Poetry Contest for New Jersey High School Students (2025)
Winners and Honorable Mentions Announcement
The William Paterson University Department of Language, Literature, Culture and Writing (LLCW) is pleased to announce the winner and a runner up for the third annual NJ High School Writing Contest! This year's contest was judged by Dr. John Parras: the BA/MFA Coordinator for WP's Creative Writing program, as well as Map Literary's editor-in-chief. Dr. Parras received a B.A. in Creative Writing from Carnegie Mellon University and a Ph.D. in English & Comparative Literature from Columbia University.
And the winner for poetry is…
“There is No Cure,” by Desiree Okonkwo
no key, no map, no plan to hatch,
no exit routes or escape latch,
no backup to dispatch,
no way out, and no way back,
to a world bereft of the medication,
an oasis with no white coats who just diagnose,
or perpetual parental petrification at my
unseemly situation,
or my own pain, more privatized,
my own cries, silenced by another child’s
instead, my fingers remain my muzzle,
my mouth muttering muffled murmurs of misery,
striving not to move a muscle,
lest I interrupt my mother’s reverie,
where one dosage suddenly stops all maladies,
her hopeful fantasy of permanent recovery,
this fallacious fallacy that there will be a cure for me,
a rainbow ruined by the rapids of reality.
for the torrential towers of truth are far too strong,
and if she were to be ensnared in their throng,
each iota of her hope would sink in the shore’s dawn,
swept up by the siren’s sorrowful song,
melodies of maladies sung by the chime of children’s cries,
too young to dry their own eyes,
to wince instead of whimper as they wait for the pain to subside,
to disguise their own demise for their parents’ peace of mind,
too young to know that despite the length of their life,
no matter how much they fight,
and struggle against the strife,
these cries will always rear their ugly head,
again,
and again,
and again.
a ballad blearing like a broken belabor,
a soundtrack of pain performed,
endlessly looping the same score,
a reminder laden in every haunting chord,
that these cries will always signify,
the vast difference or divide,
between now and who we left behind,
under the light of the surgeon’s knife,
that excised us from our past lives,
for the night we were diagnosed,
was the night we truly died,
a cure never to materialize.
And the winner for poetry is…
“There is No Cure,” by Desiree Okonkwo
no key, no map, no plan to hatch,
no exit routes or escape latch,
no backup to dispatch,
no way out, and no way back,
to a world bereft of the medication,
an oasis with no white coats who just diagnose,
or perpetual parental petrification at my
unseemly situation,
or my own pain, more privatized,
my own cries, silenced by another child’s
instead, my fingers remain my muzzle,
my mouth muttering muffled murmurs of misery,
striving not to move a muscle,
lest I interrupt my mother’s reverie,
where one dosage suddenly stops all maladies,
her hopeful fantasy of permanent recovery,
this fallacious fallacy that there will be a cure for me,
a rainbow ruined by the rapids of reality.
for the torrential towers of truth are far too strong,
and if she were to be ensnared in their throng,
each iota of her hope would sink in the shore’s dawn,
swept up by the siren’s sorrowful song,
melodies of maladies sung by the chime of children’s cries,
too young to dry their own eyes,
to wince instead of whimper as they wait for the pain to subside,
to disguise their own demise for their parents’ peace of mind,
too young to know that despite the length of their life,
no matter how much they fight,
and struggle against the strife,
these cries will always rear their ugly head,
again,
and again,
and again.
a ballad blearing like a broken belabor,
a soundtrack of pain performed,
endlessly looping the same score,
a reminder laden in every haunting chord,
that these cries will always signify,
the vast difference or divide,
between now and who we left behind,
under the light of the surgeon’s knife,
that excised us from our past lives,
for the night we were diagnosed,
was the night we truly died,
a cure never to materialize.
Desiree Okonkwo is a high school sophomore at County Prep High School in Jersey City, New Jersey. She is an aspiring writer and tenth grade student, and she is tremendously passionate about feminism, intersectionality, and reading. Desiree uses her writing as a way to express her emotions, and work through significant experiences in her life, which is the impetus for her featured poem, “There is No Cure,” where she dissects her perspective regarding her autoimmune disease
Honorable Mention
Excerpt from “The Garden” by Ella Karch
In the garden of life where a life would once bloom
A flower once flourishing, will reach time's fateful loom,
The petals did wither, and fade from their prime,
As Eden softly whispered her chime of goodbye.
For the flowers bloom and fade, in the garden of our dreams,
For every bloom that withers, fades, and leaves,
Another breathes, and opens to the skies.
We navigate the boundless depths, in the garden of Eden's eye.
In the orchards of eternity we dwell.
Our lives are the flowers, bound by time's cruel spell.
Yet from the wilted stems, new blooms will swell.
This endless cycle, a dance of life and death,
Embraced by time's soft touch, a fleeting breath.
