July 2010 Contest Winners
Hooray! We have made it through one more Scinti writing contest, for July 2010. And what an amazing event it has been! Thank you for taking this journey with us. We have experienced, along with the authors, lives changing, lives beginning, lives moving on, lives finding their place in the world, lives searching, and lives finding that for which they have been searching.
If we were able, we would applaud and highlight each story. Here we wish to express our gratitude to you who wrote in and submitted your stories. Whether or not your submission made its way to the list of “finalists” or further, each story was extraordinary in its own right, because every life is unique and each person has something special to share.
We are pleased to now announce the winners: chosen by you!
Thank you, each of you, for reading the stories, laughing and crying with us, liking some, commenting on others, and letting Scinti be a part of your lives through this writing contest.
An honorable mention is due a few stories and we cannot let them pass without saying a few words on their behalf… Continue Reading
Hello again!
We are happy to announce the 21 finalists, this time out of over 200 submissions! Congratulations!—to each story that has been chosen as one of the finalists. It was not easy to choose and we want to thank each one of you who submitted a story. We wish that we could publish them all, as each one is special; we know they were written from the heart.
We hope that you will enjoy reading these stories as much as we have. Please feel free to comment, “like”, and let everyone know what you think about the stories that you read. It is up to you who the winners will be…
Winners will be chosen based on Facebook “likes” on our fan page. Simply go to our Facebook fan page, “like” Scinti, scroll down to view the stories of our finalists, and start “liking” stories. For more details on the voting process, please go here.
Unless the winners go to tie, comments do not count as votes, but please do comment on the stories, as it is important. We are sure the authors of the stories would like to know how you felt about them, and everyone else enjoys reading them as well!
You can vote at any time from Monday, August 9th until Sunday, August 22nd (10PM eastern time).
The twenty-one finalists are: Continue Reading
My not being a big fan of organized religion has less to do with being the daughter of a Holocaust survivor than it does my aversion to organized anything, except perhaps, chaos. It also has to do with my being a seeker. I spent the first two decades of my life hearing and believing one version of the truth as it was told/explained/offered and served to me and the next three unraveling, dissecting and uncovering another one. I am spinning my yarn in reverse.
When you grow up in a predominantly Jewish neighborhood and your father is the local poster boy for Holocaust survival, you wear a certain badge of honor and earn the guilt by association that comes along with it. As if by extension, family members are defined by this label, without most people having any understanding of the fibers or material from which the cloth is woven. How much of it is organic or manufactured? Is it raw or processed? Does the suit feel as well as it looks or is it over worn? Whether you like it or not, it’s assigned to you and every day you wake up, take attendance, become that person and dress your part, even if the bigger part of who you really are is often notably absent. Continue Reading
I peek in on her while she sleeps, just to watch her breathe. She is beautiful every time. Her chest always rises and falls. Invariably, she’ll make some innocently sweet noise as though she knows I’m watching, and am in awe of every noise she makes. I am in awe of her. She is my redemption, and I must protect her from the entire world. Not everyone gets a second chance. Invariably, I will cross the room, stepping carefully and softly so I don’t molest her peace. Invariably, I will stand directly over her, admiring her; I will suppress an urge to cry because I love her so damned much. And invariably, I will lean down to plant the softest of kisses on her softest of cheeks.
I watch.
I swell with immeasurable pride.
I question. I question whether or not I can pull this off without fucking it up.
No, I insist, fucking it up is not even an option. Continue Reading
In high school, I never played football. It is still one of my biggest regrets to this day. I was always small growing up, so soccer seemed like the natural choice for my skill set. By the time high school came around, I had to make a choice; risk being a tackling dummy for a sport I loved to watch but never played competitively, or play varsity soccer and basically use it as conditioning for hockey. I chose the latter, and don’t get me wrong, I had an unbelievable experience playing soccer at my high school.
The coaches were as good as I’ve ever had, but my heart was never in the sport. I was the semi-joke who could cover anyone, but had bricks for feet when dribbling. On Saturdays, our games coincided with the football team’s matchups, and the fields would be absolutely packed, as they were close to each other.
Our soccer team was a damn good draw, making the NE tournament multiple times in my tenure, but it was the football team that garnered the most attention and one star player in particular.
My friend Darren was an unbelievable running back, cornerback, and kick returner. He defined agility, and his No. 21 became his calling card. Odds are, if you were an opponent, you got to see the back of that jersey enough to have it memorized. His senior year was ridiculous. He put up seven touchdowns—in one game—and this wasn’t against the Perkins School for the Blind, it was a league game, and a huge one at that. Continue Reading
What do say when you find out that fairy tales aren’t real? That they simply just don’t exist. That in real life, things aren’t as perfect as they look on the outside. That everything you thought was true just turned out to be one big lie.
