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2024 Winning Entries
Please note that entries appear as we received them, typos and all :)
12 and Under Poetry
First Place: Sienna Fields, age 10, Louisville, Colorado (also, highest-scoring entry overall)
Oh, A Sneeze!
Oh, a sneeze
That blows the trees
And shakes the house
And brings the bees
Hey, look!
Here comes a mouse!
And mice make holes
And holes bring moles
And guess what?
These moles brought a foal!
But to build a proper stable,
We aren't able
So we try to make it out of
An old dinner table!
But the table
Isn't stable
And it all falls down
On top of the foal's hoof
Chaos breaks out!
Then it's all gone with a POOF!
Second Place: Mara Kammersell, age 11, Broomfield, Colorado
We, The Trees
We watch you each and every day, but you ignore us.
We try to tell you things, but you never listen.
We would tell you if you asked, but you never do.
If you weren't so ignorant, we would teach you the ways of nature,
How the rain is cathartic,
How life itself came to be,
Or how to whistle like the bats.
We know the secrets you might never know.
Do you ever say, what about the trees?
No.
If you would just
see us,
ask us,
get to know us.
We aren't just scenery.
You say, “I speak for the trees,”
But, do you really?
Do you know who we are?
We, the trees.
Third Place: Eleanor Cross, age 11, Boulder, Colorado
It is said that…
March goes in like a lion, a fierce newborn
Of power and strength
Though it comes out like a lamb
Gentle and sweet
Why almost as sweet as a
Honeysuckle flower
And that April’s stormy showers, and pouring rains
Bring on fresh May flowers
Bright and colorful,
With dew dripping from the leaves
But where are the charming, honey-like lambs
And the fearsome, but childlike lions,
Where are the fields full of new, fresh flowers
The bright rain showers and the misty dawns?
For all I am left with are November's cold, creeping mists,
October’s lonely, violent squalls
December’s icy, solitary blizzards,
January’s benumbing chills,
February’s frenzied shivers in the night
Oh, why
Oh, where
Are June’s hot summer days,
And July’s festive party parades,
Or August’s sweet, tender peaches
For I am stuck in Winter’s cold, frosty, enveloping clutches
Where I would much rather be in Summer’s warm, and joyful embrace
For to hail the golden Sun
Or to hail the silvery Moon
Is a choice that you, and you alone can make
Honorable Mention: Lucy Payne, age 12, Superior, Colorado
Have you seen
Aspen trees in fall?
For one breathtaking week
ghostly trees
yellow leaves
before the leaves
leave the trees
Aone final exquisite performance.
Maybe it’s a part of growing,
that last moment of
glowing.
Maybe you’re
supposed to be
numb or dull
after that.
Maybe you’re just
too tired to shine
like you used to.
Although,
i’d blame the flammable branches
if they killed my flame.
Then again,
maybe they fell on purpose.
Things have to get worse before they get better
right?
Winter before spring
barren trees
before the leaves grow back.
…
Did you know that aspen roots
are all connected?
They are usually the first to grow back
after a wildfire
in the mountains
because their roots are still alive.
New shoots
help each other
after a tragedy
sharing resources
and when one dies
another grows from the same resilient root system.
I think
that humans should be more like
Aspen trees.
12 and Under Short Story
First Place: Ellie Dellara, age 12, Louisville, Colorado
I loved running through the festive-colored tents with the animals and the stunt props, watching the men who made balloon animals and the women who made cotton candy. My father owned the carnival and everything inside from the towering tents to the tiny mice, it was all his, it was all mine. But not for long.
One bustling night just after I turned 12, I was walking around when I heard arguing from one of the tents. I peeked through a crack of fabric and saw something horrifying. One of the firemen swallowed some liquid and flames engulfed my father. The noises of the carnival drowned out his screams of agony. I watched as his clothes melted away, revealing his charred skin which then turned to bone. I was frozen. I made a noise that was a cross between a squeak and a sob. The flamethrower's head snapped towards me as he started to run. I ran, not daring to turn around. Suddenly I felt the flames lick at the back of my legs as the animal tent appeared in my vision. I sped up and ducked under the multi-colored fabric. My legs gave out and I fell onto the cold grass in the tent and then I passed out.