But in our garden of Eden, where flowers live to sway
With the petals of time, they grow to fall away
A bud so fragile with petals soft and shy,
An ephemeral moment, a whispered lullaby
Short Fiction Contest for New Jersey High School Students (2024)
The William Paterson University Department of Language, Literature, Culture and Writing (LLCW) is pleased to announce the winner and two honorable mentions for the second annual NJ High School Writing Contest! This year's contest was judged by Dr. John Parras: the BA/MFA Coordinator for WP's Creative Writing program, as well as Map Literary's editor-in-chief. Dr. Parras received a B.A. in Creative Writing from Carnegie Mellon University and a Ph.D. in English & Comparative Literature from Columbia University. A National Endowment for the Arts Literature Fellow, he is the author of Fire on Mount Maggiore (University of Tennessee Press, 2005), which won the Peter Taylor Prize for the novel. In 2016, he was awarded a prose fellowship from the New Jersey Council on the Arts. His creative work has appeared in Conjunctions, Salmagundi, Painted Bride Quarterly, Xconnect, Oasis and other literary journals, and his chapbook Dangerous Limbs: Prose Poems and Flash Fictions (2013) is published by Kattywompus Press.
And the winning short fiction is...
"Eat Me Whole Quietly" by Isabelle Qi
The sky was howling again: a vicious storm, ferociously tattooing its rain upon every available surface.
Yet another one of those dreary days, the sort in which clouds hung grimly over trees, reduced to flimsy ragdolls in the wind that wept with every gust it exhaled. The smoky branches lashed whiplike, wrapping themselves in their hurt. And so the entire world seemed to embrace the terror with all its heart.
I was going back, as I recall, to Zach, the man who called himself my boyfriend when it suited him. You are mine, he said, and I used to think it was romantic. Oh, Zach. Don’t tease me so. You are mine and mine only. He always wanted to take things completely, in every definition of the word, to consume like the great gluttonous beasts from the stories that frightened us when we were children.
“Home, Zach, I’m home,” I said, and he grunted.
"Where’ve you been," he shouted.
"Where’ve I been? Out." I put down my bag and sighed.
The earlier moments had been better. Zach brought me flowers, made me spaghetti and cleaned up the leftovers afterwards. Always paid for things, the epitome of a perfect gentleman. He talked to my German Shepherd, Julia, in an utterly unbearable baby voice. That was what I told him, at least. The truth of the matter was that both Julia and I loved it, a lilting falsetto with a melody that sang I can be myself around you. Only later did I accept the fact that these were just the buttered actions of a liar who hoped to fatten me up and feast.
Presently, he yelled something again. I was making my way over to where he reclined on the couch when I realized I couldn’t remember the last time the sky had been blue. It was completely drained away, a sea vanishing down a pipe. It seemed as if it had been years since the color outside the window was azure.
Suddenly, Zach lumbered over. A sleeping behemoth, rising from the couch as if he were a fallen hero of Athens. He staggered over, movements jerky and sudden, and gestured wildly at his crotch: get over here and suck me off.
A wave of nausea. Right this instant, there was nothing else I would rather not do.
"Not now. Please."
"Not now? Really? Okay. Alright."
Oh thank goodness, I thought, and the sickness subsided. It returned in full force, however, when he told someone to “come out, honey” and led out a short blond girl with huge sapphire eyes to make up for the blue that our sky had neglected.
“I have a whore here,” Zach said hoarsely, holding the wispy creature by the hair. “Picked her off the street. Couldn’t wait, the little slut.”
My heart, that miserable lump of meat, fell to the soles of my shoes.
She seemed to bring light and the universe itself into our room. Sunlight stabbed me, filtering through the room and stopping the storm as abruptly as if it had just started.
"Where did you get her? When?" I managed.
Zach, smug and proud, flashed his teeth at me. "Last night. Strip club. Gave her a couple bucks and she hopped right into the car."
He bent over and whispered mockingly in my ear, so I had to lean in to hear him: "we got naughty. When you weren’t around, of course." He smiled sweetly and resumed his previous position on the couch to more easily stroke the girl’s hair.
Her strands were so thin and loose that they gave the appearance of having been threaded through tiny holes in her skull, the soft feminine hair of a porcelain doll. Under the golden late-afternoon light, it shone like fire on a torch. Docilely, she blinked up at Zach. Please step all over me, she seemed to say. I’m a professional doormat.
He cupped her face and gave her a sloppy lick, a bubbled trail of saliva that snaked all the way down her cheekbone.
My eyes closed on their own accord.
The sun was gleaming too brightly, piercing through their lids. It felt the way vinegar tasted. I could see the sour lemon sun and I could hear the cracks and feel the sour lemon silences splintering between us. Too many surfaces in this room, drowned in color.
"You see what I mean?" he said, wiping drool from his face. I had never seen so horrible a grin, treacherous and smug, its owner’s lips oiled ripe and ready in another girl’s spit. "If you won’t, there’s plenty of others who are willing to do the job. Legs apart, honey."
"Don’t call me that anymore."
He came over and grabbed me with both hands, forcing my legs to separate.
"Honey, you know I hate it when you’re like this."
He touched me again. This time I let him.
Unzipping of the jeans. He did what he wanted and he finished. Panted and groaned, zipped his pants back up again and left his cyanide dripping from the inside of my thighs. The girl, doe-eyed, watched like a deer caught in front of headlights.
