: smayna kasibhotla
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
Me, Me, Me, and Me
By Smayna Kasibhotla, Junior, Dublin 4-H, Alameda County
Tapping Dance Steps with my feet, Brownies and Cookies are really sweet.
At Chorus I'm Singing Do – Re – Mi – Fa – Sol – La – Ti, My vocals also sing Sa – Ri – Ga – Ma – Pa – Da – Ni.
Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, Life with Piano is a Super Star. Air flows around me filling my breath, My soulful Flute notes Ta – Ti – Ti – Ta – Ki – Ta.
Art Made Simple, Science & Math, My 4-H Community Club is a Blast. Hydrogen, Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Hope I can nab “ The Periodic Table ”, in this Millennium.
Poems are beautiful as you can see, Creative writing is just for me. Playing with mighty Lacrosse balls, This Girl can do it all!!!!
WEN: 7DD065
Exhibitor Name: Smayna Kasibhotla
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
The Simple Act of Love by Smayna Kasibhotla, Age 9, Junior, Dublin 4-H, Alameda county
Red is the color of beautiful roses
blooming in the
.
Orange is the color sweet, juicy oranges
, fresh from a tall orange tree.
Yellow is the color of a star twinkling in the starry night Green is the color of fresh grass, wet from the spring mist . Blue is the color of the clear sky, dotted with specks of white . Purple is the color of sweet cranberries, so tangy!!! This is the world we want...
But what about the world now? Red is the color of blood, caused by bullies. Orange is the color of the sun, now covered up with smoke from factories Yellow is the color of dead hills, which we never took care of. Green is the color of the great forests that we cut and reduced to a tiny speck. Blue is the color of the ocean , that is now littered with plastic, oil, and even more terrible things. Purple is the color of lavenders that are at the risk of dying, changed by mankind. We want a world of peace, but we have a world of hate. We can change that with a single act. It can change the people of the world. It is something we all can do. The Simple Act Of, Love
WEN: 172DF5
Exhibitor Name: sofia Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 01 Poetry (9-12 ye
Sunrise
Another day, another sunrise Where stars return to their home Colors dance together, A perfect time to be alone
Another day, another sunrise The sun forever stuck meeting its destiny Always stuck rising among weary skies Never questioning its sanity.
Another day, another sunrise Where the sun never meets the moon
Unable to make changes Hoping to escape soon
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Division: Creative Writing--Youth
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 year old exhibitors)
06/18/2020
Fair Account: alamedaward
WEN: 4F3003
Exhibitor Name: austin nicolas
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
A Walk in the Snow
My sister Anika goes to a college named Reed, Cheapest way to bring the family is by car, For Nana, coming with us is a need, Refuses to fly so her grandkids aren’t far. I wanted to drive, I did have my permit, Yet when driving on freeways, I did not feel secure, So we had only two drivers who would go for it, Back then highway’s had quite an allure.
To travel so far took a time quite long, As we sat in the car, boredom we felt, With a GPS no turn was wrong, To put on snow tires, in the snow we knelt.
The wind began to howl and rage, Fresh snow was a glimmering white,
Outside, the temperature was not hard to gauge, Snow tires on, back in the car to prevent frostbite.
We drove on with the heater cranked up, Those without seat heaters gave a jealous glare, I looked out the window, hoped it would let up, With this weather, could we get there? Only one lane in use, traffic was bad, We moved but in an inch in an hour, The family seemed ready to go raving mad, Warnings of danger from a radio tower. Then Nana spoke up, after being quite quiet, She said, “could I go out for a walk,” She said, “could I go out for a walk,” If we didn’t let her out would she start a riot? For a second we all just stared in shock. Except for Anika, not known for her hearing, Then Nana said, “go get my walker,” She might as well grab a sheep for shearing, Mom said, “it’s okay she’s just a talker”.
WEN: 4F3003
Exhibitor Name: austin nicolas
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
Nana interrupted, “I’ll get it myself,” She tried to open her door so she could escape, Oh no Might she slip on an ice shelf? Dad locked the door, our worry took shape. We were in a blizzard, Nana was eighty six, We were on a highway, Nana had a troubled heart, An adventure with Nana was always fill of shiticks, The day was as always quite the work of art.
