Three young Mainers took home honors from the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance 2019 Maine Literary Awards earlier this month in each of three areas: fiction, nonfiction and poetry. The awards honor books published during 2018, as well as adult and youth manuscripts; this year the Alliance received more than 270 submissions. Panels of writers, editors, librarians, booksellers and literary professionals from across Maine judge each of the 17 book and manuscript awards; the entries are judged anonymously. Read on for this year’s winning youth entries.
Alexa Barstow Photo courtesy of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance
Youth Fiction Winner Alexa Barstow, a sophomore at Oceanside High in Rockland, said she intended “Greased Lightning” to portray the loss of childhood innocence in the modern world. Her writing has been published in Atomic Tangerine and We Gen Z by The Telling Room. Barstow says she does her best writing around 2 a.m.
“Greased Lightning”
The Matchbox car scratches across the cracked asphalt, plastic wheels spinning wildly. The little boy’s bare knees scrape against the sun-warmed sidewalk as he drives his toy back and forth. His mother had instructed him to get out of the house, simply so she could smoke her cigarettes while watching reality shows on their box television. The ceiling fans, which have been on all day, do nothing but move the hot air around, making the house even stuffier than usual. It was so gray and smoky inside that when his mother sent him out, the boy went without questioning.
The sidewalk in front of their house, like everything else in the town, is gray. The front yard is full of bland, dead grass. His mother used to insist on using green lawn paint on it, to at least make it look alive. Yet, after the boy’s father drove off in his green pickup truck, with his arm around a young, pretty blonde in the passenger seat, she had stopped painting the lawn. She stopped doing a lot of other things as well, like going to work or checking in with her son.
Other little boys ride up and down the street on their shiny bicycles, black-and-white Chuck Taylors pedaling furiously. The boy looks at his own ratty sneakers, which are practically falling apart and are so small that they leave blisters all over his feet. He feels heat rise to his cheeks, ignoring eye contact with the other boys.
He asked to play with them a few weeks before, but they told him he was too broke and that he couldn’t play with them unless he had a bike. When he finally worked up the courage to ask his mother about getting one, she had not been pleased.
She looked up slowly from her microwaved meal, her face making the boy shy away in fear, as she said in a cold voice, “I am not going to waste what little money we have to buy you a stupid bicycle. You have enough toys.”
This was not, in fact, true. He had never had many toys because his parents didn’t believe in spoiling a child, not that the boy had any idea what that meant. (Wasn’t spoiling what happened to bad food?) And after his father left, his mother laid most of his toys out on the front yard and sold them to the neighborhood boys’ mothers. He had managed to save only a single teddy bear and a few Matchbox cars by hiding under them his bed where she couldn’t find them.
His favorite of these cars is the black-and-silver one he has in his hand. He calls it Greased Lightning, like the song his mother used to sing under her breath all the time. She never sings it anymore, but it makes the boy smile to think about it.
Lost in his own little world, the boy pretends to race his cars, stopping occasionally to blow his blond hair out of his eyes. As the sky begins to burn, the day coming to an end, he looks up to realize where he is. Every house on the block looks the same, meaning it is impossible to pinpoint exactly which one belongs to him and how far he has gone from it. He feels unease settle in his stomach. Carefully getting to his feet, cars in hand, he looks around.
The neighborhood boys have completely disappeared. All the houses’ curtains are drawn shut, the whole town deathly silent. The boy turns wildly, trying to remember which way he had come from and how to get home. His father never got around to teaching him directions, though. Judging by the color of the sky, he knows this is the time his mother usually passes out on the couch after having a few too many drinks. She probably won’t even notice he hasn’t come home yet.
“What ya doin’, kid?” A scratchy voice comes from the falling darkness.
The boy whirls around, almost losing his grip on Greased Lightning. A hoarse chuckle fills the silence, and his eyes land on the person who has spoken to him.
A man leans up against the nearby stop sign, gray eyes watching him. One hand is inside the pocket of his baggy jeans, the other is holding a lit cigarette. He looks older than the boy’s mother, with a square jaw and a curtain of greasy dark hair. His posture is slouched, his ankles crossed, with an amused smile dancing on his lips.
