It’s time to announce the winners of last month’s contest! We once again had the privilege of partnering with our friends from Endless Beautiful, whose podcasts and workshops have inspired writers, artists, and creatives of all kinds by using sounds recorded from everyday life.
Last month, we put together a contest based on a session created by their youth development program in Woonsocket, RI called the Community Keepers. These young adults recorded sounds from around their community to be used in a creativity workshop and for this contest! We asked our contestants to create a story, essay, or poem as they listened to the recorded sounds. We received a number of amazing entries, making it hard to choose our top three, but choose we must. Read our winning entries below!
We’d like to thank everyone who entered. We hope you had fun and felt inspired. Happy writing everyone!
Writing Prompt:
First Place
When People Watching
By Hannah Butcher
There is a certain type of beauty to the morning, a certain sense of gratefulness as the world peels open its encrusted eyes. The continents untuck themselves from oceanic blankets and mumble, “”Thank God we’re alive. Thank God we’re breathing.”” Africa bangs on the head of a drum– Antarctica shivers and Australia stretches its arms across the Pacific. The world is conscious. The world is awake. The world is alive.
It is 78 degrees. The air is lukewarm. I am an onlooker with the intent to absorb. There is a reason for all of this—for the metal chair resting beneath my thighs, for the squirrel staring through the leaves, for the fly buzzing behind the blinds. I am soaking in the sounds of half-hearted jazz from the intercom and the swelling and retreating sounds of the water fountain—I am listening to trucks hobble down the street and to birds speak to one another across palm trees. I am in the middle of it all; there are eyes etched in the back of my head and I am gazing out into the world in 360 degrees.
There is a Hispanic woman standing behind the glass window of a luxury furniture store. She stares out at the fountain beyond me, shifting her feet. Slowly, methodically, she circles a white rag on the glass in bubbly motions, wiping away invisible fingerprints. She gazes beyond the window, into the bustling morning. But there is a flash in her eyes– Christmas lights bubble inside them, nestled in pine needles— and she envisions that the world twirls ‘round her hands, delicately gliding along her fingernails. I imagine she has a daughter who loves the guitar. I imagine she thinks her daughter will be a musician one day. I squint and see a golden guitar in the glass’ reflection.
It is early; it is beautiful. It is overcast; it is elegant. I am in love with the way the air smells of chlorine and ice cream. I am in love with the way I can view the world behind me. I am invisible. I am unknown. I am a mystery.
I don’t know why I keep waiting for something spectacular to happen. Do we all do this? Sit and watch and wonder? The train is here. The train is loud. The train is not elegant. It is blasting and reverberating; it is distressful; it is anxious. The tracks are terrified. The streets tremble and the glass window shudders.
The guitar vanishes. Suddenly, the woman’s daughter will only ever know the dance of a dustpan, the hum of a vacuum, the twirl of a rag. Her eyes are fragile, glass ornaments cracked at the top. The Earth steals her confidence and her heart fragments.
I watch the woman in the furniture store freeze. Blink. Breathe. I watch her sigh and turn away.
Bio:
Hannah Butcher is a college freshman at Rollins College as well as an aspiring writer. Writing has always been her passion; she has been accepted into numerous publications in the past and is most experienced in the genre of poetry. She maintains her own writing blog (https://2bornot2bwritingtips.
Inspiration:
I wrote this piece at around seven o’ clock in the morning while sitting at a table downtown. At the time, my school was about a block away, and I wanted to study for my finals before class started. The atmosphere– the slow, methodical awakening of the city– inspired me to write this piece. Instead of studying, I ended up writing a draft, stream-of-conscious style, about what I was observing. I imagined the lives of the people I saw, the worlds that I would never know. Doing this really opened up my perspective and forced me to think outside of myself.
Social Media Links:
Facebook– https://www.
Instagram– @2b-or-not-2b-writing-tips
If you have an account, find me on Handshake and/or LinkedIn by looking up Hannah Butcher.
Second Place
Community Keeper
By Paula Puolakka
The noises are making me sick. I see a dog pissing on the pole of Marcy Av Station entrance and the sound is like from a gun. Sharp and too vivid.