"Happy now?" I said. I got up. Took one, two, three steps towards him.
"Back off, bitch," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. Slick with grease and dandruff. I hated the sight of him.
"Are you happy now?" I said again, advancing towards him. He raised a hand, as if to strike me.
“Are you finally happy now?” I screamed, and pushed him harder. His skull collided against the wall with a sickening thwack.
Yes, that’s it. Keep going. That feels good.
Again and again. My skin pulsed with delight, trembling at the symphony of wet bone on concrete.
"Guess what. You will never tell me to open my legs again."
I stepped over the girl, who looked at me with her quivering wide deer-eyes, and wrenched open the front door for her.
"Go. This is not your fault."
She scrambled to her knees and hurried out, glancing back furtively before disappearing.
I stared up at the sky. Not her fault, indeed. What was she worth? Just some girl from a place where the streets ran with old whiskey and cheap wine and smokers with a bad limp, where there wasn’t much anyone could do to save it except leave.
All at once, evening: the sun had faded and the world was violet. I held Zach’s hand like I still loved him, intertwining our fingers the whole time. I took him outside and pretended we were going on another walk and that his knuckles would not have stayed rigidly locked in place with mine if I were to let go. I laid him down, limbs snapping awkwardly. I told myself: he is simply taking a nap.
A flurry of thoughts, clamoring for attention in my consciousness. The first one emerged above the others. Shovel. I needed a shovel.
I found one in our basement and dragged it outside, its blade clanking against the stairs on the way up.
I laughed. Faintly at first, and then the sounds came forced out in great bursts, until my bare bones shook and the world was racked with tremors. Twilight fell upon my hands, cast the metal in the moonlight of three a.m. I put down the shovel and I laughed until I had to cry.
Human eyelashes, you see, are designed like paintbrushes. I tried to paint with salt, and before I knew it, another ocean was rising. I remembered his sweet sherbet eyes the way they were before the beer and the whores. The strokes, wet like blood on my cheek, painted the canvas faster than ever.
Harsh light from the stars above settled onto the ground, blazing even more vividly than the scarlet of pure daybreak. It hugged the earth that his body, luminous and radiant, lay upon.
“Oh, Zach,” I whispered to him through the salt. Took his stiff fingers in my own, let the ghost of their touch penetrate my nerves. “Why?” Did you simply not understand what it was like—to be an orange ripped in half? When I look at the moon, it is still your moon, so lonely.
Enough of this. I had responsibilities.
It took some time, but once I finally coaxed a sizable mound of dirt from the earth to the ground, leaving behind a gaping maw, I tugged Zach’s arm until he teetered on the edge of the hole.
"I never stopped loving you," I told his corpse. I never stopped loving anyone.
With that, I gave him a little push, and he tumbled over.
*
The town was stunned by the sudden loss of its beloved resident Zach. Tragedy, such a tragedy. Taken too young, they lamented. Drank himself to death. His woman must be heartbroken. She had to bury him herself. Didn’t you hear? In her own backyard, the poor thing.
And so I attended the memorial service. Of course, people felt obligated to go: when someone dies, even if you do not like them, you go anyway and pretend you do. Someone with atrocious taste had selected too-colorful flowers and littered grainy photos of Zach smiling widely and fakely, a reminder that he was still alive if only for the next few hours.
I donned the black veil of mourning, draped the shroud tenderly over the image they had put up, as if I were holding myself back from clasping it to my breast and kissing the sordid paper.
Zach’s woman is here. A eulogy, give them a eulogy.
"I’ll do it, of course I will," I told them. "But let me go quickly. I don’t feel quite well."
Understanding nods and hushed murmurs of comfort all around. "Whatever you need, dear."
Today the sun burned bloodred from its perch in the heavens. Damp wrists in the pulpit, I cleared my throat.
“Dear Zach,” I began.
'I miss when you were alive. Not that damned state you lived in for so long, fucking girls in the clubs and flooding the nights with alcohol. When you were truly, blissfully alive and your body brimmed with joy instead of maggots.
'Now look where we are. You, a luxurious mansion of meat for brown-banded worms to dine in, and I, a phantom. I wish I knew when to back away. Hope is fragile. I would compare it to eggshells, maybe — they’re kind of nice looking, but they break easily and their pieces are sharp and you bleed, probably — droplets of blood, drip, drip drip --
Polite coughs and slight fidgeting amongst the audience. I stopped talking, and they stilled.
“That was before your unraveling,” I continued. "I remember you told me that having a face was scary, but I didn’t fully understand it until now. Here I stand, a grotesque spectacle for the audience to ogle and pity. The perfect poster child of womanly anguish, drowned in a glass of sparkling water because her boat got shipwrecked by the deep depths of a tumultuous heart. And the wrong ways she loved. There are times when I pull my skin apart only to grow back into it and is there anything more horrifying than cradling your throat, waiting for your lungs to burst? Zach. Zach. Zach. Your name is a thing to cut and bolster, enshrine and worship, hate and shame. I don’t know what I’ll do anymore. Forget you as much as I can. And if there is rain, there will be rain, and if there is snow, there will be snow. But I have seen it all from here."