“It’s a bit late for a little boy to be out by himself, don’t ya think?” the man asks, taking a long drag from his cigarette. He blows the smoke out in a thick cloud while the boy stares.
“I-I’m lost,” he stutters in response, looking down at the ground.
“Hmm. Well, why don’t you come with me? I can get you home,” the man muses, standing up straight.
The boy considers the offer. When he was younger, his father yelled at him for talking to a woman he hadn’t met before. He had been warned of strangers, and how potentially dangerous they could be. Still, his father had driven off with that blonde, and she was practically a stranger.
“Okay,” the boy agrees.
The man smirks, dropping his cigarette to the ground and scuffing it out with the toe of his boot. “Come on then.”
The boy trails behind him, dragging his feet on the sidewalk, which is still warm from the hidden sun. The man whistles while they walk, and without turning to look at the boy says, “I like your car, kid.”
“Thanks,” the boy replies quietly.
“Does it have a name?”
Nobody takes interest in what he does anymore, and no one has ever wanted to know the name of his car. The boy jumps on the opportunity.
The man laughs hoarsely after the boy’s response and changes the tune he is whistling. The boy perks up at the sound of the familiar melody. It sounds so much like his mother even though the man is nothing like her. The boy closes his eyes, imagining his mother offering a hand to her husband and son, inviting them to dance with her.
It is at this moment, with the boy’s eyes closed, remembering better times, that the man makes his move. He wraps one arm around the boy’s mouth and throat, and uses the other to get a grip on the child’s stomach and drag him into a nearby alley.
Paralyzed, the boy does not scream. He does not thrash or bite or do any of the things that any other child might’ve done in his situation. He lets his heels drag on the ground and his body go limp as the man slides open the door of a van.
You never know what strangers might do, son. You’re better off just staying away from them.
His father’s warning echoes in his head. It is the first time that the boy has managed to conjure him up. For months, he tried to remember moments with his father, but they always appeared like those boring, grainy movies with no dialogue that his aunt likes. The memory of this warning is loud and clear, though. The tension in his chest relaxes, if only slightly.
He feels the Matchbox car fall out of his pocket as the van door slams shut. The man peels away, tires squealing. They pass by the boy’s house where his mother is, predictably, passed out, an empty beer bottle in her hand and many more lying on the floor next to her. In the road out front, three toy cars remain on the cracked asphalt.
As the vehicle leaves the gray neighborhood, the boy feels the sadness of loss—not for his home or his mother, but for Greased Lightning, the one thing that had stayed with him through it all.
Elena Parr Photo courtesy of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance
Youth Nonfiction Winner Elena Parr, 15, loves poetry and likes to read nonfiction, as well as write it. Writing and art have always been interests of hers. Parr, who goes to Falmouth High, makes comics as a hobby. She also sings for the Portland Conservatory of Music.
“Dare To Flare”
I’m sitting in class, 7th grade, the bell rings. Finally, I think to myself, it’s break. I get up and thank the teacher and walk out of the classroom. The hall seems longer when you’re the first one out but it doesn’t stay for long. The students rush out running away from their never-ending nightmare. I stumble along with my eyes down at the floor trying to avoid eye contact. Tripping down the stairs to the cafeteria, painful. I take a sharp right and head in the noisy library. I find a seat and claim it. The seats around me fill rapidly and suddenly I’m lost in laughter. I’m trying to follow along in the conversation but instead, I fold over in pain. It starts to burn and my whole side feels like I’m being gutted. No one notices I’m not laughing anymore. Owen slaps his knee and makes a joke, my face turns purple. I can’t breathe; it’s unbearable. It fades out slowly and I finish my water then head to my next class.
8th grade, gym class. The pain happens more and more. I walk down to the ramp and scuffle to the locker room. After warm-ups, I’m told to do laps but my stomach says otherwise. I head back to the locker room and lie down till it fades to a bearable. Gym class ends. I sit down in the locker room while Debra changes. Tears slowly make their way down my cheek, fighting against me and leaving scars in their trails. “Oh no, what’s wrong now.” Debra rolls her eyes. “Nothing, just yawning.” I’m not yawning, but I don’t need a lecture on how my pain is nothing compared to falling off a horse.
