Why hello there,

Get in your entries now! The deadline for READ Magazine's Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry contest is Wednesday, January 31! That's like... tomorrow. Well, actually it's the day after tomorrow, but it might as well be tomorrow because it's just that close!

You can find out more details here.

Here's a poem that will not win this contest:

One Lonely Sneaker
I once met a man named Horatio,
He told me I should rhyme his name with "ratio."
But I didn't want to,
So I didn't.
And that really showed him who was boss.
But then he pointed out to me
That I actually did
In line 2
And it was quite an embarrassing revelation, I must say.

Oh, and did I mention he wore one lonely sneaker?

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Reasons why One Lonely Sneaker will not win the Ann Arlys Bowler poetry contest:

1) It is a poem of very poor quality.
2) I wrote it.

Enter now. Peace out.

- Story by Austin Siegemund-Broka, Grade 9

Gregor lived on an island.

At least, most of the time he did. Usually, he had the whole paradise to himself, a luscious, green patch of land with abundant animals and fruits. But every once in a while, the beautiful surroundings would melt away and Gregor would be left looking at a drab, white door. He would be in a small room of white tile, with only a simple wooden chair, upon which Gregor sat. There was a small bare lightbulb on the ceiling and gray-brown stains around some of the tiles.

But that was very rare. Mostly it was just Gregor on his island. It wasn't a large place, small enough for Gregor to know exactly where he was all the time. There was crystal blue surf, as warm as a Jacuzzi tub, and powdery white sand. The plants were always full and green, but not only green. There were huge flowers and vines, some purple, some orange, some pink. They gave the island a splash of brightness.

Gregor thought about this blessing bestowed on him. This is my favorite place, he thought. My favorite place ever.

As wonderful as his paradise was, though, strange things had begun to happen on Gregor's island. He felt it was no longer his, like there was a presence watching over it. Mostly, there were voices. Sometimes, just out of the baby-blue sky, voices would come. There was often a male voice, and sometimes a female one, too. These invisible speakers weren't loud, but they weren't incomprehensible either.

What they said, however, worried Gregor more. He often caught the entire conversation, and remembered specific lines of dialogue. "He has a form of schizophrenia," the male voice had said once. Gregor didn't know the word, but it sounded bad. There was a long pause before the female chimed in.

"Schizophrenia? I'm afraid I don't understand, doctor."

"I believe it to be a very acute form of the disorder. He imagines he's somewhere else completely."

This had come as a shock to Gregor. A disorder? What did they mean, these people? And where else could I be? I'm on my island. MY island. I can see things. I can hear things. I can touch things.

"It's funny," the man said. "There's absolutely no history of mental illness in his family. I think he's one apple that fell way off the tree," Gregor realized with a cold dread that he was the "he".

Last week ... or maybe it was two weeks ago ...

   If it was that long ago, what took you so long to tell us about it?

Yeah. Sorry. My bad. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah... about 60 weeks ago, I was getting coffee with the editor of Writing magazine. I have a tendency to talk her ear off in almost every situation and this day (about 537 weeks ago) was no different. I was telling her how much I was enjoying a book I was reading. The book in question was A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving. We had both seen the author read from this exact novel at an event in New York City a while back (you can read about that night here) and she had bought me the book for my birthday.

ANYWAY...

As we're talking and preparing our coffee, a woman next to us overhears the conversation and jumps in.

"I love that book," she says. "I've always had a thing for John Irving." (I assume she meant John Irving's writing, but then again, what do I know? Maybe she's in love with the guy?)

So OK. Now we're talking to some stranger about literature. Awesome! I love it when this happens!

"You should really read the book though," she says. "The book is so much better than the movie."

Huh?

At this point, I surmised that her eavesdropping faculties had malfunctioned. She had heard us wrong. I was talking about the book, A Prayer for Owen Meany, not the movie it was adapted into, Simon Birch. How she made this mistake, I have no idea because I must have said "Owen Meany" at least 3 or 4 times before she spoke up.

Side note - As if this rant isn't confusing enough to follow, try making sense of this: Why would Hollywood disregard a perfectly good character name like "Owen Meany" and change it to "Simon Birch"? What could those west coast fat cats possibly have to gain from committing such a travesty? Show me the marketing research that says "Simon Birch" is a more suitable name for a tiny dude with a high-pitch squeal of a voice than "Owen Meany" and I will show you faulty research. Come on. It's not even a contest.

Side note's Side note - OK, I have an answer to the madness. I just checked IMDB.com, and according to them, "Author John Irving doubted his novel, A Prayer for Owen Meaney, could ever be turned into a film, and sold the screen rights on the condition it not be released under the same name as his book." Well alrighty then! This, I can live with!

Now back to the game...