I turned my face away from my mother, towards the tinted window of the car, I watched the rain drops pelt against it, as the trees and highway raced by. I thought about my Mom and Dad, I felt my eyes start to cloud as I tried to fight back the tears, my mom was not going to see me cry about this divorce, she was not going to see how much this hurt me. “Mom?” I asked in a quiet voice, I could hear it slightly quivering, I’m sure she heard it too, she didn’t mention anything about it though. “Yes?” she said not looking away from the road. “Did you think Dad was the right person for you when you married him?” I said not turning away from the window. She didn’t speak for awhile, I watched the sign for Baltimore pass by in a rush. “No.” she said bluntly, her voice was regretful. I turned to her, she looked like she was about to cry, “Then why did you marry him? Why did you put us through this?” I said my voice rising slightly. Her voice cracked “I was scared Katie, scared to be alone, I was scared of being lonely.” She finished I could see a single tear running down her face. I turned to the window fighting back tears myself. I got in control, wiped my eyes, and asked the window quietly “How did you know he wasn’t the man for you?” I was scared to hear the answer, but listened anyway. “I don’t think we should be talking about this, I don’t want you to hate your father.” she said. “Tell me please.” I whispered. I looked up we made eye contact for the briefest second, I could see how much deep sorrow and regret she had, she looked completely broken. “Please, tell me.” I whispered again, looking down at my hands. It seemed a million years before she finally said “Ok.” Continue Reading
I walked along the hospital hallway until I came to a wooden door marked 123. I was looking for an empty room to sit and read, it wasn’t far from where Tommy’s mother was being held, so I walked in. I didn’t look at the two beds as I walked into the musty smelling room. I went to a rocking chair in the far corner of the room near the wide window overlooking the parking lot. I sat in it and began to read. I was really getting into The Waltz, when someone coughed in front of me. I jumped, my cane and all four books landed with a clatter on the floor. I hurried to gather them up and leave, but a boy about 17 stopped me.
“What are you scared for?” He asked. I was still gathering up my books and cane and managed to slow my heartbeat down some. I sat back down in the rocking chair and looked at the voice that spoke to me. He was tall, even sitting he was at least 7 inches taller than I was. His eyes were brown, and he was bald. He was extremely skinny, and his bottom lip stuck out a little. His skin was coal black with huge hands and unnaturally long arms. Without even bending over, he just reached down and handed me my cane. I was apprehensive about taking things from him because I am not sure if what he has is catching. He appeared to be staring at my chest so I removed one of the four books that rest there and show it to him. Without even looking at the title he said, “The Waltz. By D Parker. I like it. Lots of metaphors are portrayed within the story.” He continued. I felt like I had met my twin. I can’t help but like him instantly. Continue Reading
Throughout my life I have had many moments in my life where I didn’t know whether or not I would survive. I have crashed into a jet skier while going 40 mph while tubing, I have been on a plane that had the oxygen masked come down because we were suppose to crash, and I have had a severe concussion which had me in the hospital in a deep sleep for three days. All of those experiences are some of my most extreme and scary moments I have had in my life, but for some reason the most scary time of my life has come within the past four months.
Recently, I discovered both my mom and dad were diagnosed with thyroid cancer. I think why it hit me so hard was not only because my parents were both of my heroes in my life, but because ever since I was little it never occurred to me that my parents would ever grow old, or become sick, or even eventually might die, but once this news hit me I was in shock. First my mom was diagnosed and then a month later came my Dad. Through all my dad’s treatments my mom would help lead him through the tough time by telling him what to expect, what the treatments were like, what medicine to take, what diet and foods would help battle this cancer, and how to deal with this disease mentally and physically. She did this while still having the cancer herself. To my surprise not only did this help them stay positive throughout the treatments but it brought them closer together and more in love. Continue Reading
Most of us remember our sister’s birthday, our parents’ wedding anniversary or our first date with “the one”. For me however, I remember the day that I killed my baby. I remember the day I found out I was pregnant, the day that she died and the day that she would have turned another year old. I know these dates. They are infused in me as much as she was.
This isn’t a “story” about my great loss or an anti-abortion rant. To the contrary, I am still very much pro-choice, pro-choice with information however. With support and guidance and the knowledge to make the right decision. Had I had these things my decision would have been much different. I would be the mother to a beautiful, rambunctious, happy little 5-year old girl today. I would have called her Finley. Continue Reading
The room was silent except for a steady beat of the monitor, scribbles like cracks in pavement frantically drawn on the black screen. He lay motionless on the narrow hospital bed in excruciating pain. There was a feeding tube, like the hole on an inflatable toy, on his chest. He was completely deflated…emaciated, his legs like twigs outlined by a light blue blanket. A large cross necklace rested on his bony chest and murmuring heart. His name was Timothy, and he was barely twenty years old.