I made a sound in my throat once more. “I’m so sorry,” I managed. I can’t go on.
"No worries, no worries at all, dear."
I nodded and started descending from the podium when a stout old woman hobbled over to me. “Here,” she rasped, thrusting a bouquet of dead roses into
my arms. “Think of him.” My eyes began to water.
"Thank you," I told her. I took the bouquet from her gloved hands. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I didn’t stop saying thank you for a single second all the way out the door.
Halfway onto the cobblestoned road, I became aware that I was still carrying the picture of Zach in my pocket. I put down the flowers on the ground and fished it out of the cloth. In this photograph, he was still smiling. At least they had chosen a nice one, in which his eyes sparkled with life and not alcohol. The pressure began to build behind my eyes again, but I stood there resolutely for several moments and waged a war with the tears, refusing to let them go. After a few seconds the urge passed.
I bent back down to get the roses. Some of them, dried and stale, had crumpled into the plastic wrapping that kept the bouquet tied together—pieces of life, decaying.
I opened the picture once more before walking home. When I got back inside, I pressed the petals between the folds of the paper, enslaving the scent within Zach’s likeness, and waited for victory over time.
And the winning short fiction is...
"Eat Me Whole Quietly" by Isabelle Qi
The sky was howling again: a vicious storm, ferociously tattooing its rain upon every available surface.
Yet another one of those dreary days, the sort in which clouds hung grimly over trees, reduced to flimsy ragdolls in the wind that wept with every gust it exhaled. The smoky branches lashed whiplike, wrapping themselves in their hurt. And so the entire world seemed to embrace the terror with all its heart.
I was going back, as I recall, to Zach, the man who called himself my boyfriend when it suited him. You are mine, he said, and I used to think it was romantic. Oh, Zach. Don’t tease me so. You are mine and mine only. He always wanted to take things completely, in every definition of the word, to consume like the great gluttonous beasts from the stories that frightened us when we were children.
“Home, Zach, I’m home,” I said, and he grunted.
"Where’ve you been," he shouted.
"Where’ve I been? Out." I put down my bag and sighed.
The earlier moments had been better. Zach brought me flowers, made me spaghetti and cleaned up the leftovers afterwards. Always paid for things, the epitome of a perfect gentleman. He talked to my German Shepherd, Julia, in an utterly unbearable baby voice. That was what I told him, at least. The truth of the matter was that both Julia and I loved it, a lilting falsetto with a melody that sang I can be myself around you. Only later did I accept the fact that these were just the buttered actions of a liar who hoped to fatten me up and feast.
Presently, he yelled something again. I was making my way over to where he reclined on the couch when I realized I couldn’t remember the last time the sky had been blue. It was completely drained away, a sea vanishing down a pipe. It seemed as if it had been years since the color outside the window was azure.
Suddenly, Zach lumbered over. A sleeping behemoth, rising from the couch as if he were a fallen hero of Athens. He staggered over, movements jerky and sudden, and gestured wildly at his crotch: get over here and suck me off.
A wave of nausea. Right this instant, there was nothing else I would rather not do.
"Not now. Please."
"Not now? Really? Okay. Alright."
Oh thank goodness, I thought, and the sickness subsided. It returned in full force, however, when he told someone to “come out, honey” and led out a short blond girl with huge sapphire eyes to make up for the blue that our sky had neglected.
“I have a whore here,” Zach said hoarsely, holding the wispy creature by the hair. “Picked her off the street. Couldn’t wait, the little slut.”
My heart, that miserable lump of meat, fell to the soles of my shoes.
She seemed to bring light and the universe itself into our room. Sunlight stabbed me, filtering through the room and stopping the storm as abruptly as if it had just started.
"Where did you get her? When?" I managed.
Zach, smug and proud, flashed his teeth at me. "Last night. Strip club. Gave her a couple bucks and she hopped right into the car."
He bent over and whispered mockingly in my ear, so I had to lean in to hear him: "we got naughty. When you weren’t around, of course." He smiled sweetly and resumed his previous position on the couch to more easily stroke the girl’s hair.
Her strands were so thin and loose that they gave the appearance of having been threaded through tiny holes in her skull, the soft feminine hair of a porcelain doll. Under the golden late-afternoon light, it shone like fire on a torch. Docilely, she blinked up at Zach. Please step all over me, she seemed to say. I’m a professional doormat.
He cupped her face and gave her a sloppy lick, a bubbled trail of saliva that snaked all the way down her cheekbone.
My eyes closed on their own accord.
The sun was gleaming too brightly, piercing through their lids. It felt the way vinegar tasted. I could see the sour lemon sun and I could hear the cracks and feel the sour lemon silences splintering between us. Too many surfaces in this room, drowned in color.
"You see what I mean?" he said, wiping drool from his face. I had never seen so horrible a grin, treacherous and smug, its owner’s lips oiled ripe and ready in another girl’s spit. "If you won’t, there’s plenty of others who are willing to do the job. Legs apart, honey."
"Don’t call me that anymore."
He came over and grabbed me with both hands, forcing my legs to separate.
"Honey, you know I hate it when you’re like this."
