2nd Place

The light in the kitchen doubled as the door eased forward and the scent of my father’s cigarettes filled the room; he was home from work at the usual time. He carried a garment bag over his shoulder, smiling sheepishly at me while clutching his cigarette between his lips. “Why are you just getting home now?” I asked, the confusion apparent in my voice. His mother passed away that morning, and I received the call seven hours earlier. I stood with the entire room between us, my feet rooted but prepared to retreat, not yet sure of the mood he might be in.

Introduction by Jessica Shamberger, Barrett Committee:

The carnival train, full of colors, clowns, animals, and one headless giraffe, barrelled towards the floor vent where Mrs. Macaroni stood, screaming a terrible ‘here comes the train’ out of its whistle. Mrs. Macaroni seemed glued to the spot, and when the train crashed into her thigh, she fell with a screech onto the linoleum floor, and breathed her last breath. Suddenly, Michael sprang to his feet from where he had been lying pantsless and shoeless mere feet away, saw Mrs. Macaroni lying on the ground, and screamed a heartbreaking and high-pitched ‘NOOO!’

You’re leaving tomorrow  19 years with you right down the street
Tomorrow is far away
so we talk and laugh  like we always do
We try to make the most of the time we have
But today is just like the others
I leave your house late and come back early
Without even noticing  today became tomorrow
with no sleep to divide them
The sun shining bright
but a dark cloud is in our hearts
pouring rain
a sinking feeling inside us
Tomorrow is today
but it doesn’t feel real

The car parked in front of me looked like something out of a movie. An old, powder blue pick-up with three miniature American flags. I knew the person already but I hated myself for assuming so quickly. The car was a little rustic like the man in my head. I walked to see the back of the car and was disappointed that I was so right: Trump/Pence. The only thing that surprised me was that it was the library parking lot.

What is this doing here? I thought. I was cleaning out the kitchen before my mom arrived the next day when I found my mug in the cupboard on the highest shelf. I had to climb the counter to reach that shelf. I expected to find expired prescription pills and a bag of flax seeds that needed to be thrown out but not my mug. I was drinking coffee from that mug just a few days ago at 5am while writing a term paper.

Colter Poetry Prize Winner Sarah Williams

Introduction by Dr. Peter Kim, Barrett Committee:

"Sure there aren't any in the back?"

The man Mom asks is bald on his head and full of hair everywhere else. He does not look the type she would normally ask for assistance. But here, in Greenland Market, no one looks the type. He reaches for the garbanzo bean boxes and begins to unload them. His sweaty hands leave imprints on the can tops. Mom and I meet eyes; we both know the other is disgusted. Still we wait. Without looking up, he scratches his neck and speaks. "The truck comes in tomorrow."

Charlene couldn’t recall a specific day or time when she first recognized that she was never going to do anything memorable with her life. It was a realization that had crept up on her slowly over the years. Like the proverbial frog sitting in water that’s being slowly heated, she hadn’t noticed that the water was boiling until it was too late…until she was already cooked.

These are my hands.

They remind me of my youth. These protruding wrist bones remind me of the numerous front walkovers and back handsprings to which I’ve subjected my body. This ragged, faded scar on my wrist reminds me of summer camp, a time that was blissfully free from peer pressure, and divorcing parents. These callouses around my finger nails remain from a nervous habit that developed during the awkwardness of puberty. When I manicure my nails I remember the summer that I turned 13, and my mother first let me wear iridescent pink nail polish.

These are my hands.