He hadn’t eaten in three days due to intense nausea and vomiting, and he hadn’t taken his normally high dosage of morphine. Cancer had metastasized throughout his body. I listened in shock as he listed affected body parts: legs, bones, brain, lungs…
He couldn’t turn over in bed while the nurse drew blood for numerous tests, so we shifted his body position by slowly pulling a sheet under him. The nurse tied a tourniquet over his elbow and palpated with her fingers, searching for a vein. Needle in place, I watched his dark blood fill vial after vial as his face twisted in pain. He was so fragile and weak, struggling to make it through. His wife held his hand in hers and his brother carefully massaged his feet at the end of the bed. Continue Reading
Grandma is dying. That’s what they do, you said. And I said: I know. Trust me, I know.
I was over her house yesterday, a week before Thanksgiving, doing some yard work. In her usual energy, she donned work gloves and came out to help. But when she crouched over to survey the ground, she would hunch at the waist, splay her hands on her thighs, and slow her breath. She finally went back into hermobile home, a cozy and warm space, to lie down on her purple couch. Mojo, the small white dog with curly fur followed her inside. He will outlive her.
In the yard, I tend to sticks and cones strewn about the yard, a pattern not so dissimilar from the bright pattern of bad stuff on my grandmother’s last X-Ray. That X-Ray was taken last week. Here’s what else happened last week: she went shopping for wigs. That’s what chemotherapy does, you said. And I said: I know. Continue Reading
I was just a baby when my mother’s little brother, Bob, tried to take his own life. He was 18. My grandpa was the one who found him, lying unconscious in a haze of exhaust and carbon monoxide. He pulled him from the garage, saving his life.
As I grew up, my brothers and I spent a lot of time with uncle Bob. He was fun to be around. He would strum a song for us on his guitar, making the words up as he went along. He also was a gifted artist and he would draw funny pictures to keep us entertained. He married one time, but it did not last. He supported himself by painting signs for businesses, and spent his spare time drawing or singing and playing the blues on his guitar. He lived in a rat hole apartment behind a bar.
He never was much of a drinker, but he used drugs, lots of them. When I was 12, he overdosed on some pills. After that he was never the same. He would disappear for weeks, months, years. We did not know if he was dead or alive. Occasionally, one of his musician buddies would call and say they had seen him here or there, but he never stayed in one place long.
When I was 19, my mother died suddenly, leaving me and my two brothers, ages 11 and 13, sick with grief. By some miracle, we were able to find my uncle for the funeral. The pain in his face was evident as he played his guitar for her one last time. Soon after the funeral, he took off again. Continue Reading
There are two different sides of Mexico City. The area where the wealthy reside shines with gorgeous mansions and luxurious apartments that line the streets, humming together in unity. The ground sprouts flowers and trees that smile at their inhabitants and the obnoxious voice of the city is silenced. Families can be seen strolling the worn down pavement, grinning amongst themselves, obliviously ignoring any foreigner to their class. On sunny days Mexico City appears to be not a city at all, but instead a perfectly painted picture that is worthy of a king’s hall. Then, right down the street there is another world, panting from exhaustion and muted by a small portion of the population. It’s littered and clustered streets beat anxiously, driven into depression by poverty and loneliness. There are no police; instead the roads are governed by manipulation and blood. Houses are built on top of each other and small, cold beds are shared. It is a sad scene, one that when stared at for too long can drive one into a madness deeper then their bodies can bare. This sad scene is inevitable; even in the richest areas of the city there are lingering beggars who wake up in the chill of dawn to walk to their streets job from the squalid area they call home. Continue Reading
Speaking to my aunt Janice is always like a refreshing boast of confidence. Whenever I’m unsure of my direction in life, she always seems to give me that nudge in the right direction. Glancing at her life and seeing how her passion for children has led her have an extremely happy career as an elementary school teacher, has always acted as a huge support for my own personal goals. During one of our weekly gabfests I was reminded of just how special she was, not only to me, but also to her students. She boasted with so much pride on an event that occurred in her class recently.
A wasp that tragically wandered into her class, met his fate by the slamming of a classroom door. It turns out the executioner of this creature was my aunt, and upon discovery of the incident her class began to deem her a murderer. Being a muse of creativity and quick-witted charm, my aunt used this situation as a medium to flex the children’s writing muscles. What seemed like an image crushing blow for her, turned into one of the proudest moments as a teacher she has ever witnessed. Assigning her class to construct a multitude of eulogies, poems, and songs led to a created funeral service for the poor diminished stray. Not only was a piece of her humanity reestablished in the eyes of the tiny beings she loved, their writing and creativity flourished. This event seemingly was brought on by the death of a rejected insect. Continue Reading
It should have happened sooner. Possibly when my husband and I outgrew the Young Married class at church. Or perhaps the day the cute grocery sacker called me a respectful “Ma’am” instead of flirting with me. At least I should have realized it the day the nurse handed me my firstborn child.