There is no comfort. There is no peace of mind. Even when I go to the pond and see the ducklings, I feel annoyed. The heavy rain of the city commotion, the helter-skelter, has been filling up my mind for the past 39 years. I need to go away before I start shooting people or end up in a max security prison like “”Theo K.”” I think I should read Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint again and jack off to release the pain. It’s not enough that I’m Jewish: I have to be a nature lover locked inside this cage called New York.
And again, when I’m getting back, the dog is pissing all over the block.
What a community keeper I am. Grinding and brewing coffee for people I don’t know. Tourists who don’t give a rat’s ass about me. They pop by to the “”local deli”” and make my everyday misery seem like a trip to the circus.
Where should I go? To Greece. Gone Troppo, like George Harrison. Ah, what a relief to drink from a bottle under the bright blue sky and maybe meet a lovely Bonita (I don’t know what the Greek word for a beautiful free soul is) with raven hair and slender figure. But again, the noises interrupt my thoughts and the smell of rotten cabbage from the garbage truck makes me think about my fat aunt and her cooking. Oy vey, oy vey… And today the community keeper has to deliver toilet paper and groceries to the old folks in Borough Park. I’m the good boy, the silent and willful, but who’s helping me. Nobody. I’ll be in deep shit when I turn 60. No wife, no kids, maybe some neighbor will take pity on me and get me stuff from the supermarket once a week. I have an online girlfriend, I type her something twice a month, but she says it’s not enough to make her leave her country, sell everything to move here with me.
I’m a loser, can do nothing right.
Last time Mrs. Schmid told me I had chosen the wrong brand of toilet rolls. She told me, quote: it felt like I was rubbing my ass with sandpaper and I had to turn to my husband’s photo instead. God have mercy on his soul. He’s still looking after me.
I’m a waste of space. I have to write Melissa a note, a real letter. “”Please, forgive me. I do love you and will prove it by the end of this summer. If my actions seem incomplete, you can dump me, but not now, please love, not now. I need you and you need me too, I know. Love, Peter.”
Bio:
Paula Puolakka is a Finnish Beat poet and freelance writer. Her second book of poems written in Finnish will be out later in 2018. You can find her on Facebook or on her website: http://www.mediapinta.fi/kirjailija/14371
Inspiration:
The inspiration for my piece was Philip Roth whose passing (just before the deadline of the challenge) was truly saddening. He was not just a fabulous writer and a deep thinker but also one of the few guiding lights of higher love. Love, Love, Love… No matter what, listen to your heart.
Social Media Links:
Website: http://www.mediapinta.fi/kirjailija/14371
Facebook:https://www.facebook.com/paulapuolakka1
Third Place
Trapped
By M. J. Robbins
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. I wake to hear the sounds of a clock or perhaps a metronome. After a few dizzying seconds I think it might actually be my heartbeat. I concentrate on breathing evenly but my focus is broken as soon as I hear the music box. The tingling and chiming is a familiar tune that’s just out of reach. It reminds me of home. I’m already surrounded by darkness but I close my eyes all the same. The music transports me to a happier time. I think of rain. Most people find rain to be depressing but I enjoy it. Especially a hot summer rain that you weren’t prepared for. I imagine walking through puddles listening to birds sing as they are caught off guard by the sudden downpour. I’m so happy I could tap dance; maybe like singing in the rain! I’d twirl my umbrella and let the rain soak through my clothes while I danced. I’d splish-splash and turn my face towards the sky.
As I dance in my mind, I hear the rush of cars through the wet streets. They seem loud for some reason. Now the rain is really starting to pour. Why is it all so loud? When it rains, it pours I guess. How can anyone think with all this rain? All this noise?
It’s as if I’m drowning, but I can’t be because I’m still breathing. My eyes open into the blackness of the trunk of the car. It’s a sight I know all too well.
I sigh and hear the thunder barely break through the onslaught of water and I reconsider my opinion of rain. I’d kill to go back to silence even though that can be just as deafening at times.
I still hear the birds though. What is it about birds that makes them so creepy? Their beaks? Their knowing eyes?
