Creative Energy

Here are the final three winners in the annual Our Generation Get Creative writing contest. Previously published winning entries can be found online at http://ourgen.spokane.net

Remembering China

As I look back now, it is amazing to me that I have lived on the other side of the world and was able to immerse myself in a completely new culture. I came in contact with so many unforgettable things, things that have changed the way I see my world today.

I am thankful for my new perspective that has allowed me to encounter and sense the newness, yet ancientness of this new country all around me. The unique expression of the Chinese people and the quality of life allowed me to see, smell, hear and feel things that some will never have the opportunity to experience.

Seeing the perfect curve around the peach like the sun in the hazy sky. Hearing children’s feet as they walk with squeakers in their shoes. The aroma of unknown foods in the night market, smells that make you stop and take a deep breath. Feeling the slight tickle of a woman’s fingers in my hair, just in awe. The sight of best friends locking arms or holding hands as they walk down a crowded street. The shouts of the people in the markets, whether bargaining down a price or just yelling to get your attention. The stench of garbage lying at the side of the road. To touch something that is older than the time of Christ, apartment buildings, then streaming and weaving between cars during rush hour. The giggles of cab drivers as I hop into a taxi and proceed to butcher the pronunciation of where I am going. The feeling of being watched wherever you were, like an outsider. The smells of surrounding restaurants that find their way into our apartment. The sight of old men sitting on street corners playing the traditional Chinese chess. The sounds from the music accompanying groups of people doing their morning and evening calisthenics performed in neighborhood parking lots. Feeling the tug and touch of small children begging, determined to get spare change regardless of if you have any.

All of these small yet significant things have now been made a part of my life and have laced themselves into my memory.

Andrea Whitney Read

Lewis & Clark

The Spirit of Christmas

When you were a child, and Christmas drew near,

On your face, there’d be a smile from ear to ear.

You’d visit Santa and have your picture taken,

You’d tug on his beard, for the real thing mistaken.

As a child you were filled with joy,

Anticipating unwrapping each new toy.

Anxious for Santa, you were reluctant to sleep,

You’d stay up and hide, in hopes of sneaking a peek.

Always discovered, you were sent back to bed,

Where eager dreams filled your head.

Once awake, you’d rush to see,

What Santa had left you beneath the tree.

You’d tear into each package with such sheer enjoyment,

You’d clutch each new treasure, your heart so content.

You firmly believed that Santa existed,

For you received every item that you had listed.

Enraptured by the holiday,

You vowed never to forget such a special day.

But time has passed, and something’s now different,

You no longer greet Christmas with much excitement.

Your schedule’s too hectic, you say you’re too busy,

You don’t even decorate a Christmas tree.

You now curse the snow - it just makes streets icy,

You no longer appreciate its pure white beauty.

You begrudgingly shop for those on your list,

No longer believing that Santa exists.

On Christmas Eve you go to bed,

Where nightmares of bills fill your head.

On Christmas morn there is no giddy feeling,

Christmas to you, is far less appealing.

You’ve certainly aged - how could you forget,

That time as a child when you embodied such spirit.

Believe in the season, and Santa will live,

Open your heart and generously give.

So believe in the magic and play in the snow,

For the spirit of Christmas you never outgrow!

Megan Albertus

Ferris

Untitled

On the corner of Hudsborough Street

A beggar woman stood and wept

It had been thirty-seven hours since she slept

Her poor aching shoulders, her throbbing feet

And the rain still poured

The flowers withered in her grip

For fifty cents apiece, a small profit

But she was different, a misfit

And no one placed a coin upon her fingertip

And the rain still poured

Each part of her clothing had a hole or a patch

Her stockings showed beneath her well-worn shoes

Which she was unable to remember as new

Her possessions a scarf and a box with one match

And the rain still poured

Her home a box, found in the trash

Her family abandoned, loved ones gone

No one to hold her, it had been so long

Since a hug or a handshake, for no one would be so rash

And the rain still poured

But who is this woman without a name?

This woman is me, this woman is you

This woman is the friend you never knew

So give her a hug, ask for her name,

For neither one of you will ever be the same

And the rain stopped pouring

Klara Bowman

Lewis and Clark