But at age forty, with a husband and four young children, I was woefully unprepared for adulthood when the doctor looked from my eyes to my mother’s ashen face against the sheet: “I’m sorry, it’s cancer. Its spread so much, there’s nothing we can do.” Continue Reading
I commute to work on the subway. For the most part, it beats sitting bumper to bumper inching along on a superhighway, but it does have its drawbacks – sardine-like conditions, arid platforms, interminable delays among them. It isn’t often that I get a seat during rush hour. By happenstance, today I am standing in front of someone who gets off at the Park Place station. You can’t hesitate for a moment if you want a seat on a crowded train. Polite people stand a lot.
I’m engrossed in my latest read when the woman to my left asks me a question.
“Do you know what this word means?” She points to solidify in her book. She has a pleasingly round face and shaved head with a five o’clock shadow. The lack of hair makes her pink lipstick stand out against her chocolate skin.
“It means to make stronger.” Continue Reading
Individual beads of sweat rolled down the center of my back while simultaneously tears glided down my flushed cheeks, and leapt from my sorrowful face. There were so many tears, and each minute drop felt larger than those that preceded it. I was sure that we would have a massive flood on our hands or at the very least, that these tears would dehydrate me. A sterile medical stench crept through the halls like an invisible ghost that came only to haunt me, and it made my stomach turn. At the same time an obnoxious beeping noise fills my ears. The annoying noise stemming from machines, their tubes fused to my wrists like handcuffs imprisoning me by surrounding my bed. These machines were no doubt controlling the morphine drip that confused my mind, but only masked the pain for which it was meant to control. Continue Reading
My first recollection of my mother’s voice was her laughter—she would sing silly songs or repeat nonsense verses, then laugh out loud with a high pitched shrill voice. That voice was pleasant to me and joyful. It would make me laugh. But other times, that same voice was piercing and uncomfortable, especially when she was angry, tense or upset. I wanted to cover my ears.
As a teenager, I would often react to her voice with harsh words or try to seek seclusion from its sound. I heard that same voice again as a young mother, tired and stressed, only this time it was directed at my own children. I was shocked to hear it come, not from her mouth, but my own. I vowed it would never be heard from me again, but it did, more often than I had hoped. Continue Reading
Why is everybody screaming?
Why is everybody running?
What did I just get myself in to?
These were the questions that were bouncing around my mind as I ran and screamed and tried to get my head re-wired to my feet. The last six hours of sitting, trying to wrap my thoughts around my future had just exploded into a very real “right here” and “right now.” I didn’t know where I was running to, but apparently, I should have been there five minutes ago, and now I had five seconds to get there… and they being counted down by someone who was none too happy with my performance. Continue Reading
I’ll probably never see my best friend again.
We met as third-graders at a church youth group. I hated him at first because he was taller than me, which meant he stood first in line for our Awana team. But it was music nerd love at first sight when he pulled a Run-DMC tape out of his pocket.
We were inseparable for about 15 years. He passed me my first joint. We slept in basements, on couches and in cars together. The night he cried because I was killing myself with drugs and alcohol was the night I decided to get clean. We lived together for so long without ever having girlfriends that my mother was convinced we were a gay couple.
I was the best man at his wedding. I there when his son was born. He stayed at my house the night his marriage fell apart. He sent me the only letters I got while in treatment. He always had an open door for me, no matter what mess I got myself into. He provided me with the stable living environment that I needed to finally get my shit together. Continue Reading
His hands are his most distinct feature. They are long and thin, but inexplicably expressive, particularly when drawing. Holding charcoal in both of his hands, he pushes the color across the canvas. Never hesitating, he moves his hands in rapid succession, making strong dark lines that fill the empty space. He takes a rag and smoothes the hard edges, shaping the curves of the body. Quickly, he turns his eyes toward the canvas then returns his gaze to the subject. Repeatedly, his dark eyes survey the precision of his work. Standing back from the drawing, he places one hand on his chin, the other on his hip. His hands unthinkingly touch the brim of his cap, adding to the smear of black stains. His thin body bends at the middle as he stands looking. He moves to one side of the drawing, tilts his head to the right and purses his lips. Then he takes hold of the drawing and turns it, first to the left, then to the right, viewing it from all angles. Pulling a cigarette from his jean pocket, he lights it, takes a drag, holds it in his right hand, takes the charcoal in his left and continues to draw. I sit on the ground with my back leaning against a wall and watch as he works. I can’t take my eyes off of his hands. Continue Reading
Watching from
Afar I see
A sight that
Brings a smile
To me.
~
A young man stands
With red roses
In his hands
In the middle
Of a lighted path.
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