WEN: A73E04
Exhibitor Name: Elizabeth Brown
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-1
WEN: 579C6A
Exhibitor Name: Helia Kodam
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
Shelter in Place Life What a day during Shelter in Place from March - May What a stay The same four walls all the time The same faces No privacy, I’m about to cry Going to the store is such a pain Parents are working non-stop
My brothers are driving me insane A break by going on family walks Nowhere to go
Businesses closed No friends to see No places to be
Zoom calls all the time Google classroom 24/7 Glitch, static, frozen oh those internet lines Assignment #87 New skills to learn New hobbies to try Another home cooked meal Just not satisfied Computers becoming our best friends Screen time never ends No face to face time with our friends Quarantine seems to never end
WEN: 579C6A
Exhibitor Name: Helia Kodam
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
Birthdays ruined by COVID-19 Virtual zoom parties Drive by hellos
I’m gonna scream Our new normal,
Wearing masks, Social distancing, Ding dong, it’s Amazon! It’s really hard to stay fit I just do it with a punch and a kick, I wish I was back at the dojo So I can keep up my fitness mojo Hours of homework on end Boxed mac and cheese, what a snack Take out the garbage, do the chores Back to homework, all over again Up at 7 again Breakfast, shower, homework Wake up, repeat Our day never ends
WEN: 165D2F
Exhibitor Name: Rey Clenney
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
Ballad of the withered rose Sitting alone, in the midst of shoes and mindless autopilot. Narcissism raining down like thick snow. Suffocating the poor withered rose. Tied up by society, Wrapped up in her emotions. Used to bloom, Be on display in a small silver room. Small enough to hold, Big enough to reach all four corners of the globe. On autopilot like every other fuzzy shape and size around. Breathing in one another’s air, To feel good. Now, Tears falling down like petals. Never ending floods of poisonous emotions. Along side the others, The others who also withered and let themselves dry out. The weak ones. The strong ones. The willed ones. The hopeful ones. Stepped on by the fuzzy shapes on autopilot. Laying alone, in the midst of shoes and mindless autopilot. Narcissism raining down like thick snow. Suffocating what is left of the once beautiful withered rose. Petalless. Tied up by society, Wrapped up in her emotions.
WEN: 165D2F
Exhibitor Name: Rey Clenney
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
Waiting to reach the light of tomorrow.
WEN: C84CF6
Exhibitor Name: William Halsted
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
The Original Thirteen States By William DeForest Halsted IV February 18-19, 2020
The original thirteen United States of America Begin way down south with Atlanta, Georgia. Then above are South and North Carolina, you see; The first has Colombia, the other, Raleigh. Further north is Virginia’s Richmond, And Annapolis, Maryland, continuing on.
Then moving east, cross on over To Delaware – capital: Dover.
There’s Pennsylvania’s Harrisburg, and Trenton of New Jersey, And further above is the state of New York, whose capital’s Albany. Then there’s where Paul Revere gave the word In New Hampshire’s capital of Concord. And placed down south by God’s intelligence
Is Rhode Island’s capital Providence. Then westward, where it was put, Is Hartford, capital of Connecticut. And finally concluding our great nation hard-won
Is Massachusetts and Boston. These states, as you have seen, Are the Union’s original thirteen.
WEN: A6B5E1
Exhibitor Name: William Halsted
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
The Life and Death of Cotton Ball By William DeForest Halsted IV January-February 2020
An Elegy There was a stray cat that lived locally, Who’d just always been there for us to see. When one day after a pretty long go She showed up with a small kitten in tow. The only survivor of the whole litter, Fluffy grey Cotton Ball was a trooper. But, soon after, his mamma got pregnant, And her love for Cotty soon grew stagnant. So we lured Cotty into the house, And trapped him inside, just like a mouse. We gave him puppet shows and stories did tell, And soon brought poor Cotty out of his shell. Curious and cuddly, with little to say, He was Mommy’s buddy day by day. When to practice her music she would go, He’s sit in her lap while she played the piano. And when she felt bad and laid in bed, Cotty was right there by her head.
WEN: A6B5E1
Exhibitor Name: William Halsted
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
His younger half-brother he took care of; Let him be first and showed him much love. He lived with us for six long years, During which he was our compeer.
Then, one day, we woke up and saw plain That Cotty was in a lot of pain. We thought that he was constipated, And a trip to the vet that evening awaited. So, after we’d been out most of the day, We took him to the vet strait away. The vet checked him out, and we were quite shocked, When we learned that poor Cotty's bladder was blocked. To fix him would have cost some two grand, But we didn’t just have that much in our hand. And when we granted poor Cotty peace in death, We were there with him while he took his last breath. On our way home in his cardboard keg, His last act of kindness was to warm my legs.
We buried him up on Rocky’s Pass, ‘Neath a young redwood, in the grass. Our little buddy, a loyal friend true, Oh, dear Cotty, do we miss you.
In loving memory of Cotton Ball Summer 2014 – January 12, 2020
WEN: 2817D1
Exhibitor Name: William Halsted
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 03 Poetry (13-17 y
Horse’s Plea By William DeForest Halsted IV February 28, 2019
Nay! Master, you jest be on your way, For it’s so early in the day, And I’m eatin’ ma hay, And I really don’t wanna go to town today.
On my back I would have to hold, Your old, heavy, ugly copper mold, Even though ‘tis what I’m told, And I really don’t wanna be sold! Aye? A carrot, you say? And lots of time to play!? Maybe I will come to town today.