So here's my problem with this woman that got coffee with us and, consequently, with pretty much everybody in America: if we happen to overhear someone talking about a book, we automatically assume, they are talking about a movie. I don't blame the woman for her oversight. I've probably been guilty of this, too. And I'm not a complete snob. There are plenty of films out there that, I'm sure, are much better than the books they come from. I just can't think of any right now.

Argh. I think I had a point originally, and I think it was a good one. But it is obvious now that I have completely lost it and am even coming off as some kind of angry literary purist jerk. I suppose that's what I get for waiting 900 bizillion weeks to write about it.

Wow. Sorry.

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Starting over...

I like A Prayer for Owen Meany. It is a book that I have enjoyed reading. Owen is a fascinating character. And the story is warm.

The End

According to a well-worn proverb, a picture is worth a thousand words. In the January 2007 issue of Writing, we published a photograph this photograph in our "I,000 Words" column and asked you: What memory from your own life does this photograph prompt? What places or persons does it remind you of? Write a narrative essay that begins with the words "I remember ..."

Here is one of our favorite submissions. It comes to us from Rachel Ourand, a junior at Huntingtown High School in Huntingtown, MD. When she looked at this image, she was reminded of a photograph on the fourth page of her family album—a picture of a rusty, blue car with the seat pushed up to reveal a melted lunch box on the floor.

I remember it was the first day back from spring break. Aunt Kathy decided to take me and Mandy out to breakfast at Denny’s for the “special occasion” as she liked to call it.  
   I was in a blue dress and Mandy in jeans and a t-shirt.  She was going to middle school which is so much superior to my second-grade self. It was OK with me though. I loved Mandy and thought it made her that much cooler.  I had a middle schooler to look out for me. What a cousin she was!  
   So I got up and put my pink backpack on the kitchen table.  I started the check list. 
   “Pencil?” My aunt asked.
   “Check.”  I answered.  
   “Book?” She always had to make sure everything is in place.
  “Check.” 
 “Paper?”
  “Check.”
  “Folder?”
 “Check”
 “OK, I think that’s it. Go put your shoes on. And where is Mandy? Mandy!”  She screamed.
 “Wait!  My lunch!”  I ran to the fridge.
 “Oh, yes. How could we ever forget Rachel’s lunch?!”  My aunt laughed.
   It was a very special lunch. I had especially made it the night before. I had a ham and cheese sandwich on “white bread” (at that age I didn’t really know the difference between whole wheat bread and regular bread I just liked to argue that “white bread” was the good kind), a Hi-C juice box, an apple, and lastly a fruit-roll-up. Last time we had fruit-roll-ups my brother, Mike, and Mandy had eaten them all before I got any and fruit-roll-ups were my favorite!  So I made sure that the next time we bought them I got one—the first one to be exact. 
   Anyway I set my lunch in my back pack in front of all my books because I didn’t want it to get squished.  Mandy came in ready to go and I put on my shoes and tied them.  Not too bad may I say for a six year old, double knots and all; I did it on my own.  We went outside and walked to the old rusty blue car.  I got in the back and set my back pack beside me so as not to hurt my lunch. Then Mandy got in the passenger side and handed me her books.  Man!  Those things were heavy!  I put them on the seat and set my book bag on top of them. 
 “OK, everyone have everything?” my aunt asked.
 “Yes, Mom. Now, let’s go!” Mandy said.
 “Rachel, do you have . . .”
 “Yes, Aunt Kathy. I have underwear.” Man, forget to put on underwear once in your life and they never let it go. I mean it was kindergarten and they had rushed me out of the house even though I kept trying to tell them I didn’t have any on under my dress. 


Aunt Kathy started the car and off we went. It was a bright and sunny morning and I keep looking out through the car window for people but I never found any.
 Next thing I knew the car broke down, not even two minutes from the Denny’s.  All we had to do is turn the corner and it was on our left.   I could see the end of the road and the turn! The car had enough power for my aunt to pull into someone’s drive way.  It was the last house in the neighborhood. 
 My aunt told us to stay in the car and she would go and knock on the door to use the phone and call my uncle.  I looked out the windows at the neighborhood and everything was quiet.  It was like one of those picture perfect neighborhoods with the ball in the lush green mowed lawns and all the cars neatly parked in their driveways.  The only thing missing was the people. 
 The floor of the car started to get warm and I could feel the heat through my shoes.
 “Mandy?”  I asked.
 “Hmm,” she replied.
 “Mandy, is the floor hot to you?  Because I can feel it and it’s hot.”
 “Yeah, it is getting warm.” At this point we both were looking at the floor of the car trying to figure out why it was so hot. 
 “Get out the car!  Get out the car!”  My aunt screamed at us.  I looked up and there was smoke coming out from the hood.