He touched me again. This time I let him.
Unzipping of the jeans. He did what he wanted and he finished. Panted and groaned, zipped his pants back up again and left his cyanide dripping from the inside of my thighs. The girl, doe-eyed, watched like a deer caught in front of headlights.
"Happy now?" I said. I got up. Took one, two, three steps towards him.
"Back off, bitch," he muttered, running his hands through his hair. Slick with grease and dandruff. I hated the sight of him.
"Are you happy now?" I said again, advancing towards him. He raised a hand, as if to strike me.
“Are you finally happy now?” I screamed, and pushed him harder. His skull collided against the wall with a sickening thwack.
Yes, that’s it. Keep going. That feels good.
Again and again. My skin pulsed with delight, trembling at the symphony of wet bone on concrete.
"Guess what. You will never tell me to open my legs again."
I stepped over the girl, who looked at me with her quivering wide deer-eyes, and wrenched open the front door for her.
"Go. This is not your fault."
She scrambled to her knees and hurried out, glancing back furtively before disappearing.
I stared up at the sky. Not her fault, indeed. What was she worth? Just some girl from a place where the streets ran with old whiskey and cheap wine and smokers with a bad limp, where there wasn’t much anyone could do to save it except leave.
All at once, evening: the sun had faded and the world was violet. I held Zach’s hand like I still loved him, intertwining our fingers the whole time. I took him outside and pretended we were going on another walk and that his knuckles would not have stayed rigidly locked in place with mine if I were to let go. I laid him down, limbs snapping awkwardly. I told myself: he is simply taking a nap.
A flurry of thoughts, clamoring for attention in my consciousness. The first one emerged above the others. Shovel. I needed a shovel.
I found one in our basement and dragged it outside, its blade clanking against the stairs on the way up.
I laughed. Faintly at first, and then the sounds came forced out in great bursts, until my bare bones shook and the world was racked with tremors. Twilight fell upon my hands, cast the metal in the moonlight of three a.m. I put down the shovel and I laughed until I had to cry.
Human eyelashes, you see, are designed like paintbrushes. I tried to paint with salt, and before I knew it, another ocean was rising. I remembered his sweet sherbet eyes the way they were before the beer and the whores. The strokes, wet like blood on my cheek, painted the canvas faster than ever.
Harsh light from the stars above settled onto the ground, blazing even more vividly than the scarlet of pure daybreak. It hugged the earth that his body, luminous and radiant, lay upon.
“Oh, Zach,” I whispered to him through the salt. Took his stiff fingers in my own, let the ghost of their touch penetrate my nerves. “Why?” Did you simply not understand what it was like—to be an orange ripped in half? When I look at the moon, it is still your moon, so lonely.
Enough of this. I had responsibilities.
It took some time, but once I finally coaxed a sizable mound of dirt from the earth to the ground, leaving behind a gaping maw, I tugged Zach’s arm until he teetered on the edge of the hole.
"I never stopped loving you," I told his corpse. I never stopped loving anyone.
With that, I gave him a little push, and he tumbled over.
*
The town was stunned by the sudden loss of its beloved resident Zach. Tragedy, such a tragedy. Taken too young, they lamented. Drank himself to death. His woman must be heartbroken. She had to bury him herself. Didn’t you hear? In her own backyard, the poor thing.
And so I attended the memorial service. Of course, people felt obligated to go: when someone dies, even if you do not like them, you go anyway and pretend you do. Someone with atrocious taste had selected too-colorful flowers and littered grainy photos of Zach smiling widely and fakely, a reminder that he was still alive if only for the next few hours.
I donned the black veil of mourning, draped the shroud tenderly over the image they had put up, as if I were holding myself back from clasping it to my breast and kissing the sordid paper.
Zach’s woman is here. A eulogy, give them a eulogy.
"I’ll do it, of course I will," I told them. "But let me go quickly. I don’t feel quite well."
Understanding nods and hushed murmurs of comfort all around. "Whatever you need, dear."
Today the sun burned bloodred from its perch in the heavens. Damp wrists in the pulpit, I cleared my throat.
“Dear Zach,” I began.
'I miss when you were alive. Not that damned state you lived in for so long, fucking girls in the clubs and flooding the nights with alcohol. When you were truly, blissfully alive and your body brimmed with joy instead of maggots.
'Now look where we are. You, a luxurious mansion of meat for brown-banded worms to dine in, and I, a phantom. I wish I knew when to back away. Hope is fragile. I would compare it to eggshells, maybe — they’re kind of nice looking, but they break easily and their pieces are sharp and you bleed, probably — droplets of blood, drip, drip drip --
Polite coughs and slight fidgeting amongst the audience. I stopped talking, and they stilled.
“That was before your unraveling,” I continued. "I remember you told me that having a face was scary, but I didn’t fully understand it until now. Here I stand, a grotesque spectacle for the audience to ogle and pity. The perfect poster child of womanly anguish, drowned in a glass of sparkling water because her boat got shipwrecked by the deep depths of a tumultuous heart. And the wrong ways she loved. There are times when I pull my skin apart only to grow back into it and is there anything more horrifying than cradling your throat, waiting for your lungs to burst? Zach. Zach. Zach. Your name is a thing to cut and bolster, enshrine and worship, hate and shame. I don’t know what I’ll do anymore. Forget you as much as I can. And if there is rain, there will be rain, and if there is snow, there will be snow. But I have seen it all from here."