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Division: Creative Writing--Youth
Class: 04 Short Stories (13-17 year old exhibitors)
06/18/2020
Fair Account: alamedaward
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
0400 - By Daniella Smith
11 Aug 1994 - 1400 hours I could barely hear Wyatt’s shouting over the whirring of the lawnmower. He wasn’t yelling at me, I quickly realized - I could discern who or what he was yelling at. Usually, if he were to yell at me (which was the only way he would ever address me), he would make sure I was in his line of sight and me in his. “Up close and personal,” Marie would dub this behavior. As much as her joking tone diffused the severity of Wyatt’s habits, she wasn’t wrong. One time during a stifling hot Nevadan afternoon, I was instructed by Wyatt to cut the bushes in his front lawn. A slight slip of my pruning shears had resulted in one plant being more uneven than the others. Always looking for an opportunity to scold me, Wyatt jumped from his worn lawn chair and brusquely took the shears from my gloved hands and spit on my face as he yelled, threatening to snip a large chunk of my hair. No, he wasn’t yelling at me now. I kept on mowing, but instead of focusing on the path ahead of me, I glanced in Wyatt’s direction. He was directing his anger toward the front door, where it was slightly ajar. A slim, pale hand was clutching the frame, but I couldn't see the rest of whoever was inside the house. I didn’t know if Wyatt had a spouse or not, or lived with anyone. I’ve never actually ventured into his house before: whether it was from nerves or fear, I didn’t know. But, I had a pretty good idea of what the interior looked like if it was anything like the exterior: drooping rustic awnings; shotgun shells and cigarette butts littering the perimeter; wooden steps leading up to the porch snapped in half. If someone did live with Wyatt - which was highly unlikely, since I couldn’t even stand the sight of him - they would probably be in a constant state of discomfort. I voiced this opinion to Marie over a glass of iced tea once, and she simply shook her head as if to say: what can you do? Nothing, I suppose. Grim curiosity urged me to shut off the lawnmower so that I could hear Wyatt clearly. I didn’t, knowing what would happen if I did: bloodied nose, pay reduction. He kept shouting, and I kept mowing the lawn. However, I was paying more attention to the front door than I was before. The pale hand didn’t retreat; in fact, the figure behind the door was shifting more and more out the door, until I could finally see a red heel poking out of the doorframe. I was nearly finished mowing his front lawn. A sole patch of yellowed grass was left, adjacent to the chain-link fence that ran around the house’s perimeter. As I approached the fraction of grass, the metallic roar of the
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
mower filling my ears, I barely heard the echo of a shout followed by a slam. Suddenly too frightened to spare a glance over to the source of the noise, I kept my gaze lowered and focused on the mower. It wasn’t until I heard the tapping of heels when I finally looked up. A lean, tall woman was attempting to exit Wyatt’s home, appearance ghostly. What struck me the most wasn’t her sudden appearance or the odd way she held herself up, as if her knees were injured, or her haste to leave. No- it was how she presented herself. Even though I lived in a town miles away from Las Vegas, as did Wyatt, this woman looked like she spent her entire life riding in stuffy Volvos through blazing neon skies. Whispy, silver hair was held up in a meticulous bun; porcelain skin hid behind opaque makeup; cocktail dress above knobby knees. She had only managed to get as far as the edge of the porch until Wyatt grasped her by the arm - although surprisingly, it didn’t look forceful - which startled her so badly her knees nearly gave out. Taking that single moment of weakness to his advantage, Wyatt pulled her body back into the house and shut the door. I thought that would be the end of it, but Wyatt instead repositioned his lawn chair so it was blocking the door, and he sat on it, nursing his beer can. Wiping my gloved hands on my flannel, I went back to work. 11 Aug 1994 - 1800 hours Marie was a sweet woman who lived in the house across Wyatt’s. Thus, her home became a safe haven after long hours of excruciating lawn work in the searing sun. All but foul, her witty sarcasm made conversation amusing. The two of us sat at her elegant dark wood table, which was stark against the soft ambiance of her kitchen’s pale yellow walls. I was nursing a cold cup of tea, drinking but not tasting, basking in congenial conversation in which Marie and I mused over everything and nothing.
“What’s Artie having you do today?”
I cocked my head, looking out the unusually large window behind Marie that revealed an empty blue sky.
“Lawn work.”
“Mowing?”
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
“Yes,” I said, eyes flitting back to the delicate china in my hands. Marie looked taken aback, and she ran an aging hand through her hair. “Christ, didn’t Artie have you do that last week?”
I chuckled a bit while shrugging. “His backwards demands aren’t new, Marie. Frankly, I’m surprised he didn’t have me trim invisible leaves off weeds.”
Lips quirking in a smirk, Marie looked twenty again. “By next week, his front yard will just be dirt, you hear? I’ll bet you a Franklin.”
