Short Story Writing Contest 6th–8th grade Winner: Olivia Prentice
Thank you to everyone who submitted entries to our Short Story Writing Contest during National Novel Writing Month. Writers were asked to follow the theme, At one point(e).
We were thrilled with the response and are excited to announce the winners from each category:
Our winners received Library prize packs and we will be publishing all three winning short stories during the month of January, here on MidPointe Library’s blog, The Pointe. Please check back to read them!
The first piece we would like to present is the winner of the 6th-8th grade category, Walking Miracles by Olivia Prentice.
Walking Miracles By Olivia Prentice
“George Muller didn’t save thousands of children’s lives by simply gazing out the window feeling endless pity for them. Albert Einstein didn’t grow that massive brain of his by not studying for tests. Alexander Graham Bell didn’t invent the famous light bulb by staring at a wall with a frown on his face. No, all these people did something, saw something, or heard something that sparked their creativity and that is the reason they have been remembered through many generations. In the same way, you can’t write a story without inspiration...”
My mother’s works echoed in my mind like dropping a soda can in an underground cave. I remember her going on to explain how George Muller had gotten inspiration to start an orphanage by two homeless children, Albert Einstein had discovered his love for science when given a compass at 5 years old, and so on. Now here I was, staring intently at the blank sheet of paper sitting dormant on my desk, waiting for ideas to magically pop into my head. I thought of well-known authors like J.K. Rowling, C.S. Lewis, and Dr. Seuss. How did J.K. Rowling fathom to become one of the most well-known modern-day authors? How did C.S. Lewis obtain the wisdom to become, in my opinion, one of the most intellegent people ever, and write countless of incredible novels that are completely original? And how did Dr. Seuss get that wild mindset of his to write about unimaginable characters such as the Grinch, the Lorax, Thing 1, Thing 2, and Yertle the turtle. I mean really, Thing 1 and Thing 2? What kind of names are those?
I continued to stare at that dumb paper. My staring quickly turned to glaring as annoyance began to overcome me. I fought the urge to stomp right out of my bedroom, grab my tablet from the kitchen counter, and stare at those pixels until my skin grew wrinkly like an aluminum foil ball and my eyes turned bloodshot like the red poppies that stand tall in my mother’s garden every spring. But no. I wouldn’t do that; I couldn’t.
You may be wondering, “Whatever is it that drives that girl’s determination?” The answer is simple and may disappoint you; school. Just a few weeks ago, my teacher, Scarlet Westly, practically bounced into my 5th grade classroom so full of excitement it seemed as though she had spent the weekend at Kings Island.
“Howdy class!” Mrs. Westly greeted us that morning. I almost cringed at her Texan-style opening, but for once I was able to control myself, for since the greeting had been given every school morning, I ought to be used to it by now. She continued, “Ya’ll better get excited ‘cause now that ya’ll are pros at labeling sentences from our last chapter, we get to move on to a new topic! I think this one ya’ll will enjoy.” My excitement overtook me so much that I almost forgot to cringe at her overuse of the word “Ya’ll”.
As I remembered the torture of sentence labeling, I thought nothing could ever compare with the boredom it caused me. I gazed at my teacher eagerly, intrigued by what she was about to tell the class.
Mrs. Westly continued. “Our new topic is a friend of mine. A world of possibilities. One glance at their thin pages and anyone can escape their modernity and travel into worlds beyond imagination.” she paused for suspense and grinned. “As you may have already guessed, our new topic is Creative Writing!” I remember groaning as soon as the words had escaped the tip of her tongue. Writing is one thing that I absolutely cannot stand.
School has to ruin everything. I swear every day after school as soon as every student is out of sight, those teachers all gather at one another’s houses and drink tea while talking in low whispers about more useless information they can teach their students. For real, what’s even the point of writing a short story, when you could just watch a movie? A movie is a story, right? It has plenty of worlds, quests and characters. Plus, there’s no boring descriptions! See? We’ve already got plenty of “short stories” on planet earth, so why are the teachers demanding their students to create more?
I flashed back to reality. Back to my cramped bedroom in that old house sitting at the crummy desk and staring at that dumb paper. The panic that had been bubbling inside of me quickly turned to anger as my attitude got worse and worse. I was angry at my lack of responsibility, my lack of ideas, and the fact that this short story that I hadn't even started was due tomorrow morning.
Ideas for this story that I was forced to bring to life swirled in my head like a honeybee avoiding a fly swatter. A kid going to an unusual world? Nah, that’s too common of a plot. Talking animals? Too common as well! A kid discovering a new planet in outer space? Ugh, that's the same thing as a kid discovering an unusual world!! Though I didn't realize it at the time, I really did care about the plot of the short story. I figured if I was going to take the time to write something, it had to be good.