When I awoke I was in a white room with tubes coming out of my arms. The room was bright, its wall covered in machines and equipment beeping and wiring like a swarm of angry bees. I try to sit up but I can only rise a few inches before I am stopped by some invisible force. I start to panic. I can't move, I think. A nurse comes in and spreads cold blue cream on my leg sending pain shooting all over my body and wraps my mangled legs in white wrappings and walks out the room. As soon as the door closes, I hear it. Low and quiet at first, then louder and louder and then finally screaming “I will find you!” over and over again. “I will find you and you will be dead like him!”
I froze. Suddenly flames burst out of the door engulfing the room in orange and red. I screamed for help but no one came and the room went dark. Suddenly I sat up with a jolt and my restraints released. I threw myself out of bed and tried to stand up only to topple to the ground. I saw black spots dancing in my vision, threatening to knock me out. I blinked and the smoke and flames disappeared and in their place stood the tent I grew up in. I got up and looked around and spotted a lump next to me. I crawled over to it to find a body. I heaved it onto its side and saw my own blank eyes looking back at me. I screamed and fell back, panting heavily. How was I looking at myself? And then I realized... I was dead too.
Second Place: Sienna Fields, age 11, Louisville, Colorado
The Griffincident
Have you ever met a griffin? Thought not. Don’t feel bad-neither had I, until the Griffincident.
It was quite a wonderful day- the sun was shining and the cloudless sky was a beautiful clear blue, as me and my mom hiked through a hidden field of softly waving red and gold flowers tucked away deep in the mountains. I was having an incredibly fun time and thought nothing could ruin the day- until a very odd shadow fell over us. I looked up to see… an enormous yellow and orange feathered BIRD that at first glance looked like a huge golden eagle with red eyes and fangs bared inside its slightly open beak, maybe a hundred times the size of me… and then I noticed that its back half was entirely made of shiny golden furred lion with a blue and green snake head and most of a snake body coming out of the end!
The hideous winged beast landed in front of us. Mom wobbled on her feet and promptly fainted. I caught her with effort and gently laid her down behind me, then I looked up at the griffin. “Hi?!?!?!” I hesitantly said through trembling lips. The griffin squawked a warning, its voice sounding like a cross between the roar of a lion, the cry of a hawk, and the hiss of a snake. It opened its beak as I crouched fearfully on the trail before it with my hands over my head, preparing for the griffin to snap me up like a fly. It lunged at me, beak open-and suddenly, a huge glob of stinky, brown, nasty griffin spit landed right on top of me. As I screamed and fell back into the flowers, feeling my stomach turn as the warm, stinky, gooey saliva squished under my body and wormed its way into my ears and nose, the griffin, making a strange sound that sounded a lot like laughter, spread its wings and flew away.
It took me eight showers to get the stuff off and almost two weeks before I stopped stinking. In the meantime, I couldn’t go anywhere because the smell was so bad. Later, I started joking about it, but I’ll never forget that one fateful day in the mountains.
And that is why you should never, EVER say hi to a griffin.
Third Place: Mara Kammersell, age 11, Broomfield, Colorado
Prologue
The whole Herton family was gathered around the little redheaded baby girl.
Her fresh sparkling green eyes were wandering around the room with interest.
Her little hands cradling each other.
“She wasn't expected. There was only supposed to be one.” said the oldest of them, his white beard almost trailing on the ground.
“I know,” begged the mother, “but please, oh please, spare her a chance.”
A different gathered member spoke up, “Oh, give the kid the chance. We let her barely older twin keep it. But If she isn’t a mastered Wisper, she seems like a Wisper does she not? By age 12 her wind will be drained. Doesn't that seem fair?”
The Oldest spoke again, "Agreed. She must be good enough to join the bureau by her twelfth birthday.”
