Winners of the 10th Annual R. Darryl Fisher Creative Writing Contest

Poetry Winners
First Place: Shannon Abbott, "Aurora", Norman North
Second Place: Neena Alavicheh, "Reflections in Leaves" , Yukon High School
Third Place: James Bratton, "The Port", Norman North

Honorable Mentions:
Larissa Lynch, "Mac's," Walters High School
Erin Haastrup, "Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister," Union High School (Tulsa)
Makayla Leann Bray, "Seven Plays of a Pawn," Ada High School
Alexis Skrunack, "This is Where I Am," Walters High School
Victoria Quiroga, "The Old Mill," Lawton High School
Dominique Bradley, "Ode to My Father," Lawton High School
Samantha Huckabay, "Dad Never Cooked Much," Norman North
Aubrey Crynes, "By Sophomore Year," Norman North
Sara Ishaq, "Alien," Norman North
Tanner Capehart, "After the Rain Dance," Sallisaw High School

Fiction Winners
First Place: Peter Biles. “The Patriot.” Latta High School. (Teacher: Holly Wood)
Second Place: Katelyn Elrod. “Remembering Audrey.” Chickasha High School. (Teacher: Jo Perryman)
Third Place: Sara Ishaq. “A Portrait of Genevieve Poole.” Norman North High School. (Teacher: Kathy Woods)

Honorable Mention
Whitney Stewart. “Therapy.” Moore High School. (Teacher: Eileen Worthington)
Misty Jeter. “The Singing Bird Flies Low: The Diary Of Harlequin Linchtstrahl.” Dickson High School. (Teacher: Jennifer Moore)
Jenny Corbin. “Screaming.” Bridge Creek High School. (Teacher: Leslie Munhollon)
Justin Wu. “Out of Time.” Norman North High School. (Teacher: Kathy Woods)
Andrew Mather. “Spatty.” Bartlesville High School. (Teacher: Darla Tresner)
Spencer Yue. “Tintoror.” Norman North High School. (Teacher: Kathy Woods)
Aryn Alderman. “Dream World.” Norman High School. (Teacher: Kaysi Sullivent)
Subhieh Matar. “Dark Detective.” Deer Creek High School. (Teacher: Jason Stephenson)
Jamie Lim. “When Lightning Strikes.” Norman North High School. (Teacher: Kathy Woods)
Ella Parsons. “Phantomes du Louvre.” Norman North High School. (Teacher: Kathy Woods)

"Aurora" by Shannon Abbott

Sweep me off my feet and carry me

Away through dense oak forests and mountain ranges high

Stretching up and up until they’ve mastered the clouds.

Take my hand and lead me

Away over the lakes so deep,

And fields of luscious green,

Sunlit and smiling.

Then pick me back up and show me the way

Under the watchful eyes of the midnight stars with

Stardust in my pocket to guide us in the

Blackest caves,

Silver shimmering on my fingers.

Do not stop until we arrive

The snow crisp and cool and beautiful beneath our feet

The tundra on its wedding day

And the bouquet tossed so high that the moon catches it

And laughs a twinkling laugh

Sending dancing petals across the sky

Remnants of roses red and lilacs purple.

"Reflections in Leaves" by Neena Alavicheh

Autumn is lonely.

Dead leaves take to running with the wind,

Their tiny legs skittering against the brown grass

In a dance of nostalgia and breathless laughter.

Wind fills my lungs,

And its scent is sweet and cold

As it infects my soul with a deep longing.

My hair flows with it, wildly yet gently stroking my face.

And I hear the footsteps of days long gone,

And of people whose voices are background noise to my journey.

Will I remember them?

Perhaps not, but like the warmth of my coffee, they linger

For now.

Clouds, in the brilliant blue sky, we float away from the older days.

But the sun warms my heart and calms my wanderlust.

Perhaps for forever I will live in this moment

Of warmth and contentment

Of dead leaves and the sweet, lonely smell of fall.

"The Port" by James Bratton

tall-mastered trawlers swarm with

leathery scaly wags gathered to hunt

the great blue-backed lobster

they leave the rocky coast behind

and travel to the salty waves

their backs are burdened with wool sweaters

and their own yellow shells

their senses with nauseous scents

that no longer register with the hardened hands

their faces with scars of storms past

and prickly grey beards

their minds with lives lost

and forgotten friends

they turn their backs to the shore

their faces to the winds

"The Patriot" by Peter Biles

A house propped its legs on a beach and was glad to be painted cool blue, because the house liked blue, and liked the ocean. Its shingles were drooping but at the same time firm, and the paint on the porch was peeling but somehow fresh and admirable.