“Don’t feel like losing a month’s work of cash.”
Marie’s laughter filled the small kitchen, and I genuinely smiled. I say this because as odd as it is, I don’t smile often. Smirks, frowns, grimaces, sarcastic grins, you name it. Smiles are weird, though. Opportunities to smile are very scarce here. But they bloom on my face when I least expect them to with Marie, and it’s nice. “That’s very smart of you, hon. Shame you’re confined to garden work.” I waved a dismissive hand, reaching for a scone. Changing the subject, I cleared my throat. “Anyone live with Wyatt?” Seemingly surprised at the sudden turn in the conversation, Marie’s eyebrows drew together. “Artie? Not that I know of, the secretive bastard tells me nuttin’. Why?” “I-” Then I hesitated. Wyatt’s private life was none of my concern, yet curiosity bubbled up my throat. The haunting image of the tall, pale ghost loomed in the back of my head, and it wasn’t going away anytime soon. I bit into my scone and mulled over my next words carefully. “Well, hm. I saw someone trying to leave Wyatt’s house today.”
Marie raised an eyebrow. “Christ, who?”
“Well, I don’t know. I was hoping you did.”
“I might,” Marie said carefully, setting her teacup down, “describe them to me.”
“Weirdly young woman; my age, maybe? Older, probably. But not by much.”
“ Your
age? What’s he doing with a woman your age ?”
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
My skin crawled at Marie’s words. “I’m not sure. I only saw her for a brief second, trying to leave Wyatt’s house.” “Did she make it out?”
“No, she only made it as far as the porch before Wyatt made her go back in.”
“Jesus. Did he use force?”
I recalled the sight of Wyatt pulling the woman back into his house by her arm. “Sure looked like it. Once he did, he sat in front of the door; I assume to keep her in.” I looked out the window again, discomfort crawling up my body like a colony of ants. I waited for Marie to respond while observing the way the afternoon sun dripped off tree leaves. When Marie finally did say something, her voice was laden with agitation. “I see.”
I blinked. “That’s it?”
Her mouth opened and closed, and her dirty blonde curls swayed as she shook her head. “Listen, hon. I-” Marie looked anywhere but at me- “I don’t want to meddle in any of Artie’s affairs. He’s the kind of person whose history is not worth investigating.”
“What?”
“What I’m saying is that you shouldn’t either-” she held up a hand, interrupting my protest- “because you’re a good kid. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I was getting frustrated now. Why, I didn’t know, but I felt compelled to help the woman concealed within Wyatt’s walls.
“But, who knows how long she’s been there!” I exclaimed, rather unexpectedly. Marie apparently thought the same, and her eyes widened.
“Sweetheart-”
“Shouldn’t we call the cops?”
“She may be family.”
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
“That doesn’t matter; she looked like she’s never been outside.”
Unexpectedly, Marie reached across the table and took my hands in hers. “Honey, I wish I could do something too. But Artie gets away with too much, and he may get away with this too. And who knows what he’ll do to the both of us if he finds out we called the police on him.”
This was especially disheartening because I knew it was true. I looked up at Marie, whose warm caramel eyes spoke bitter truths.
She squeezed my hands and dropped them, reaching for her teacup and taking a pensive sip. I did the same, but instead of drinking my tea, I stared into it. After a few silent minutes, Marie tentatively changed the subject, but my mind still whirred with the memory of the woman and Marie’s words. And about an hour later, when we finished the entire plate of scones and our tea, Marie led me to the front door and said her goodbyes. Once the door closed behind me, I looked across the street at Wyatt’s house. Judging by the dark windows, all of the lights were turned off. I tried to look through them and see if there was any movement, but my efforts were futile.
Looking through the windows, however, an idea flickered in my head. And as weak as it was, I had the compulsion to go through with it.
12 Aug 1994 - 0356 hours I sat cross-legged on my porch, looking at the equipment around me and feeling the dry cold nip my exposed neck. I fidgeted with my father’s tactical survival watch, watching it slide along my skinny wrist. The time read 0356. Four minutes was more than enough time to make sure I had everything I needed. I lived alone, so I didn’t have to worry about anyone coming up behind me and asking what I was doing out on the porch with a putty knife, a hammer, a bag of dog treats, blankets, a few bottles of water, a swiss army knife, and a pair of sneakers.
I may as well been running away - which was only half true.
Additionally, I had the benefit of living in a deserted area, where houses were either burned down, under construction, or empty.
