Is creativity a thing of the past?
As an English teacher of 12 years, I have read many young writers’ attempts to create original, cohesive or at least comprehensible writing. Think back and you may recall that ominous stare of the blank page with deadlines looming. Some of the strongest writing from teenagers these days, however, is actually the work of artificial intelligence in one form or another.
So, for this contest — brought to you by the Sandpoint High School Creative Writing Club and inspired by the Reader’s annual 208-word writing competition — I insisted on no computer brains whatsoever; and, due to this diligence, I found myself treading through brave verbalizations of a teenage emotion, derivative narratives and even some prose worth a third glance.
To tell the truth, one or more of the winning entries I actually threw into the trash out of consternation — I am an adult with vaguely adult emotions and a culturally dictated disdain for navel gazing — but certain ideas came back around and haunted me, like any truly solemn teen notion ought to.
As some of you may have experienced, no one can cut to a heart like an empowered teenager. And while some readers will likely find these selections absurd, immature or perhaps “just plain too much,” I am a firm believer that the deeper the meaning of a written piece, the more absurd the words can seem.
So, I present the top three stories from our local teens that are worth a first, second and maybe even a third glance.
— Jeff Keenan
First Place
Death of a Star
By Mazie Miles
Silence.
Empty space.
A void.
Nothingness.
And then. A flash.
A spark of light. A bang loud enough to shake the universe and beyond.
A single flash in the never-ending darkness.
A snap. A break. A crash.
Pieces of what once existed littered the space. Not trash but not value. Sentenced to float in nothingness for the rest of eternity.
A weak light bloomed once again, only to be swallowed whole by the void of once was.
A whisper of hope, snuffed out in an instant.
The void was a beast. It consumed everything in its path. Leaving nothing but a ghost. An echo of something gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Everything gone. Nothing left. A never-ending darkness consuming what once roamed. The pieces left to be scattered, only to be consumed by the void.
A piece of art. A beautiful world once alive thriving, now an endless black. A version of nothing. A piece of what once was never to be seen. The bright world that once was, reduced to nothing. Sparks of hope, diminished in an instant, never to be seen again.
An eerie space.
A dulling void.
A hope for nothing.
A black space, filled with a vast emptiness.
A desire for more.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
Judge’s notes
Jeff Keenan: This story at first struck me as absurd; which, in the context of our human lives, it very well might be — but in the days after reading it, the concept and the simplicity kept returning to me. The commitment to such an inhuman experience is admirable and worthy of first place.
Second Place
Through the Eyes of a Child
By Rachel Osborn
I then realized that I could no longer see the colors a child would.
It was the first memory I have of crying. Mom said I was a quiet child, quiet spoken, quiet footsteps, quiet tears. My sister fell asleep caught up in the innocence of her own childish dreams. I, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep. How was I supposed to sleep? My white noise was the yelling and screaming through the walls. I sat in my closet, closed my eyes; there were those silent tears again.
I woke up the next morning still in my closet, ear to the wall, and everything seemed duller. I wanted to go to my mom, I wanted her comfort, but an unfamiliar voice told me it would be an inconvenience. So I didn’t; I sat there, the calmness of the morning held me in its tight cold grip. And it repeated. Each night the same, each morning the cold.
I convinced myself to deviate from my pattern one morning; I went to mom’s bed. I sat there and cried. Mom’s arms wrapped around me unknowing of the comfort they brought me. My tears on the pillowcase, a letter to her, begging her to be OK. Waiting for her to be.
Judge’s notes
JK: The experience of leaving childhood and entering the world of adulthood is one that many of us attempt to forget – often with good reason. It takes a brave writer to take such a deep-dive and possibly only a teenager could pull off such a thing.
Third Place
Storm Rider
By Sofia Wofsey
It’s a dark, thunderous day in the kingdom of Elara. The rain won’t stop drumming on the castle roof. I’m looking out my window, as I often do in this weather. The gray, mystical view outside calms me. I can see the forest beyond, trees shuddering from the wind. A beam of lightning illuminates the sky.
As I observe the raging waves of the lake beyond, I notice something strange. A movement of water in a different direction than the wind. I look closer. Perhaps my vision is playing tricks, I must be tired. But no, there it is again! Taking one last look at the strange wave, I dart out of my quarters and down to the stable. I mount my horse, ignoring my dress as the skirt of it tears. We gallop through pouring rain and warm, summer winds towards the lake. As I get nearer, I begin to make out the shapes of our boat and the surrounding trees in the distance. I dismount at the shores of the stormy waters. I turn around and freeze. Before me, with a piercing, emerald stare, stands a dragon. Suddenly, the creature pounces. All goes black. I have been swallowed by the dragon, and I…
I startle awake.
Judge’s notes
JK: This was one of the more cohesive of the entries. The sensory details were strong and felt like the beginning of something magical.