It was an old house good enough to suit an old man, and lenient enough to be burdened by a girl of twelve. The village was snugly behind them, set in a pleasing arrangement of colors and sizes, but the crags and cliffs above them were even more pleasing, though they were arranged by nature and scoffed the ocean with black, stony hands.

Supposing that having few possessions means happiness, the old man and his granddaughter were two of the most well to do people around. The old man had a fiddle that he played to the girl on frightening nights, and the girl had a small guitar, its six strings still miraculously intact and its battered neck sleek from use. They played the instruments and had nothing else to smile on. The table in the kitchen was a scarred plank. The bowls were old and cracked, and the electricity flickered. The music from the fiddle and guitar, however, overruled the ruts in the wood, even the sad blinking the overhead light gave in the kitchen. The twangs and high cries only reminded the old man that he belonged to the girl, and that the girl belonged to him.

The night skies were more often lit with flash bombs in the distance than ocean storms. War cut through the southern villages but hadn’t the time to visit the small, rather unnoticeable beach town. Even when rumors of air raids forced the people on their toes, no planes except the mail deliveries ever circled overhead.

“Why is there war, Papa?” It was a night when the bombs sporadically made the beach town tremble. Beads of white like lightning sliced their way inside through the window in the kitchen. The old man was drinking a lukewarm cup of coffee and polishing the fiddle with his handkerchief. At the other end of the table, the girl was expectantly staring at him, waiting for an answer.

“I don’t know, Micah,” he said without looking up. “People make friends, but their friends always have enemies.” Another soft boom and a dim flash of light.

“It scares me,” said Micah.

“Me too.” Micah continued to stare, but acquired surprise. The old man had not changed the intent bleeding of his eyes on the dark wood. The admittance that he was afraid hadn’t hindered the motion of his hands.

“You’re afraid?” Micah said softly. “That can’t be.” He looked up and caught Micah’s rich, brown eyes, which he labeled as deep as any forgotten myth. He fingered his mustache and studied the child for a couple of silent moments.

“Do you think fear is a childhood pastime?” he asked her.

“I always thought it goes away when you get old,” replied Micah.

“I hope you are not disappointed, my dear. Fear is a parasite. It doesn’t go away unless you fight it away.”

Not a second subsequent to his words the wailing of a siren slit the night’s throat. Micah’s heart jumped and her pale cheeks became flushed. The old man put down the handkerchief, his eyes fixed through the window.

“Heaven forbid,” he whispered.

 The tremors from the bombs had turned into vehement quakes. The beach town was no longer unacquainted with the war.

"Remembering Audrey" by Katelyn Elrod

"A Portrait of Genevieve Poole" by Sara Ishaq

Chapter the First: Albert Farrell

Headache

            As in, the morning started off with one. Normally, I just shrugged it off, ‘cuz I got headaches all the time, so what’s one more, right? Wrong. This, this was the mother of all headaches, and Lord almighty, I really thought it would be the end of me. But I couldn’t let it take me down, not today. So I got dressed as quick as I could, a flurry of arms and legs as I tried to fight down the waves of nausea lapping at my consciousness.

When I finally finished, I reached over to my desk to grab my glasses, putting them on to clear the final wisps of blurriness only to reveal a whirlwind of mismatched socks, wrinkled slacks, and as the cherry on top, I’d even messed up the buttons on my shirt. Dear God, when did you stop loving me? I sighed and moved to my nightstand to check the time, glimpsing the wind though my window as I passed, tearing at the trees fast enough to give me whiplash. It was almost enough to send me back under my covers and I nearly caved…but I couldn’t miss school today- not with so much to look forward to.

My seat in class was right next to Genevieve Poole’s, and she was just the most charming girl that the sun ever laid eyes on. On my first day of school I was late, and she’d shown me a shortcut through a little garden with these pretty white flowers. I haven’t been late since then, not only because of the new route, but also because I didn’t want to miss sitting next to her, especially since today Genevieve was going to sing the lead in…