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
I checked my watch once more, and it read 0357. I quickly counted my materials, made sure I had everything and then packed everything into a tactical military backpack. When I finished, I slung the bag over my shoulder and stood, looking ahead in the direction of Wyatt’s street. I had a carefully laid out plan, yet reckless. 12 Aug 1994 - 0400 hours As soon as the time hit 0400, I began walking toward Wyatt’s house. Gravel crunched softly under my boots as I moved quickly. I knew I had plenty of time until Wyatt woke up; Marie had told me today that the lights in his home blinked on at seven in the morning. She also informed me that he went to bed anytime between eleven in the afternoon or midnight, so that meant I still had to be quiet in case he wasn’t in a deep sleep yet. Once I reached the first house in Wyatt’s neighborhood (a lovely place numbered 148, infested with rats), I slipped on my face mask and snuck around to the back of 148, so I was out of the road and safely hidden from sight. I then crouched below the windows of 148 and walked in this crouched manner until I finally reached Wyatt’s backyard. Knees aching, I paused right below a window and reached for the putty knife and hammer I had packed earlier. I knew for a fact this window had a weak latch because earlier today, Wyatt had me pull out all the weeds that lined the perimeter of his property. Seizing the opportunity Wyatt unknowingly presented to me, I furtively observed all of the windows. I checked the windows' sizes to see if I could fit my body through any of them with no struggle. I finally did find one sash window that overlooked the backyard. Now, as I carefully inserted the putty knife between the window frame and the sash, I raised the hammer and hit the knife gently. I let out a small relieved gasp when the sash window slid open, and I held my breath as I looked inside. The kitchen was dark, as was the hallway leading up to it, and it was silent. This was a good sign since I’d feared that a dog’s frantic barking would emerge from Wyatt’s house. I wasn’t sure Wyatt had a dog or not - hence the dog treats in my backpack. I easily hoisted myself up on the windowsill, gingerly resting my feet on the counter and hauling my bag alongside them. After I shut the window as silently as possible, I took my boots off and set them off to the side. This was so that I could hop down the counter without making much noise, which I managed to execute successfully.
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
Heart palpitating, I took a deep breath while I stood in the middle of Wyatt’s kitchen. It felt surreal, standing in such a forbidden place, knowing the consequences of him catching me. That was why I needed to act quickly. Boots still off, I snuck out of the kitchen and into the living room. There was no sign of Wyatt or the woman, so I moved on. Walking along the hallway, I saw a door was slightly agar. When I peered inside, I saw Wyatt’s sleeping form on a dirty mattress. Quickly, I walked away from Wyatt’s bedroom as fast as possible. As I trekked along, I noticed another door that was placed at the very end of the hallway. It was firmly shut, and when I tried hesitantly turning the doorknob, I realized it was locked. I deemed someone had to be in there because it didn’t seem locked from the outside. Cursing silently, I pondered what I should do next. I could try to unlock the door with my swiss army knife, but the person inside might think I was Wyatt and panic. I didn’t want Wyatt to wake up, but I also didn’t want to leave without the woman who lived here. Deciding to risk it, I pulled out my swiss army knife and used the knife tool as a makeshift key. Sticking the blade into the lock as far as it would go, I applied pressure and shifted the knife in one direction, then the other. Luckily, I didn’t have to repeat this process for long; the door unlocked in just my second try, and I slowly opened the door without stepping in. I was met with the sight of the porcelain-skinned woman laying in the bathtub, silver hair down and covering her bare shoulders. She looked too weak to move, yet she stood up straight and covered her face with her hands. I hastily slipped the knife in my pocket and put my hands up in a gesture of goodwill. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I murmured, kneeling near the sink, taking off my face mask. Slowly, the woman lowered her hands and looked at me. She seemed highly suspicious, which I expected.
Quietly, she asked, “who are you?” She wrapped her arms around her body, shivering.
“Sarah. I do lawn work for Wyatt.”
“Sarah?” She repeated, looking me up and down. “What are you doing here?”
“I saw you yesterday, trying to leave.”
She looked guilty for some reason and looked away. “I was.”
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
Silence fell between us, and I reached for a blanket in my backpack. “I want to help you.”
She observed the folded blanket in my hands and frowned. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shuffling closer to the bathtub, “but you looked like you really wanted to leave.”
“I do.” She looked like she was on the verge of tears. I handed the blanket to her, and she took it. Slowly, she wrapped the cloth around herself. The look of suspicion didn’t leave her face, but now it was subdued.
“Do you have any shoes on?” I asked.
“Heels,” she said and pointed to the bathroom door. There lay the heels I saw her wear the previous day, and I shook my head. I pulled out the pair of sneakers from my backpack and handed them to her.
“These won’t hurt your feet as much.”
“I- you want me to wear these?”
Slipping my boots on, I nodded. “I assumed it would be difficult to run outside with heels on.”
“I don’t think I have the energy to run.”
“I’ll help you - I have water if you need it.”
She pursed her lips in thought. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I waited patiently for her to slip her sneakers on, and I held out a hand when she finished to help her out of the bathtub. Her hand was shaky in mine, and I led her out of the bathroom and to the front door. I heard her breath catch in her throat as we passed Wyatt’s bedroom, and I pulled her along gently to urge her forward. When we finally reached the front door, I turned the doorknob with a cautious hand. As soon as it clicked open, I ushered the woman out the door and closed it behind me.