I made a sound in my throat once more. “I’m so sorry,” I managed. I can’t go on.
"No worries, no worries at all, dear."
I nodded and started descending from the podium when a stout old woman hobbled over to me. “Here,” she rasped, thrusting a bouquet of dead roses into
my arms. “Think of him.” My eyes began to water.
"Thank you," I told her. I took the bouquet from her gloved hands. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I didn’t stop saying thank you for a single second all the way out the door.
Halfway onto the cobblestoned road, I became aware that I was still carrying the picture of Zach in my pocket. I put down the flowers on the ground and fished it out of the cloth. In this photograph, he was still smiling. At least they had chosen a nice one, in which his eyes sparkled with life and not alcohol. The pressure began to build behind my eyes again, but I stood there resolutely for several moments and waged a war with the tears, refusing to let them go. After a few seconds the urge passed.
I bent back down to get the roses. Some of them, dried and stale, had crumpled into the plastic wrapping that kept the bouquet tied together—pieces of life, decaying.
I opened the picture once more before walking home. When I got back inside, I pressed the petals between the folds of the paper, enslaving the scent within Zach’s likeness, and waited for victory over time.
Isabelle Qi is a high school junior from Basking Ridge, New Jersey. She loves writing, but is also passionate about law and economics! Isabelle's work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, The New York Times, and the John Locke Institute, among others, on national and international levels. Her writing has been published in libraries and literary magazines across the United States. Isabelle also enjoys learning French, computational linguistics, and physics. In the meantime, you can probably find her taking pictures of a sunset, smelling the air right after it rains, or sharing some strawberry ice cream with Napoleon, her spoiled black Labrador.
Short Fiction excerpts from Honorable Mentions:
"Detergent" by Navdeep Bhalla
He had forgotten to buy detergent, and the churning of the washer-dryer units were not enough to mask his growing sense of malaise.
Pressing “start,” he dumped the contents of his empty garbage bag just outside of the washing machine, and the piercing smell of pine and forest mud climbed into his nostrils and clawed at the insides of his brain (soap and water kill the germs). He shuddered and recoiled from the washer, haphazardly stuffing the bag into his left pocket. Shaken, the thought again resurfaced (he had not bought detergent).
Stepping back, he grimaced as the torn heel of one of his trainers wedged itself into the neck of his gray polo on the floor. His hand stumbled against the silver dial of the washer as he clamored to steady himself, hitting “stop” and then “start” again. As he limped towards the entrance of the laundromat with his polo drenched in sweat (detergent could fix that), the sole of his left shoe was now peeled open as if it were silently screaming at passersby.
Blinking rapidly to combat the oppressive waves of smoke whisking through his eyelashes, he coughed violently, desperately trying to force the wretched scent of the forest out of his body. The sun, hidden from view, illuminated the clouds in such a way that the nearby buildings held striking similarity to walls of a rat maze. He gingerly bent down to pick up his jacket from where it still lay smoking on the pavement beside the entrance, and observed its now charred leather and critically singed inner fleece. The jacket, just like the hazy air, reeked of gasoline and motor oil, and with every breath it was almost as if he could consciously taste the onslaught of smoke on his lungs. He tossed it aside without second thought as his gaze shifted towards the left of the entrance, where there stood an egregiously bent street lamp flickering amidst the apocalyptic scene that lay before him. It was here that he found his most prized possession.
A 2007 Ford Mustang was wrapped around the pole of the lamp in such a way that the left and right corners of the front fender were almost touching each other. Windows shattered, rear doors caved in, right passenger door missing, dismembered headlights hanging out of their sockets; the car, once a shimmering beauty (it must have been a real pleasure to drive), was completely and utterly undrivable. Behind it–or rather, inside it–a yellow Chevy Camaro’s entire front end
impaled the Mustang’s innards, and only its taillights and trunk remained somewhat intact. Observing the scene, he was sure that the driver of the Camaro could not have possibly survived the collision; even if they had, the shards of broken glass and flames engulfing the two cars would have been impossible to escape from unscathed.
Looking down at his own relatively unhurt body, he was unable to remember how (or if) he had escaped unscathed; in fact, he could barely remember how he had ended up here to begin with. Only one nagging thought itched at the crevices in the back of his mind.
He would have to buy detergent from the pharmacy–only a few blocks away–and a brisk walk would take him there in under twenty minutes. With the sole of his shoe flapping against the concrete with every step, he made his way across the street, which elongated to reveal buildings that became increasingly barren than each one before. Dust caked the windows of the florist (known for their funeral lilies), the department store’s door handle wore a somber “CLOSED” placard flashing red in the haze (red means disaster), and the old grocery store he once worked at (left for dead) was empty except for the cashier’s silhouette seen scraping against the back wall. Eerily, there were no pedestrians on the road, nor any customers in any of the stores. In the distance, sirens exploded into the silence and some obscure part of his mind could grasp that something was most definitely not right (indeed, something was not right).