A knock suddenly came from my door.
“May I come in?” A soft whisper rang out into my room, interrupting the commotion of my thoughts. I immediately knew who it was. My only response was a grunt, which my mother took as a “yes”.
“How's the paper going?” she asked and made her toward me. My mother crouched low beside my desk to investigate the progress I had made. Her investigation was followed by a frown as the reality set in that absolutely no progress had been made. “Charmaine,” My mother began, taking a deep breath. “Can you explain to me why there is a blank piece of paper on your desk without any words on it?”
“I can't think of any ideas!” I said in a louder voice than I intended. I sighed.
“No ideas? Nothing?! Come on honey, we talked about this. I know there's a creative streak inside of you somewhere. You just need inspiration to help you find it. Remember...” she
went on to repeat about how people like George Muller, Albert Einstein, and Dr. Seuss all found inspiration at an early age to gain their disposition and evolved into the highly respected people that they were. “And Charmaine,” My mother put supplemental emphasis on my name so I would listen. “After these people found inspiration, they did something with it. And you Charmaine, that is the part on which you are lacking to do,” she paused to see if I was processing her words. “There's plenty of inspiration around you. Now all you have left is to do something with that inspiration that you have been given. I know for a fact that you are physically able to, my daughter, but it's your choice if you want to apply it.” We sat there in silence, neither one of us sure of what to say. Finally, for some reason unbeknownst to me, my mother decided to get up and disappear out the door as if she had completely given up.
Not really knowing what to do, I arose from the chair to my desk, grasped the sharpest, smoothest pencil I could find, then snatched my glasses case from my nightstand, for if not then it would be even more of a predicament to read my terrible handwriting. I opened the inky black case, which almost reminded me of a coffin, and read the words that were engraved on the inside of the lid.
To See Creation in All Its Beauty
I almost laughed at the slogan. One, because all of creation is stupid and humans are nothing but a problem that needs to be solved, and two, because I could tell the company was trying way too hard to be sentimental. As I read the phrase again, I made a mental note to cover it up with sticky note with something more practical like, “Tired of being blind? Wear these glasses.”
After wasting way too much time pondering the sentimental slogan, I finally slid those cheetah-print glasses onto my face and behind my ears. Determined to at least get a few words down on paper, I immediately attempted grabbed my pencil once again to turn that paper into a masterpiece. But to my surprise, the paper was gone. Instead, a single book lay dormant on the desk slowly collecting dust. I darted around in my chair, and glanced around my room, ready to catch whoever had made the switch.
As I turned around, I almost fainted at what I saw. My room was gone. Everything had turned to books. Everything. My dresser. My desk. The curtains. The pencil I had been using. My bed. My blankets. Even the boards floor and wall panels had transformed into their own novels that were connected and acted perfectly in place of the real wooden planks and yellow wallpaper. I was so shaken that I almost fell out of my chair backwards, and my glasses bounced off my face and onto the floor with a soft clatter. Without warning, every book disappeared, and all was as it was before.
I stood shaken, not knowing what to do. Did my room seriously just turn to books? What in the world just happened? I paced back and forth, unsure of the whole situation. Finally, my curiosity got the best of me, and I plopped those glasses back onto my face. Sure enough, as soon as I blinked, my entire bedroom transformed into that crazy land of titles.
It’s the glasses. I breathed. They are what's turning the room into books.
I rushed around the room and seized the first story that looked appealing. The title I had selected I believe was the one my desk had transformed into. I opened the antique-looking coffee bean colored cover, and to my surprise, instead of the usual copyright page and title page, as soon as the front cover had been flipped open, that was when the descriptions spilled off the page. My eyes locked in on the letters and soon I felt myself being absorbed into the words.