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
“Run,” I whispered, placing a hand against the small of her back. She did, albeit cautiously, and I followed next to her. We ran in the direction of my house, gravel skidding behind us, wind tousling our hair. When we finally made it to my neighborhood, I slowed down to a speed walking pace. She did the same, and I put my hand on her shoulder. “No one lives here but me, so we’re safer here.”
She didn’t say anything, but I did see a small smile creep up her face. Unable to help myself, I smiled too.
I led her to my front porch, helping her sit down on the steps. I knew she was tired: her face was flushed from the cold and exhaustion; her shoulders were shaking with exertion; every so often, her breathing was interrupted by a dry cough. After she was situated, I handed her a water bottle from my backpack. While she drank, I sat next to her and unwrapped the blanket from her shoulders, shrugging off my bomber jacket and helping her put it on. Afterward, I gave her the blanket back.
We sat in relieved silence, staring up at the dark sky sprinkled with white stars. Crickets chirped around us; a dog barked distantly.
“Whitney.”
I blinked in surprise. “Hm?”
“I’m Whitney.”
“Oh,” I said intelligently, glancing at Whitney, who was already staring at me. I noticed glittering tear marks tattooing her cheeks.
“Wh-” Whitney Began, but then seemed to take back her words. She cleared her throat. “Do you have any cigarettes?”
“Marlboros or Parliaments?”
“Marlboros.”
I reached into my pockets and retrieved a lighter and the pack of cigarettes. I handed her one and took one for myself, lighting it, and lighting hers in favor. I observed the way smoke plumed from her rosy lips and into the night sky.
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
Voice rusty with lingering smoke, Whitney said, “I haven’t had a Marlboro in so long. All he has are Camels.”
“How long have you stayed with Wyatt?”
Erin’s eyes were pensive, and she wiped ash off her knee. “Don’t know. I’ve lost count.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Yeah?”
“Mhm,” she murmured. “Feels nice to finally be out. The air is fresher here.”
“Where do you live? I can help you get back.”
“If it’s alright, I’d rather not say.”
I blushed in embarrassment, fearful I pressured her.
“It’s not you,” Whitney Reassured me, noticing my reaction, a trace of amusement on her tongue. Tentatively, she put her hand on mine. “It’s just a matter of trust. Wyatt kind of messed that up for me.”
I swallowed, taking note of the way her pale hand contrasted with my tan one. “What will you do now?”
Erin’s face glowed with the orange light of her cigarette. Her hair was doused with a pretty yellow. “To be honest, I’m not sure. I’ve dreamed of leaving too many times to count, but I haven’t actually considered what I’d do after I left.” “Neither did I.” To my surprise, Whitney laughed. She had pearly white teeth that were infinite times straighter than mine, and her nose scrunched up with the intensity of her grin. I laughed too, and suddenly we were clutching at each other's shoulders and cackling wildly at the sheer absurdity of the hole we dug ourselves into.
“Christ,” Whitney breathed, leaning back and catching her breath, “what the hell do I do? I live miles away from here.”
I was catching my breath too, and I was suddenly stricken with a thought. Without thinking, I said, “you can stay here with me for a while.”
“I-” Whitney said, looking at me with shock. “Really? You just met me.”
WEN: 096A33
Exhibitor Name: Daniella Smith
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
I flushed again, but it was with determination. “Yeah. You can get some rest, eat some food, and get better so that you have more energy to get home.”
Whitney studied my face for any lies. I assumed she found none, and she bit her cheek. “You’re full of surprises,” she stated.
“Usually, I’m not. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
But I knew exactly what it was. It was a wrench that struck my lonely routine of mowing lawns for a few dollars a day, hiding behind a passive front that did what others told me to do.
It was Whitney.