The pain grew more consistent and I could feel my body growing more tired every day to the point where it was getting harder and harder to stay awake. I’d come home and fall asleep then wake up at 7 then go to bed again till the morning. My grades tanked. My parents were mad all the time.
I walk toward the stairs. “Elena!” my dad yells. So close. I turn around and drag my feet across the rug procrastinating my lecture.
“What are your grades?” my dad knows the answer but asks me anyways. “They need work.” I shrug and walk away.
“Umm… Elena!” my dad stops me.
“Look I’m doing the best I can.” I say trying to convey that I’m fine and he needs to lay off, but it seems it’s washing off his dense feathers like water on a duck. I feel light-headed.
“Look, if you need someone to talk to we can get you a therapist.” My dad’s words chase after me as I run up the stairs to my room.
There was nothing more to tell them. Doctors dismissed me, X-rays proved me wrong, people thought I was weird…I thought I was weird. The pain of being thought of as crazy hurt just as bad as the pain I lived through every day for a year.
Finally, the symptoms got so bad that life was miserable and my parents decided something was wrong (it took them long enough). So I went through some tests, and some more tests, and a few more, then I was asked repeatedly if I was lying. After they determined that there “might” be a problem, I was sent to a gastroenterologist. That day Nov. 1, 2017, the test results came in on all the tests. The answers that the paper held would change my life.
The doctor said, “Unfortunately there is something wrong, your scores on the tests that we did were far out of a normal range. The normal range is 50-100, you got 465. We are going to get to the bottom of this and figure it out.” After I hear that part I stare at the wall and I’m shaking. I can’t move, I can’t breathe, I can’t hear. What am I going to do, am I the same person now that I know I’m not crazy. I’m not crazy anymore I think internalizing this as a good thing. I’m right! But what if I didn’t want to be right. There’s a sudden ringing in my ear as if there were a bell, I realized it was the people talking. But then everything went silent. I really wish I was wrong, rather than right.
It was the first day back to school since my diagnosis in the distance I see the big yellow smelly bus puffing along to a smoky stop at my mom’s house. To my right, Logan, my neighbor, is attempting to kick his sister. I walk up onto the bus, “Hey Mary” I say like I did every day. “Hey where have you been?” she asks. I plop my stuff into her lap and squished into the bus seat. “I was in the hospital.” I say without realizing that I scared her half to death. “Don’t worry I’m ok for the most part.” I uncomfortably mutter. Tears race down my cheeks, for no reason I can think of, they cross the finish line to my shirt then absorb into the fabric. I can hear my heartbeat throbbing in a rhythmic pattern but it suddenly gets faster and faster. Mary hugs me like I was a sick kitten and asks, “what’s wrong?” I tell her that I have been diagnosed with IBD then I explain what it is.
Two weeks later and I feel ill. I run to the nurse after almost vomiting and I get sent home with the flu. I am more susceptible to diseases.
First day back since the flu. I have a slight stomach ache but ignoring is the best recipe for zoning out, which is my current plan of the day. History class, my teacher Mr Gilman sways and closes his eyes rocking back and forth in his adventurous life as George Washington. The class stares at the floor, almost in as much pain as me. I look at the clock then at Gilman, then at the floor. He looks at the wall, I stand up and carefully push my chair away. My pencil falls and I wince and look back up. All clear. I scoot toward the wall and lie on my back. Sweet relief. My stomach unknots. I can breathe. I make it all the way to lunch. I grab my tray and memorize my path to music to see if I can get there with my eyes closed. I fail. I open the squeaky door and sit on a table and listen to the conversation. I stuff my face I’m probably just hungry anyways. Lunch ends and I stand up my hands grip the table grasping for peace. I grit my teeth together and the salty water flies off my face like fireworks on the Fourth of July. “I can’t do this!!” I try to yell but it comes out as a heavy whisper. I got to the nurse, she is quite mad at me and thought I was faking. I was trying to put on a good face. My mom pulled up I got in and burst into thunderstorms of tears. We got to the hospital walked into the ER and checked in. They told me to wait in the waiting room so I walked to the corner and sat in the uncomfortable chair. I stared at the wall and for some reason, the tears just poured like a waterfall and I had no control. I stayed home for another week when the X-ray revealed my pain.
