English Department Contest Winners

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English Department Contest Winners
Betty 79 and Stanley Sultan Short Story Contest
Second Prize Emily Mele '09 "Kneecaps"
Third Prize Gregory Dufresne '06 "New
Canaan"
Honorable mention Sean Connell '06 "The
Yacht Club at the End of the World"
First Prize Fardeen Chowdhury '06 "To Be
Left Alone"
It is 731 a.m. on November 13th and I am
eighteen years old. My half-birthday is in
exactly two weeks, but I'm not sure why I noticed
that, because I've never paid it any attention
before. I am sitting in a dirty chair in South
Station, partial rings of coffee staring back at
me from the grey, synthetic surface I am leaning
heavily on. This is not a train station, it is a
food court, and I try to imagine what this place
looked like when they used it for what it was
really built for. I fail miserably to this
end and I am haunted only by thoughts of my
friend's eating disorders and bony knees. In the
early hours of the morning, she had rolled her
pant legs up to show me the purplish skin
stretched over two saucer kneecaps. "Don't they
look disgusting?" she'd asked, half-bent over to
keep the fabric bunched at her thighs. She
looked at me, her hazel eyes nearly as black as
the sky, a sickened smile on her face. I looked
back at her, my smile almost a reflection of her
own. "Alex..." I started, but I didn't know what
to say. I raised my glass and swallowed another
mouthful of my drink. I smell some kind of
sausages cooking and the unpleasant feeling it
elicits from my stomach brings me back to the
train station. This is only my fifth day of not
eating meat, so I'm not sure what my problem is.
I don't really have any moral objections that
would explain my need to kick my carnivorous
habits, and no health problems. 'You fucking
weirdo,' I think, and the clock hits 738.
It's a big, old-fashioned clock. Or is it?
Thick, bold, black numbers mounted on a stark,
white face. It couldn't be more than a decade
old. By that logic, I guess I'm old-fashioned
too. I know I am still very small in the grand
scale of the universe, but I can hardly find my
childhood in the disheveled young woman sitting
at this dirty table. When a minute goes by, the
firm, tapered, black arm of the clock snaps
quickly to the next mark. A foreign woman wipes
down the table in front of me with a little blue
cloth. She can't be more than ten or fifteen
years older than me, but she looks very sad, or
maybe just bored, and I consider getting up. I
feel like I'm impeding her. I think of talking
to her and asking her how her life is. Maybe I
would just depress her more. Maybe she doesn't
know any English. Even if she does, maybe she'll
just think I'm drunk. I am drunk.
It was going to be one of those terrible
days cloudy and cold, with the distinct
possibility that none of your unwanted guests
have somehow left overnight. I picked up my
newspaper and gave the headlines a once over
while standing on the porch. Trouble abroad,
trouble here, trouble in the next town, no
trouble for the local high school football team,
which was nice. I continued reading, while taking
the morning in. It was that quiet time of day,
that calm half hour before kids had to rush off
to school, spilling into school buses. Its that
half hour before dads have to go off to work,
kissing their wives goodbye, putting in one more
day for their family. Everyones still shaking
off cobwebs, getting some breakfast and waiting
for a brand new day. The neighborhood had
that great, untouched feel to it and I loved it.
It was the only time of the day it would be that
way. It wouldnt be long before they started
showing up. Mowing their lawns. Ruining
everything. I scanned the street slowly. Mr.
Muckerji, or however you pronounce it, was
returning from walking his dog. It was a pretty
ordinary little brown Irish Setter it gave me a
little kick to notice how much the two of them
looked alike. Muckerji and the Muckraker, I
liked remarking to myself whenever they came
walking down the street together. My wife loved
that joke, but told me to keep it to myself when
guests were over. Whatever. If she wants to keep
up with appearances, fine by me. I could
hear little Emmy make her way downstairs, rubbing
her eyes which were still laden with sleep. Her
little blonde head lolled to the side as she
wished me good morning. I helped her draw up a
chair, and poured her some juice.
