Tag Archives: Summer 2010 Rose Million Healey Award finalist

Rose Million Healey Finalist

24 Sep

This week, we honor five very talented young writers, all from our summer camp workshops. These five young ladies were selected as the winner and finalists of our 2010 Rose Million Healey Award in Short Fiction, which was founded by Patrick Million to honor of his Aunt Rose Million Healey, the woman who most inspired him to pursue writing.

Today, we showcase the work of finalist Faith.

The Door

“Who are you?”

“That’s not important. What is important is who you are.”

“I’m Mary Margaret. Who are you?”

“That’s not important. What is is what you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“As your kind is so inclined to think.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That’s not important. What is is what you’ve done.”

“Get out of my house.”

“We’re not in your house, Mary Margaret.”

Mary Margaret looks up and around and sees this is true. Her cozy home has disappeared, and now there is nothing. Everything is void—empty and white. The man in black leans on a rusty-looking scythe she didn’t remember him having a moment ago.

A dream. This is all a bad dream, she thinks.

“Do you really believe that, Mary Margaret?” the figure speaks aloud. Mary Margaret looks at it with wide eyes.

“Who are you?” Continue reading

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Rose Million Healey Finalist

23 Sep

This week, we honor five very talented young writers, all from our summer camp workshops. These five young ladies were selected as the winner and finalists of our 2010 Rose Million Healey Award in Short Fiction, which was founded by Patrick Million to honor of his Aunt Rose Million Healey, the woman who most inspired him to pursue writing.

Today, we showcase the work of finalist Deepti.

Defeat of the King

I knocked my arrow into my polished oak bow and aimed. I released the arrow, and it pierced the rabbit’s eye. Its life concluded instantly. Finally, an acceptable supper, I thought as I moved to retrieve it

“Beautiful, I have started a fire. We will have an excellent supper tonight!” said Bainion as I handed him the rabbit. I snuck a look at Dale and noticed he too was peering at me, my face flushed to a dark crimson. Looking around at my party, I saw Bainion, Celia, Dale, Anya, Semrun, Holly, Thorontur, and me. Eight sixteen-year-olds traveling across Masania to retrieve Alyan, the fabled sword that was said to be unbeatable and magical, with an emerald hilt made from the most powerful stone in the land. This sword would give us an advantage in our attempt to overthrow the great, mighty, and evil king Garza.

At this point, the rabbit was done, and Dale was handing out pieces to everyone, his hand lingering on my plate just a second longer than everyone else’s. As I bit into my piece, tasting the juice flavor that came from berries picked nearby, I heard something move. I fitted an arrow into my bow and looked around. It seemed as though everyone else heard it too; all around me, my friends were arming themselves with axes, spears, bows, and swords. We were all poised to attack. And it’s a good thing we were because at that moment an arrow soared past the place we had just been eating as three soldiers in Garza’s army emerged, weapons drawn. Continue reading

Rose Million Healey Finalist

22 Sep

This week, we honor five very talented young writers, all from our summer camp workshops. These five young ladies were selected as the winner and finalists of our 2010 Rose Million Healey Award in Short Fiction, which was founded by Patrick Million to honor of his Aunt Rose Million Healey, the woman who most inspired him to pursue writing.

Today, we showcase the work of finalist Cali.

My Heart Is Not What’s Bleeding

I am laying, squashed and defeated and trickling tar blood, under a red cloud that has been killing me for years. Its vapor finally took my pink lungs by siege and bled like Magic Marker into my bloodstream and flooded my poor, dead heart.

I.

You see, I think it all started when I moved here.

I came from the country where does nursed their fawns along the side of the stream in the springtime, and the clouds were as white as the snow that blanketed the flat land in the winter. It was the land that the great naturalists dreamed of—no civilization, no buildings, no society, no artificial life. Only a few settlements of families like mine dared to scatter themselves like pine nuts across the land. But I had long yearned for more than the loose homeschooling of my mother and the sight of a blurred, green landscape.

I had heard of a place called a city, where people lived by the hundreds of thousands, where the wolves I knew well were downsized and domesticated into little creatures called “dogs,” where there were structures devoted solely to the sale of nail polish, a commodity I knew only from the private drawers of my mother. The buildings reached into the gray sky and had dozens of tiny glass windows to peer out of, to see all the people.

I began to dream endlessly of the city. While most girls my age were planning their weddings, I drew geometric sketches of my future apartment and mentally arranged the design, from the kind of sink I would have to the zebra-printed rug I would place in the middle of my bedroom. Then I was suddenly eighteen, and my parents told me I was free to go anywhere I liked. They gave me information to access a trust fund I never knew I had.

I never knew about a lot of things.

But I happily walked to the nearest town, where I took a train to a station, and from there took another train to the city. Suddenly, I was there, and it was the city I dreamed of. The superstructures of metal and plaster were even taller than I had imagined, and there were hundreds of people passing me by, talking to each other, going into buildings, going into shops, carrying tiny fluffy dogs and briefcases and purses and acting natural.

I wandered around for hours, maybe days; I didn’t run out of energy at all, even when it seemed to get dark and the people went inside. There was so much to see! Then it began to rain and everyone ran inside or under an umbrella, which prompted me to think about where I would live, and I found a listing of apartments in a newspaper and looked through it in a place called a café until I found the one that sounded perfect. I walked to it and gave the man in charge the money for the apartment, and I was in my new home with a window the size of a wall that looked down onto the beautiful asphalt street and pavement with all the new people. I also had a balcony with a chair to sit in and watch the people below. It was like the city itself was inviting me to observe it. Continue reading

Rose Million Healey Finalist

21 Sep

This week, we honor five very talented young writers, all from our summer camp workshops. These five young ladies were selected as the winner and finalists of our 2010 Rose Million Healey Award in Short Fiction, which was founded by Patrick Million to honor of his Aunt Rose Million Healey, the woman who most inspired him to pursue writing.

Today, we showcase the work of finalist Sarah.

The Masterpiece

I.

It had been three years, and his father’s masterpiece still sat in a thin layer of dust on the table.

No one had used the table for actual meals since his father started the project four years ago. Instead, Jacob swung by Starbucks for breakfast, and for dinner he and his mother ate on their laps. Jacob found it difficult to pass by the unused table and its contents without scowling. Why couldn’t his mother just throw it out already? he asked himself. It was just wasting space. His father was dead. No one was going to finish it.

Today, he entered the apartment with his temper already rubbed raw from a long day—sitting in endless lectures all morning at the local community college, then several frustrating hours at his job. He let his bag fall into a chair with a heavy thud and then paused, catching sight of the “masterpiece.” Jacob eyed it with distaste.

It was a small statue, raw and unfinished. It was done in a weird, modernistic way, with pliant sheets of thin metal, and it seemed to portray a young woman wearing a dress reminiscent of Greek robes. Though the folds of metal cloth were worked in exquisite detail, large portions of it were untouched. That was his dad, all right—his head always up in the clouds or stuck in the past, never any time to think about today. No wonder he never had a paycheck to show for all his work. No wonder they always had to pinch and scrimp to scrounge together the rent. Continue reading