I stayed at my dad’s house, it was Friday. I wake up and run to get dressed, I’m late. I head out the door sprinting to the end of the driveway. The bus bounces on the road and then comes to a slow stop. I hop up the stairs and slide into the seat. We come upon the winding road otherwise known as Cecilia’s street. She climbs up the stairs and slams me against the window as she scoots into the seat. “Where were you?” she asks
“I was at the hospital on Monday for 10 hours then I rested at home for a few days.”
“Oh no, what happened?” Cecelia inquires.
“ I have I.B.D and I had a flare.” I said.
“What’s that?” she questioned.
“I have ulcers in my colon and sometimes they get irritated,” I explained.
“Oh yeah, . . . that can’t be as bad as this headache.” she remarks.
“Uh, sure ok then,” I sigh.
“Man, you can’t imagine the pain I have right now.” She says as her face tenses up in annoyance.
I stare at the floor as she talks some more about her adventures to Paris. The bus huffs to a tired stop. I pick up my stuff and heave it over my shoulder while I hop down the stairs onto the slushy pavement. A pathetic blanket of snow covered the roof and I breathed in the cool misty air. The dead tree loomed over me and hung its weak bendy branches out. The warm heated air flushes my face and fogs my glasses. Days went by with the same morning and the same ending until finally the year came to an end and the days got warmer with beautiful breezes that blew through the summer. Everything that I had ever done was leading up to high school, my experiences, my memories, the change between child and childish.
I am now in remission, after a year of battling my illness and at many times myself, I now have better days and better grades. Today I get to school, sit with my friends and laugh for 35 minutes. I sit in a boring history class and then take a boring math test 20 minutes late. It feels really good to have a normal boring life.
Emma Auer Photo courtesy of Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance
Youth Poetry Winner Emma Auer was born in Indiana but has spent the last several years in Falmouth. Both places, she says, influence her writing. Auer lists her favorite writers as Louise Erdrich, Gillian Flynn and Donna Tartt, though she adds she is “also partial to Sue Grafton when the mood suits.” Emma will start at Middlebury College this fall.
“The Cornfield Queen”
Sometimes, your life begins
when someone else’s ends.
A world away is a land of small town murders
and miles of tents on a blacktop,
a dusky sky bringing early night
to the crackling bonfires and beer cans below.
Back then, you ate nothing but cheap disks of beef,
sandwiched between squishy bread
which stuck to the palate.
Little girl, you woke up one morning
so your world could change.
What America lost and needs to find:
Blue eyed girls on posters who don’t weigh much,
whose smiles are natural,
who disappear off the face of the earth,
leaving their shoes and keys behind like tomorrow will begin again.
Her shadow is tinged green, a matrix
of alleyways and torn feet
as she stumbles into the hardness of nighttime.
She is tugged into the black rip,
into an open doorway
and thumping bass
and thumping hearts
and the clamping of never being again.
The sensations you remember are the crunch of
teeth scraping.
The sensations you remember are
shoes rustling through leaves
and snapping sticks in two,
of breaking autumn’s bones.
The sensations you remember are chasing lightning bugs
and not knowing why.
She was on roadside billboards everywhere:
Have you seen me, Queen of the cornfields,
blotting out the setting sun?
Your heart cried for her on the way to work, to school,
to Indianapolis and back.
It is late, and you cannot sleep.
The glow from the study illuminates the hall.
Sleep snickers beyond the door and listens to the moon.
A vulture flying can see everything—
like children playing at the edge of a forest.
Sometimes, a vulture flying knows
when children play near something dead.
A child like you wonders if he has the language to warn them.
“The Faces I Will Never Have”
I say goodbye to those I could have been,
for now is the only thing I possess.
I will never know their smiles or their sin.
I know definites, I was born a twin,
but every choice I make I can’t suppress:
I say goodbye to those I could have been.
Fears spring forth like the mischief of a jinn,
I close my eyes and wait for sleep’s caress,
I will never know their smiles or their sin.
My future’s writ in ink that burns like gin,
The scribe is hurried, hands under duress.
I say goodbye to those I could have been.
I hope one day to make peace with my skin:
I cannot ask a new face for redress.
I will never know their smiles or their sin.
Though the clock is set, time is not my kin.
I know not its secrets, it will not confess.
I say goodbye to those I could have been.
I will never know their smiles or their sin.
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