I am trapped upon this isle. I have resigned
myself to this fate, knowing full well that I
shall never gaze once more upon the sooty
rooftops and smooth cobblestone streets of my
beloved Albion, nor see your beatific face before
the smouldering embers of a winter fire. Sister,
be not sad for this pathetic wretch you call
brother for I am well and have been promised
health and long life know that I shall not
return out of love for you. I cannot leave this
island. The last notice you took of me, or I of
you for that matter, was no doubt my last letter
given to the harbormaster of Iceland, when my
ship was last in the vicinity. You must
remember my purpose in this nautical endeavor,
that of discovering the Lost World, or Savage
Land that the Nordic plunderers recorded
existing at the top of the world. Oilskin maps
point to it being several leagues
North-North-West of Greenland amid the vast ice
fields separating the Atlantic Ocean from the
Pacific. You saw me off at Verna and saw the
crew of strong, stout, veteran seamen that
accompanied me aboard the icebreaker Dawn
Treader, provided by the firm of Morrissey and
Moresby. It is and was an ill-conceived idea to
allow a company majority stake in my endeavor but
I am sure that you understand that at times a man
takes risks in order to prove his worth. Twelve
years I had been away from the Naval Academy with
naught but merchant travel from one shore to the
next. This voyage was, I admit now, a chance to
reclaim the adventure of sailing the open ocean
with the sharp tang of discovery upon the tongue.
This letter shall arrive with a sealed wooden
crate inside the crate are twenty-two irregular
ingots of pure gold. I hope that in some way it
will repay my arrogance and mitigate your
feelings of despair and anger towards my person.
I caution you, however, not to flaunt this
wealth. I know that you would not normally
possess the selfish and haughty disposition of
false and decadent people but I also am aware
that sudden wealth has strange effects on the
mind and so write this warning. Im sorry if
this letter is rambling or vague or devoid of the
usual niceties, devices, and vocabulary I usually
employ but I write this under considerable duress
and emotional strain. This will no doubt be my
last word to the land of civilized men, and
regrettably the final report I give to you. Do
not weep for me dear Charlotte I am well cared
for and in good health.
I tucked my Boston Globe under my arm and
thought about the days top headlines. George
Steinbrenner was bitching about players agents
No. 8 Kentucky knocked off No. 16 Alabama in
red-neck nation and the Kansas police had made
an arrest related a string of serial killings
from 1964. It was a slow day. Time wormed
its way across the face of my digital watch as it
always did the day before a vacation. Ah,
vacation. It was all I had to look forward
to at this point. It was a gateway of white
light leading me to a paradise free from
school-work, responsibility, and the bitter
frigidness of the city, in March. I walked
to class with my hat pulled low, my chin dipped
beneath the neck of my fleece to shield myself
from the rain, and Third Eye Blinds Jumper in
my ears. I was currently continuing a four year
streak of having a class during the last possible
time slot on the last possible day before spring
break. I could hear the voices of my roommates
in my head as I left my apartment only a few
minutes before Enjoy class, dude. Take
lots of notes, and dont forget to participate.
Ive never seen anyone get shit on as much as
you, Brodie. You suck. Despite being
ten minutes late for class I was in the clear.
My professor was yet to show up himself. I
walked to my usual seat in the back row, where no
one else chose to sit. I could feel the eyes of
my classmates on me. A few things I hate going
to class late, country music, the word
carcinogen, and the feeling that someone is
spying on me. The girl who sat in front of
me was always overly friendly. Though she seemed
nice enough, I couldnt help feel like she was
always trying to get information out of me.
Maybe she had a crush on me? Maybe she didnt.
Hi! Alaina said. She dragged her vowel out
so it pierced the side of my brain my Boston
accent was on. Hows it going, Alaina? I
said as I took my notebook out of my bag.
I cant wait to get out of here, she said. My
boyfriend is flying in from North Carolina in two
hours, but its snowing there so his flight might
get cancelled because theyre not used to snow.
Loring Holmes and Ruth Dodd Drama Contest
Danny Balel '08 "Its Not Me Its You"
Its Not Me Its You (Man and Woman of any age
stand close to each other embracing, kissing
etc.) WOMAN I love you. MAN I love you too.
(They embrace again, then man breaks away.) MAN
Im frustrated. WOMAN Why? MAN This isnt
what I want anymore. WOMAN Tell me whats
going on. Without you I will feel insecure again
and youll be the point of all my blame. I will
refuse to speak to you anymore, and through
passive aggressive moves on my part we will no
longer speak to each other. Then well hear from
each other years later and pretend nothing
happened. I dont want that.
MAN Thats why Im frustrated. WOMAN I can
change for you. MAN No, its not you its me.
I just want to see other people. I would like to
still be friends. Ill always love you. Did I
mention its me, not you? Wherever you end up I
just want you to be happy. Ok? WOMAN Ok. MAN
And Ive been sleeping with Susan. I like
sleeping with her more. Did I mention it was you
and not me? WOMAN Susan? MAN Susan. WOMAN
But-