“But magic comes in a few weeks after they turn 11,” argued the mother. “ That only gives a little less than a year to master her magic. It’s unheard of!”
A new speaker used his voice. “Yes, but usually we just drain them. You wanted a chance, here it is. It must be hard to be a worthy challenge."
One who must have been the father spoke up, “But this is different. They are twins!
I simply ask you this, if you let her twin keep it, why not her?”
The Oldest spoke again, “You know the rule. One kid per family, one magic young one, the oldest stays. While the other is her twin, she is older by two minutes and 24 seconds. I agree with the 12 year suggestion. Who else agrees?”
One by one they want around the gathering,
“Agreed.”
“Agreed.”
“Agreed.”
And so forth until the only ones left were the mother, and the father.
They two exchanged a glance with each other, and nodded their heads so slightly that most people would have missed the transaction.
And then the father breathed heavily and said “Agreed, but only because that is the only way.”
The mother was now the only one left, she took a minute and then sighed.
“Well, I’m not happy about it, but she does deserve the chance, and it's fairer than some options, I suppose. Agreed.”
The baby girl’s fate had been decided.
Honorable Mention: Vivianne Wilbanks, age 12, Yakima, Washington
I Wish I May, I Wish I Might
I looked up at the sky, and a star entered my gaze. I thought about all the things I could wish for, but I couldn’t make a choice. Until it came to me. A wish that would suffice. I closed my eyes and said the words.
“I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight. I wish to see my mother again,” I said, and as the words left my mouth, I felt I had made the right choice.
Content, I lowered myself from the window sill and hopped under the blankets on my bed. As I drifted off, I imagined the breakfast my father would make for me. The thought that I get to awake to the smell of sizzling bacon and chocolate chip pancakes. The taste of orange juice. Mmm! I closed my eyes and stared into the black void.
The next morning
“Liam!” My father yelled, and the smells I predicted wafted through the air.
“Coming!” I yelled back.
I saw my father standing over the stove, flipping pancakes, but another figure was in the room. My vision tunneled as I realized it was my mother.
I ran and hugged her with every ounce of strength in my body. She bent down to look into my eyes, and she pulled me into another hug. As she did, I heard almost silent sobs in my ear.
“Beep, beep, beep!” The sound pierced my ears, and our magical moment was ruined.
“Bacon!” my mother shouted at my father, but her voice was different than I remembered, and she looked too young.
My father began batting the flames, and my mother started opening the windows, trying to push the pitch-black smoke outside. I ran outside with my shirt covering my mouth, and my parents came close behind me.
“Waffle House?” My father said.
My mother and I looked at each other and nodded. We all ensured the house was cleared before getting in the car.
When we got in the car, I asked my mother, “What do you like on your waffles, Mom?” My parents turned and looked at me with puzzled expressions on their faces.
“Sweetie, um, I’m not your mom.” My not mother said to me as my bliss cracked into pieces.
We arrived at the restaurant, and after we sat down, I had some questions. Who was this woman? Why does she look like my mother? Was she an answer to my wish?
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Stella,” she replied.
I processed this information to assist me with my next question.
“Why have I not met you before?”
“I was stolen.”
She paused for a beat.
“Our Mother’s sister was jealous of her, so she stole her firstborn child.”
“Who?”
“Me,” she answered.
13-16 Poetry
First Place: Lucie Perarnaud, age 16, Boulder, Colorado
I am sitting here
Cross legged at the feet of the foothills
Watching shadows lengthen into night
As crows take flight
Into the light of setting sun
I am waiting here
For inspiration
Listening to nature song
Till I hear it come along
A question
Asked softly
Whispered on the wind
Tell me, what do you know
Of this soft language of death and love
Of black roses
A black dove
Tell me what you know
Of burnt earth
Outer space
Dark water
Lost pace
A gentle kiss
Of hearts united
Tell me what you know
Of light fading out of eyes
A last breath
A last cry
Never a moment to say goodbye
Tell me what you know
Of hope
A race to the finish
Victory and
Of doing right
A honorable fight
Tell me what you know
Of war and peace
Of truth and lies
Tell me
what do you know
Of life?