WEN: 2260EE
Exhibitor Name: Jeshua Wickham
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
Jeshua Wickham 3/11/20
For life and Liberty
The drizzling rain continued to fall on his damp cloak and hat. The ground was soft and muddy beneath its blanket of wet pine needles. Huddled beneath a tree he scrunched over farther, and painstakingly continued to etch out the words. “My dearest Mother, I am. . .” How should he continue? “I am well, but miserable for home and family.” He paused once more, deliberating. Should he let her know how bad the conditions actually were? Yes, though gentle, she was not a woman to be easily worried. She would want to know the particulars of his situation. “ The camp here is miserable, cold, and wet. It feels as if I should never be fully dry again. It has been drizzling and misting continuously for the last three days. The men are dispirited and dull. I don’t blame them, either. I find myself wondering why I am here? If only. . . If only what? If only he had known what he was doing? If only he had not been so rash? His mind went back to that summer day. Oh, how long ago it seemed now. It was April, the year 1777. He could almost picture it now. . . . . . . . The sounds mingled in his ears as he walked along the streets of the town. The creaking of the carts and wagons as they lumbered through the streets with their loads. The lighter noise of the carriages and the clippity clop of the horses hooves as they drew the light buggies behind them. Children shouted and laughed as they played in the dusty street. Women’s skirts swished softly along the boardwalk behind him, accompanied by their chatter and gossip in high voices. He reached the carpenter shop and stepped inside. Immediately the sounds faded out. The scent of aromatic white pine and maple wood, birch and ash filled the air. He breathed deeply. Yes, this was his chosen profession. He felt sure of it every time he stepped into the shop. Nodding in answer to the greetings the men gave him, he made his way to his bench and set to work. As he rolled up his sleeves, he thought about the week's orders. There was the printing press for the new workshop in town. The
WEN: 2260EE
Exhibitor Name: Jeshua Wickham
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
man had dropped off the plans for the press. Now there was a serious job! Then there was that woman who wanted a table. No, there really wasn’t that much this week. Oh, and of course there was that order they received last week. A wealthy home-owner wanted a set of maple wood cabinets. As an apprentice, Henry was only allowed to help with these. Two were already finished and waiting for the silversmith’s handles. He ran his hand lovingly over the polished wood, and looked up with a start when he heard his name called. “Henry?” He saw his boss walking over. “Yes sir?” “I want you to begin work sanding this table for Mrs. O’Harris. It's due soon, and I haven’t another man to put at it. Once finished, you can report to me for your next chore.” “Of course, sir. Right away sir.” He sighed inwardly. Try as he might he could never seem to please Mr. Johnson. The man’s grim visage rarely was broken by a smile. Henry Sanders was a hard worker, and a favorite with the rest of the men, but nothing seemed to satisfy Johnson. Oh well! With five more years of his apprenticeship to finish, he must be content with things as they were. Whistling cheerfully, he set to work on the table. As he sauntered down the street for the noonday lunch break he noticed a crowd gathering in the town square. Curiously he joined the outskirts of the crowd. One shrill voice cried out, “Liberty! Bah! This is preaching treason against the king!” Another angrily replied, “Yeah, well, what do we have to do with King George? King indeed! He can’t even rule England!” Shouting erupted on all sides. Finding questions to no avail, Henry wormed his way through the tightly packed throng. Squeezing past two heavy set women, he finally glimpsed the object of all this dispute. A paper was nailed to the post of the meeting house. He saw the words “To all brave, healthy, able bodied and well disposed young men. . . Take Notice,” It continued, calling them to volunteer in the service of General George Washington, for the defense of their homes, and the sake of liberty and freedom for mankind. . .” Henry saw no more. A tall man had stepped in front of him, blocking the poster from sight. Well! This was exciting! There was no question in his mind of whether or not he would respond. He must! Was not liberty a cause to be striven for with every effort? But, one obstacle stood in his way. He was underage, not yet eighteen. Would they accept him? Perhaps he could pass himself off as eighteen.
WEN: 2260EE
Exhibitor Name: Jeshua Wickham
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
Yet if they asked him his age he knew he would have to answer honestly. He had been strictly brought up never to lie by his religious parents. His parents! Surely his mother would object. His gentle, caring mother. She would never let him go without a fuss. But he was mistaken. . . . . . As he sat at supper that evening, laughter and cheerful banter surrounded him. The last rays of evening sun fell through the window, illuminating the heads of his sisters, so that they looked like spun gold. The heavenly smells of fried bacon and corn cake, rising from the laden table, would have tempted one far less hungry than he. A hush fell as Mr. Sanders raised his hand. All the children bowed their heads, and listened as their father blessed the food before them. As grace was concluded the noise broke out again. “Sally, the butter please.” “Mother, can I have some ham?” “Hey Luke, ya wanna go fishin tomorrow?” “Charlotte dear, please mind your manners.” (Mother was the only one who called Lottie by her full name). “Do you want to go fishing tomorrow,”she corrected. “And no, Charlotte, you may not go fishing. Tomorrow is wash day, remember? Henry ventured to broach the subject. “Father?” “Well Henry? And how was work today?” inquired his father. Firm, but loving, Mr. Allen Sanders was the respected head of his household. He had raised each of his sons to work diligently and hard, be courteous to those around them, and to be men of their word. “It went well. I was put to work at a table for Mrs. O’Harris.” “Ah, she is a good customer to have.” “Yes sir, she pays well. Especially now as the war has taken most of the business . Most don’t want tables, chairs, or cabinets. Instead they want weapons and canon. And most of that is blacksmiths’ work. “Aye son, that it is. The war is a hard thing for most businesses at this time. None want my services as a banker now. I am concerned for what the future holds. General Washington seems a capable man indeed, but we colonists are no soldiers, and the militia are not an army to lean upon. No,
