These entries from September's challenge were selected as Honorable Mentions. Those who completed this challenge are now encouraged to share their stories in the comments section of the "September Writing Challenge."
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Jas
14
Hong Kong
Dig Deep: Deep down below the concrete ground
She stared down at her dirty hands.
“Cait? Cait, I’m scared.”
The moon wasn’t even up that night. She was probably lurking behind the clouds, hiding its beauty from the puny undeserving humans who sat useless below her.
I set my pen and paper down on the wooden desk next to me and hopped off the bed in one swift motion. The strained tendons on the back of my head eased as the coursework and GCSE exams left my mind. I allowed the crisp cold air to consume me as I left my warm flower-dotted blanket, stinging my bare wrists.
I slipped into her bed and turned so that I was facing her. Tears were streaming down her face, outlining the angry red blotches on her cheeks. With trembling lips, she told me about her dream as I held her tightly.
Frazzled by how easily she bent
the world in half
The moons and stars were bleeding, she told me. Everything was slowly crumbling apart, piece by piece, suffocating the ones below it.
“Clara, it’s just a dream, it’s nothing but a dream…” I told her rhythmically as I had the nights before.
Merely by the snap of fingers
“But what if it’s not?” she asked, eyes brimmed with tears, frantically searching mine for reassurance.
I stilled, speechless. But what if it wasn’t a dream? What if every drop of our imagination was an honest reflection of reality? That one day buildings, roads, people would dissolve away until nothing is present but drifting bitter ash?
Where there was once blooming flowers and flowing sands
“Cait, please say something. Please tell me that everything would be fine like you told me before.” She pleaded, her wide eyes filled with hope and unmistakable fear.
But I couldn’t. How could I possibly tell her that everything was fine when nothing really was? I couldn’t tell her that Tuberculosis wasn’t wiping out cities, I couldn’t tell her that governments weren’t sneaking in bits and pieces of taxes for their own selfish desires, and I most certainly could not tell her that the world was perfect as it was because it’s most definitely not.
The most precious treasures to us, we toss them aside and let a blanket of grey dust engulf it. The leaves, each losing their vibrancy as they fall lifeless on the concrete grounds. And yet we care so much about the flimsy bits of green papers. The time of the year when society forces you to prove yourself worthy through a petty piece of examination. The need to mandatorily do something when there’s nothing in the world that’s an obligation but love.
I stared at the moon instead, communicating nothing more but a silent plea. Wishing for anything to sooth our screaming hearts.
Was now suffocated by a thick layer of cold cement
And frankly, I received none.
Paula Becka
17
Germany
Dig Deep
A pile of dirt lands at my feet.
The next lot almost hits my shoes.
I take a step to the side, advancing the fence from the left.
More dirt comes flying over.
Then I reach the mesh and look over.
First I see tangled sandy-blond hair and the end of a spade.
“Leah?” I ask disbelievingly.
She looks up, and it is her. She looks different though. Sweat pricks on her forehead and I can see freckles sprinkling her skin. She straightens, leaning on the spade which is stuck in a twenty-centimetre-deep hole. I can see soil clinging to her hands as she tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear.
“Oh hi,” she answers, giving me a smile. Her hazel eyes twinkle and the smile is radiant.
“What are you doing?” I inquire. Never before have I caught her gardening.
“Oh you know…” she shrugs, trailing off.
“I actually don’t know.”
She shifts from foot to foot. “I’m digging.”
“I can see,” I remark.
She looks down at the hole by her feet, loose soil around it.
“You’re throwing the dirt into my garden,” I add.
Her eyes widen. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“So what are you digging for?”
She looks at me shortly, then back at her feet. “The truth.”
“The truth?” I echo.
“Yeah.”
“Why?” I ask.
She presses her delicate lips together. “Because it’s somewhere down there.”
**
It’s drizzling when I open the door to let the cat in. It’s really raining when I see the mound of earth next to my fence.
I pull on a coat and trudge outside.
No soil comes flying over.
When I reach the pile, it almost reaches my hip. I take a step closer to the fence and look over, pushing my hands far into my pockets.
After not having seen her in a few days, I’m a little startled to see her here in a tank top and shorts in the pouring rain. Her hair is wet, clinging to her, and the soil covers her feet, marking her thin legs.
The spade is in her hand again. Today I see her muscles strain as she’s working. Her movements are quick and forceful. The hole is deeper than the first time.
I see her hacking at the side of the hole. Part of the ground collapses, falling into it.
“Leah?” I call.
She looks up. Water runs down her cheeks. “What?” she demands, shoving the spade into the ground.
I decide not to mention the pile of wet earth beside me. “What are you doing?”
She exhales and laughs humourlessly. “What do you think I’m doing?”
“Digging for the truth?” I suggest bleakly.
“Not anymore.” Her voice sounds bitter.
“Why not?”
“Because I found it.” She heaves the spade out again, hacking at the wet dirt once more.
I watch the soil cave-in and cover the hole.
Lyra Zapanta
18
Philippines
Dig Deep
The day is perfect. Despite the earlier weather advisory and the fact that it’s June in the Philippine islands, the sun is shining and there are no clouds in sight. It seems that even the gods in heaven are ecstatic to witness the event today. As the car pulls up in the parking lot, I notice that everyone around is smiling. Today is supposed to be a happy day after all. I go with the flow and smile with them. Today will, after all, be the last day I pretend. I’ll be moving out next month to work in South Korea, and I’ll probably never see any of them for years. I thought at first that it would be sad. After all, I don’t know anyone in South Korea. But now, a little relief is mixed with that sadness. At the very least, I’m not the kind of person who’s prone to nostalgia. I can forget this easily and bury it deep in my heart. Again.
I see him standing a few meters away and approach him with a big grin on my face. With every step I take, I dig out the memories we’ve had over the years. At three, we were in the same kindergarten class and gushing over the same little girl who sat in front of us. She had long hair and dimples on both cheeks, and when she smiled, she looked so darling. At thirteen, he got into a fistfight with a group of boys in senior high. I was a coward and stick thin at the time but couldn’t allow myself to just watch, so I joined in the brawl. It ended up with both of us having several bruises and cuts. Our parents were called in, and we were suspended for two weeks. They thought they’d punished us enough then, but we spent the two weeks of freedom we had by going around town over and over again and trying things we couldn’t before because of school. At eighteen, we both learned we passed in the same university with different degree programs. It didn’t matter; we were inseparable and, anyway, it’s time for us to take our own paths, too. It pained me a lot, but I couldn’t let go of my dream to be a computer engineer. So I buried that pain deep, deep inside, along with everything else.
We talk for a while and joke around as usual until the coordinator tells us it’s time and makes us get into position. It’s starting. When I get into my place later beside him, I dig deep in my heart again, deeper this time so I can make sure that it won’t escape later and turn into a mess. Then I bury all of my feelings for him—all that love and admiration and pain and frustration and sadness I’ve felt over the years. After all, I’m just his best man—waiting beside him for the girl walking down the aisle.