Navdeep Bhalla is a high school senior from northern New Jersey with a developing interest in writing fiction.
"The Three-Step Guide To Ruining Arnold Winston’s Life" by Karolina Ostrowski
(Disclaimer: These actions are performed by a trained professional. Don’t do this at home).
Straight brown hair. 5’5. Slightly pudgy. Freckles that would look cute on anyone else, but resembled a mud splatter on him. An annoyingly crooked front tooth that allowed spit to hit your face when talking. I, personally, only needed two words to describe him: my opposition (not to say I couldn’t think of several: ugly, annoying, obnoxious, you get the gist).
It all started in 10th grade English when we went around and spoke about our vacations. That summer, I enjoyed a camp trip straight out of Dirty Dancing: swimming in the crystal-clear Pennsylvania waters, cranked-up-stereo loud dance parties in the middle of bear-infested woods, and cute guys as far as meets the eye. I even had my first kiss on a slightly moldy log under a canopy of twinkling stars. As far as I was concerned, that night was memorialized in my secret, leather-bound (for the mystery) journal of “Unforgettable High School Moments”.
“What did everyone do over the summ-”
My friendship-bracelet-adorned, summer-tanned arm quickly flew into the air. For the next two minutes, I gave an incredibly vivid speech on the unforgettable summer teen experience. Nominate me for an Oscar, I thought. I swear I brought people to tears.
That was all well and good until the opposition just had to talk afterward.
“I’m so glad everyone had a fun summer!”
No, you’re not. Shut up.
“Anyways, I had an incredible experience interning at a law firm, one that specializes in pro bono. I even got to work on a case for a woman about to lose her house. It was truly touching”.
What the hell? Way to make me look like a douche. This attempt at flexing philanthropy worked: it made him look like Julius Caesar, Emperor of Good Deeds, while I was the fat senator on the left, wearing a toga and eating a toasted marshmallow. He just conveniently left out that this is his dad’s firm, I wanted to scream. Ugh.
That was incident number one.
The second reason as to why I set out to destroy him was simply his treatment of others. He was, to put it plainly, a douche. Yes, he destroyed my perfect first kiss and magical summer narrative. That’s fine. I might be biased. However, I wasn’t alone. For the rest of 10th grade, I witnessed him flexing his chemistry grade, laughing at his friends’ outfits, and shaming those who didn’t have a built-in golf course in their basement. At this point, for the initiative I was about to take, calling me Superwoman would be justified. I watched him basically harass a multitude of teenagers for the rest of the school year. When summer came, I wasn’t even excited to tan or finally get blonde highlights (I’m lying. Yes I was). I was more excited for ninety whole days without looking at Arnold Winson’s annoyingly punchable face.
Also, for half of a third reason, I hate ugly people. They bother me.
I’m sure you’re thinking anyone by the name of Arnold Winston would have a hard enough life already. Sadly, that wasn’t the case.
Karolina Ostrowski is a junior at Millburn High School. She's been an avid writer since 9th grade, being editor of her school's Spanish and English literary magazines. She hopes to someday major in English and Political Science in university. Her favorite type of writing includes nonfiction, personal narratives, and satires. In her free time, apart from writing, she loves to read, explore New York City, and watch Gilmore Girls. She is a big fan of Taylor Swift, European summers, and late night driving with her friends.
Thank you again for the wonderful turnout!
Next year's contest will be on POETRY --
stay tuned for any announcement from our social media accounts, Submittable and Mail Chimp emails!
Poetry Contest for New Jersey High School Students (2023)
Winner & Honorable Mentions Announcement
Winner & Honorable Mentions Announcement
We are happy to announce the winner and two honorable mentions for our first annual contest. Assisted by Map Literary staff, the contest judge -- Howard Steng -- is a high school English teacher who has served as an Adjunct Professor of Taijiquan and writing. His received his undergraduate degree in English with honors from Temple University and a permanent teaching certificate from the State of New Jersey at Montclair State University. Later, Howard went on to complete an MA and MFA from William Paterson University. Howard is currently the studio manager at the Warwick Pottery Studio in Warwick, NY where he is developing his own line of clay works and is working on a third collection of poetic works, Imagination Interrupted: Poems from the Pandemic.
And the winning poem is...
"Portrait of Girl as Monkey King" by Heather Qin
I, too, could turn into seventy-two different things.
This is freedom, unfiltered. Boy running down
the splintered street, plowing through fruit stands, shooting
squirrels out of trees. I didn’t check for cars before I crossed
the street. I cleaved through the night with streetlights shouting
my name, courage bursting like a fistful of flowers. Street
camera illuminating my face, I stuck my tongue out and
laughed and laughed. My greatest ambition was to turn
meteorite in retrograde, barreling toward infinity—then, girls will
be girls, unafraid of touch. I spray-painted the church
with graffiti as I walked a girl home, and she clutched
my arm like a searchlight, afraid of the dark. I, too, used to be
afraid, whittling night down to its ghosts. Another time I played
god, filled the new church in town, prayers lining my teeth gold. Tongue
furnished with worship. When a man prayed for good harvest, I applauded
his patience, watching his faith grow to outlast the winter. So it would
separate my body from desire. I grew accustomed
to falsetto: living beyond my means. The night I came home without
costume, I searched my face for blood. My accent sheathing
its dull blade: girl only useful when found.