As I read, the book told of a poor carpenter who labored hours upon hours just to get a single meal for his family. It went on to tell of the carpenter using the last of his wood to take the most extreme risk he had taken in his life. If it prevailed, he and his family would have enough money to buy enough meals to eat and be satisfied for the next 10 years. But, if it did not prevail, the man and his family would have no more wood to create furniture, and the family would become broke. So the man worked hour by hour, day and night, toiling with the last of his wood to bring to life a beautiful creation. His family waited in anticipation as the last of their food ran out. Finally, after the very last crumb had been eaten, the carpenter had finished his magnificent trophy. He flaunted it in the window of his shop and watched the passers-by as they admired the masterpiece. Its finely crafted drawers, hand carved table legs, and checkerboard-smooth surface was just what a married couple that passed by the shop that day wanted for their child. The carpenter eagerly showed off his desk to the couple, until finally, the man and woman agreed to purchase it. They exchanged money, thanked the dear carpenter, then brought the creation back to their house. Immediately, they placed it in their daughter’s bedroom. The little girl had been ecstatic over the desk and had used it every day to draw little butterflies, blue jays, or whatever piqued the girl’s interest. Meanwhile, the carpenter had gone back to his house that day, overjoyed with the success his masterpiece had brought him. After that, the carpenter became well-known for his work of art and his family never had to worry about running out of food ever again.
As I finished reading the last word on the final page of the story, a whirlwind of thoughts pounded on my mind like rocks being tossed into a pond. That little girl had been me. The desk that I had once called crummy I now looked at with new eyes. It’s drawers no longer looked dull. The small crack in one of the table legs was no longer bothersome. The slightly sloped top no longer irritated me, even when the pencils would slide right off onto the floor. No, this desk was a prized gem that I, Charmaine Horton, had had the honor and privilege of having in my bedroom. I even smiled at the thought of what the carpenter was doing right at that very second. Probably making more masterpieces even more incredible than this desk, I thought to myself.
I glanced around the room in awe. Everything still remained as a world of books, and I wanted to read every single one of them.
For what seemed like forever, all I did was read. It was like candy for the brain. As I read, my brain swallowed up more and more information. Everything that I had passed by countless times in my life I never knew the treasure that they truly were. The story of my mechanical pencils told of each one being manufactured in a factory; the company’s logo stamped on each one. The story of the pillow I slept on every night told of a woman who always struggled trying to find a pillow that was just right for her, so she decided to make her own. The pillow she created was so comfortable, soon everyone wanted one. The story of my floorboards told of a furniture company receiving a gift of eight large sheets of Brazilian redwood floorboards that had been ripped out from the floor of another little girl’s room. The company had delicately restored and polished the boards until they shined brighter than they had when they were brand new. Every one of the stories I read all in some shape or some form had my parents falling in love with the object that the novel told of and in the end they purchased them for my bedroom.
After reading about what seemed like every object in my room, I was beginning to get tired of object after object after object. So, I decided to find a book that way maybe something a little different than a household object. I then strolled out of my bedroom and down the staircase of books, past the kitchen of novels, until finally I arrived at what I had been looking for. A special book lay dormant on top of the sofa’s storybook. This particular title had caught my eye for it had not the usual brown coffee-colored cover, but instead, rays of sunshine seemed to bounce off its gleaming aureate cover.
This novel was such a beauty that it was only a few seconds after it caught my eye that I was submerged in its pages of wonder.
I couldn’t comprehend what I was reading. The book began with a cell. One minuscule, tiny, microscopic cell. As the book went on, it told of that cell multiplying, and multiplying, all by itself until suddenly there were thousands and millions and billions of cells. Soon organs began constructing, organs combined to make systems, and every little detail that made my mother, my mother, was compacted into a few small ladder shaped strands of DNA. This miraculous, wonderous, phenomenal process was completed within ten months. Seriously!? That’s less than a year!
I had to stop reading right there. My mind swirled as it gathered the information that it had just been given. It suddenly dawned on me what I was reading. I was reading about the creation of a masterpiece. It was more of a masterpiece than my desk could ever compare with. One single, diminutive cell transforming into an intelligent, functioning, living, breathing human being was simply incomprehensible. And that fact that every single human on earth started with this incredulous process made me want to shout with joy. This news was beyond comparation with anything that I had ever dreamed of. This meant that even though she drives
me nuts at times, my teacher, Mrs. Westly, is a miracle. Even people like my pediatricians, the local libraries, and though I couldn’t believe it I am a miracle. One look at this incredible process and one’s doubts could be wiped away and shoved out the door.
I looked up from the book on my lap and gazed at the incredible room that surrounded me. Though I wished I could read every word of every story in this house, I had already learned enough. A new perspective filled me, and instead of seeing a dopey, abnormal desk, I saw a creation that had been made with effort and love. Instead of looking at a person’s weight, height, or clothing, I remembered the fact that that person was a miracle. There’s a reason why the word “Miracle” has such few synonyms. It’s because no word on earth can compare with the word’s meaning. A surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the word of a divine agency. That’s what I am.
And as I finally got the will to take those glasses off, watching the room of wonderous stories vanish before my eyes, I had finally found my inspiration. And I knew exactly what to write my short story about.