From here I can hear police sirens and can almost picture the police cars flashing their reds and blues as the crows continue to cry. It’s windy now, no rain yet. But it’s coming, I can smell it in the air even from here, wherever “here” is.
I wonder where is he taking me this time?
I hear machinery and my gut tells me it’s a garage door. An industrial sized one, not residential. God it’s deafening. There’s just this tearing, tearing into something. I realize my eyes are closed and feel my body to make sure I’m ok. Is it me? No, not yet. Is it someone else?
Then there are no voices only silence and the rain.
The police sirens are louder and closer now; perhaps we never made it into the garage. Maybe I can be saved! I try to think of ways to get out of a trunk of a car. They should’ve taught us this in school. Why is the one thing I can think of John Mulany’s advice from Detective Bittenbinder? Should I attempt to punch out the taillight and wave my hand to gain attention? Or I could try yelling.
Oh no! The car is starting up again! I have to get out! But how?
From my place in the car I hear a quick beat of music, buses, cars squeaking, and motors passing by. Now a semi has started up. I can sense they are closer than ever because of the volume. I have a feeling we’re stopped at a truck stop. I definitely can’t yell now. No one would hear me.
Plus would I really want to be saved at a truck stop full of strangers? Would that even be a better situation? From my cramped place I hear a motorcycle. I hate the sound of motorcycles. I once saw a guy turn into jelly after falling off a bike and have never thought of them the same. I can’t listen to this anymore so I close my eyes and try to forget.
Before I know it, I open my eyes and hear an unmistakable elevator ding. How the fuck are we in an elevator right now? What floor are we on? I look around and see that he’s holding me close. I try to move against his grip but to no avail. A woman enters and is talking on the phone without a care in the world. Without even realizing my life is hanging in the balance.
Great now she’s talking to him…
I can’t stand it and let everything fade out again after we enter the hotel room and he starts typing on his laptop. I remember it being quick and deliberate and wonder what he could possibly be writing.
By the time I come to, we’re at a bowling alley and he’s sipping on an empty soda. I despise the noise he makes sucking air through the straw. He gets us food to throw off suspicion. I eat without tasting as I listen to the surrounding songs and people talking. A cart rolls by us filled with bowling balls. He squeezes my hand which is the sign that it’s time. I look over to see him writing a check and can’t help but feel disgust. What is this, the 80s? Why is no one catching on to this guy? He’s paying with a check! This isn’t retro; it’s a red flag. Never trust someone who pays with a check unless it’s your grandma.
I search around for a pair of eyes that will meet mine. None do. No one pays attention anymore. Everyone’s too busy staying out of each others’ business or on their phones. If someone looked into my eyes, they’d see the pain and hurt and helplessness. But no one looks so I look down.
Before slipping into the abyss again, the last of what I remember is just noise. Not static noise, but just noise pollution. Noise you think you’d get tired of hearing until you can’t see where you are. Until you can’t breathe.
Bio:
M.J. Robbins was born and raised in San Antonio, Texas. She has always enjoyed writing and received a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Theatre from Texas State University with dreams of making it big in Hollywood as a screenwriter. She was young and full of hope. She was also wrong. After taking a more practical approach at life, M.J. obtained a Master of Library Science from Texas Woman’s University and became a librarian. She is currently a Digital Services Librarian at a public library in Texas but continues to pursue her writing career because, as it turns out, she is still as full of hope as she was in her undergrad. This is M.J.’s first published piece.
Inspiration:
This is my first submission ever, so my process was fairly simple. I took notes on the sounds I heard in the 15-minute audio clip, mainly so I could remember the order, then I pieced it together. Some of the notes I took were of the sounds themselves and others were ideas and bits of imagery that I saw as I listened to the clip. I listened to the clip once and paused a couple of times to write down particularly long thoughts. After re-reading at what I had written, I looked at the big picture and thought about a scenario in which all these sounds and ideas could take place. Then came Darkened Skies which I am incredibly proud of.
Social Media:
Twitter: @mjrobbins27
Missed the contest? Don’t worry, we have more!