No more than you know, old friend, no more than you, I answer
And gathering my things
Make my winding way home
Beneath starlit sky
Second Place: Helen Searcy, age 16, Niwot, Colorado
ICARUS
I am no poet—
but they write of Lovers,
the ones who endured,
the ones who vanished,
leaving behind only tragedies,
inked and fading in memory.
I’ve dodged their stories, hidden between pages,
scribbled ink whispering what could have been.
But the paper is patient, staying crisp, a hand unclenched,
empty with hesitation.
Before the pages could rot and yellow with age,
there was a blue eyed smile—
and an open seat.
From guarded glances to careful friendship,
a balance I dared not break
with my splotchy true colors.
The gritty reds of fists on sandbags,
the soft yellows of my dedication,
the blues I spilled for my fictional worlds—
I hoarded them like treasure,
a dragon shielding the wealth of me.
But as my wings grew careless in her presence,
she saw the hoard of colors
that made me.
And then— without pause—
her hands were covered in hues of mine,
and there was the promise of my favorite movies in her car,
adventures wrapped in sweet treats
beneath darkened streets.
Early morning runs chasing sunrises,
road trips that followed rainbows,
skimming over glassy lakes and jagged mountains.
Dancing in the rain and beneath flashing lights,
letting ourselves hide in the night.
And so, I found myself ever drawn to her,
chasing her footsteps as she quietly followed mine.
Her laughter echoing through the night,
leaving me desperate to taste the sound.
The twinkle in those bright blue eyes,
and her curls spun to gold in the light of day.
I reached out, bracing for the flame that never came,
as if touching the sun itself—only to find warmth, not pain.
A tentative pinky linked with mine,
our arms stiff with the weight of a fragile, quiet fear.
Should one of us let go,
the touch would dissolve like morning mist,
and I would lose my fleeting grasp on the sun forever.
But as time unwound beneath a sky
that mirrored stars above and below,
holds on pinkies became hands, and hands became stolen kisses
shared in the sacred hush of night.
I learned what how it felt to be enfolded in her warmth,
to bask in her radiant glow, to be held by the sun’s embrace.
My fingers found their way through the loops of her belt,
twined through her golden curls,
as dawn’s gentle light etched her features in the soft hues.
When morning arrived, she became marble—
a marvel carved with impossible precision, a masterpiece born of the divine.
And in her arms, I found myself cradled by Art itself.
Her name, descended from angels, carried the weight of Heaven,
and in her grasp, I knew no fear of Hell.
No devil would dare pull me from her,
nor drag me down for allowing her rays to cast rainbows across my heart.
No god would deny me to remain in her Heaven, nor will I ever wish to leave.
I am mesmerized by her brilliance,
blinded by the soft shimmer of her halo, and speechless with awe.
No god could have fashioned something so flawless,
and so, it is to her I offer my praise—
her, whom I worship in the silence of night.
With her heartbeat as my lullaby,
I pray to honor the lovers I strive to write,
to capture a fraction of this rapture.
Let her immortal soul and radiant presence be etched in stone for eternity,
and until then, let me bask in her warmth,
even if it means falling like Icarus,
gloriously burned by the light of the sun.
Third Place: Luke Raimond, age 14, Louisville, Colorado
The wolves and I; we ran together.
Through old Forests and swaying grain.
Chasing the rays of springtime moonlight that danced among the evergreens.
And we were happy, full to bursting with the glee of movement.
With the wind in our hair and the grass on our feet,
And the feather-lightness of being-
We were young.
The crows and I; we flew together.
Past eyries and the vixen’s den,
Over blackened earth and wildflower fields,
And our wings touched the tufted clouds.
and we were free, above alpine lakes and their runoff streams,
and into the sweet smelling arms of Mother Ponderosa-
We were love.
The trees and I; we stood together.
Drinking in soft summer sunsets, the golden hour that perches just before dusk.
And we were hurt. We fell, we were ravaged by hungry fire, and we were felled for the sake of material things.