And the winning poem is...
"Portrait of Girl as Monkey King" by Heather Qin
I, too, could turn into seventy-two different things.
This is freedom, unfiltered. Boy running down
the splintered street, plowing through fruit stands, shooting
squirrels out of trees. I didn’t check for cars before I crossed
the street. I cleaved through the night with streetlights shouting
my name, courage bursting like a fistful of flowers. Street
camera illuminating my face, I stuck my tongue out and
laughed and laughed. My greatest ambition was to turn
meteorite in retrograde, barreling toward infinity—then, girls will
be girls, unafraid of touch. I spray-painted the church
with graffiti as I walked a girl home, and she clutched
my arm like a searchlight, afraid of the dark. I, too, used to be
afraid, whittling night down to its ghosts. Another time I played
god, filled the new church in town, prayers lining my teeth gold. Tongue
furnished with worship. When a man prayed for good harvest, I applauded
his patience, watching his faith grow to outlast the winter. So it would
separate my body from desire. I grew accustomed
to falsetto: living beyond my means. The night I came home without
costume, I searched my face for blood. My accent sheathing
its dull blade: girl only useful when found.
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Heather Qin (she/her) is a high school junior from New Jersey. Her work has been recognized by the New York Times, Columbia College Chicago, and Hollins University, and can be found or forthcoming in Sine Theta Magazine, Pidgeonholes, and Diode, among others. She is an alumni of the Iowa Young Writers' Studio, an incoming mentee at the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship, and edits for her school newspaper and literary magazine. Besides writing, Heather loves classical music, reading, and watching soccer games.
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Honorable Mentions:
"Haraboji in the backyard" by Gia Shin
& now Haraboji is hunched over in the backyard planting
perilla leaves. His translucent
skin hangs loosely over bone, rib juts out
from tattered white tank, & ugly purple crocs
swallow his feet. Purple crocuses
stain the wrong side of his face. I am
proving
to Haraboji I am a True American
Girl. I am a sparkly cheerleader &
learned English conjugations from scratch & I don’t plant perilla leaves--
I don’t even eat perilla.
I stop speaking to Haraboji because the radioactive
purple is too pissed to handle. The splotch
on his face is God’s angry doing.
& now, years later, our leaves are withered & Haraboji is uprooted
from this American soil & I don’t answer his evergreen calls.
Sometimes, I wish my Fenty-coated lips
could string together an apology for Haraboji
but they’re too busy swallowing
the shrieks of white boys.
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Gia Shin (she/her) is a high school senior from Tenafly, New Jersey. Her works have been recognized by The Incandescent Review and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards as an American Voices Nominee. She has attended the Iowa Young Writers Studio, Kenyon Young Writers Workshop, Princeton Hyphens Collective, and Kelly Writers House. Gia is also the Co-Editor-in-Chief of her school newspaper and Co-Editor of her school’s literary magazine.
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"If New York City was a gas fire" by Mikayla Smith
I wouldn’t be a cool shade of blue.
I wouldn’t be able to bleed
and make a good Bloody Mary,
or sit in Joe’s Pizza in azure smoke
and live or die for the copper
taste of penniless lips
as they silently shiver outside.
I am not a cool girl blue–
a “see you later,” “get over it” shade
of Columbus Ave’s smooth jazz and poetry.
I am not cool ‘Girl Blue.’
I can look and see the Curacao
at Baby’s All Right, but the blue
I feel is rotten, gooey and bone-deep.
There are no songs
about being an unproductive,
rocky shoreline in Newport
smack in the middle of hellfire paradise–
There are no songs for funeral dress
and pen-breaking, sickly shades
of a muddy small-town Morris County blue
that’s really more dirty than sweet
and salty like hyacinths.
If I could bottle up New York City
I’d sip it like black coffee–
but I’ve never been cool enough
to skip milk and sugar.
If New York City was golden,
I’d be a fake gold medalist
pleading with the embassy of
whatever country, desperately
wanting to swim laps in the big-girl pool,
knowing it’s pointless–
because if New York City was a gas fire,
I wouldn’t be a cool shade of blue.
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Mikayla Smith is a Senior at Kinnelon High School in Kinnelon, NJ, and will be studying Creative Writing at Connecticut College next fall. She is an avid member of her school's Gay-Straight Alliance and frequently stirs the pot in casual conversation. Her favorite activities include writing poetry, making people uncomfortable, and gossiping with her mother. Her favorite writers are Sylvia Plath and Donna Tartt; she identifies with spunky women. Mikayla can be seen reading The Secret History at disturbing and often inappropriate times of the day. She enjoys writing about baseball, relationships that miserably failed, and warrior nuns.
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Again, we want to thank everyone for participating! We had such a big turnout!
Be sure to stay tuned for next year's writing contest – in SHORT FICTION.