WEN: 2260EE
Exhibitor Name: Jeshua Wickham
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
the favor seems all on the Brits’ side. But, we are not men to give up easily. No, liberty is too precious to be given up without a fight. “Yes father, indeed it is. Do you know, they have posted notices in the town, calling for volunteers for the army they are collecting.” Mr. Sanders chuckled. “Yes Henry, I know they have. I also know what you are thinking. You want to join, don’t you? Now, now, I don’t need you to try and persuade me,” as Henry began to defend his choice. “Your mother and I have already talked it over. And though we don’t like the idea of you going into so much danger, we agree that this cause is worth fighting for. Indeed, that is one of the reasons I married your mother. She was so determined about what she held to be right. And one of those things she holds is the pursuit of liberty and freedom. We cannot keep you from this cause. Enlist if you will,” he continued, laying his gnarled, workworn hand on the lad’s slim shoulder, “you have our blessing.” “Now Henry,” added his mother, “that doesn’t mean you are to heedlessly run into danger. Try and be careful. Serve General Washington as best you can, and, though you may not be rewarded, you will be doing good service to your country.” Lottie, eyes dancing, broke in. “Henry’s going to war. How exciting!” He’ll become a famous man and maybe a general himself!” “No, no,” gently corrected Anna, three years older, “Henry will just be a simple soldier. Not everyone can be generals. Besides, he may be killed, and it won’t be exciting then. Only dreadful!” Lottie, eleven, assented after pondering this. “Well, if he gets wounded, won’t that be romantic? Of course, t’wouldn’t be a serious wound. . .” The younger children started to chant, “Henry’s going to wa-ar, Henry’s going to wa-ar!” “Hush, hush now, go and play outside now.” Mrs. Sanders silenced them. “Sallie May, Anna, and Charlotte, please begin work on the dishes. Oh, and, Lukey, be a good boy, and run and tell Peter and Charles that their supper’s getting cold.” Peter and Charlie soon came in from the fields, stamping their boots on the porch, and washing their hands at the kitchen sink. Since Mr. Sanders had begun banking, both boys had taken over the task of farming and caring for the livestock. Sallie May, seventeen, teased them about the fact they came in dirtier every day. Laughing they settled down at the table, and, upon hearing Henry’s plans seemed to heartily approve, though neither showed a similar
WEN: 2260EE
Exhibitor Name: Jeshua Wickham
Division: Creative Writing--
Class: 04 Short Stories (
interest. Charlie, big and handsome, teasing and lighthearted, was soon to be married to his sweetheart, Dorothy Millen, and he wanted to set up a home of his own. Peter, more quiet and studious, was working his way through medical school. It was his dream to become a doctor and to help people. He hated war and bloodshed, and could not stand the thought of killing another man, unless in great need. Father would probably give up banking soon, and take up the farming again to allow both sons to pursue their futures. If Jonathan had lived, he would have taken over the farm. He always loved the animals and working in the fields. But he was gone, irretrievably. Perhaps Luke would decide to take up the land. Father wasn't getting any younger, and Henry had no desire to farm. He enjoyed working with his hands and building things, and so had been apprenticed to the carpenter, Mr. Johnson. This war had changed everything though. How exciting it would be! The chatter and light around the table dimmed as he was lost in a reverie about the future. A hearty laugh broke in on his thoughts. Charlie, in his booming voice, had been relating a story about what had happened at the nearby pub during lunch hour. Apparently, father found it highly amusing. Henry glanced at his mother, noticing her frown of slight disapproval. But beneath her apparent annoyance, he knew, by the slight quirk at the corners of her mouth, and the twinkle in her blue eyes, she was suppressing her own merriment. As a lady, though, she would not consent to laugh at such coarse things. Lucette Wilson had been a merry, fun loving girl in her youth. Her marriage to Allen Sanders, and subsequent sorrows had refined and subdued her, yet her merry blue eyes still twinkled, and her cheery laugh still rang throughout the house. She had retained much of her former beauty, and her thick, dark hair tucked underneath the white cap was not yet flecked with much grey. Most of the children took after her in looks, but Sally May and Faith both had curling, golden tresses. It was a wonder where they got it, for Mr. Sanders also had dark straight hair. Henry yawned, comfortably full and beginning to be drowsy. Tomorrow would be his last day at the shop. Mr. Johnson would have to let him go temporarily, but with the knowledge Henry had gained, he felt confident that upon his return he would be able to set up his own shop. The two days passed rapidly. Before he knew it, Henry was standing on the front porch of his beloved home, bidding farewell to his family. They were all there to see him off. Charlie and Peter shook hands with him, and, though scorning to show emotion, it was evident they would miss him. Mr. Sanders clapped him on the back, muttering huskily, “goodbye son, and may God bless you.”
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