But we regrew of course. And from our stumps sprang dainty mushrooms and soft moss,
And as forests continued loving the ground,
We grew old.
The earth and I; we died together.
Soft as the autumn sun tucks itself away.
And we were in-between.
We watched the years drift sleepily off while we ached.
And we contemplated the sky and the stars, and all the little things.
We watched the mountains and the sea, and the place where they met,
And as the light from a window caught dust in the air-
We are whole.
Honorable Mention: Chelsey Streifel, age 16, Lafayette, Colorado
In these walls
I am fragile
Jealous of the eggshells
That have reason to protect.
Jealous of the plastic flowers
Propped up on the desk.
These walls make me breakable
Pliable,
Lumps of clay with shards of glass
Hope, strength, will, and reason
Tied each to a horse
Drawn and quartered
Over the empty shell of my
Corpse.
Only empty air fills lungs
A rasping dead man’s rattle
But seriously, does any of it
Matter? As I feel my
Soul
Slip slip
Slipping
Into
The
Abyss.
So
Hang my neck on a noose
Hang me till my bones shake loose
And shatter
Because in these walls
I’m so so fragile.
13-16 Short Story
First Place: Lucie Perarnaud, age 16, Boulder, Colorado
Paris 1940
Nighttime falls, with soft rain, pattering on pavement, upon the silent city. Street lamps and fading moonlight reflect off water, lighting the way for those who dare; but nobody does, not yet. Whispers of dissent out of darkened doorways fail to change reality. The sound of German boots on the undefended soil of Paris is the only sound to be heard tonight.
Les Halles, Paris (courtyard in apartment building) 1942
Men stand in the shadows, pistols holstered on their hips, waiting. They are watching, watching the couple that stand next to the fountain, whispering in hushed, broken voices. The young man, perhaps twenty five, with dark hair and brown eyes, is the reason for this congregation. The lady, also young, had just arrived, having followed him through the winding midnight streets, unnoticed. Now, she was pleading. “Please. I can’t let you do this.”
The young man answered, quietly confident in his words, “Maya… for the last two years I have stood down when I wanted to fight, and seen the people of my home slowly destroyed. This won’t end by itself, and I can’t bear to do nothing any longer.” The girl looked away, saying, “you’ll be in the north, far from here, and I will be alone.”
“Please. Maya.” He reached towards her, but she stayed his hand and held it. “I can’t let you go.”
“You don’t have to.”
Her face hardened and she said, “You won’t come back.”
“I will, if only God is on my side.”
“You know what happens if they catch you.”
The young man bowed his head, his voice barely a whisper, “I do.”
“Jacques. Please, listen to me.” Her voice was unbearably sad, and when he looked at her, his eyes were shining with tears.
“My brother was a Résistant. He never came back. Jaques.” Her voice faltered, but she went on, “I won’t let you die. Not another man that I love.” Her voice broke, and she wept into his chest. He held her, his face raised to the sky. It was a dark indigo, starlight snuffed by clouds. “I love you, Maya,” he said softly, “more than anything in the world…. But I will never be able to live with myself, knowing I stood by and let this happen.” He put his hand under her chin and gently raised her eyes to meet his.
“Look at me. Please.” The clouds above had broken, and a shaft of silver moonlight illuminated the courtyard.
“Please. This is my duty.”
The girl nearly smiled, then said, her voice choked with tears, filled with love, “so be it.”
They embraced there, and for a fleeting second, they could almost forget that this could be the last time. The men in the shadows watched, and they thought of the days that they had chosen to step out of the darkness, and fight for the light. No matter the price. A star fell in Paris that night, as they always do, for final goodbyes.
Second Place: Lucy Currier, age 16, Phoenix, Arizona
I’m not scared of the dark, strictly speaking.
But when it’s 11 PM on the dampest night of November and you’re sitting in a graffitied bus stop on a road you didn’t know existed, speaking becomes a little less strict.
I would have driven home from that dumb party, except Brady’s girlfriend had cut her foot on a beer bottle and needed to be rushed to the hospital. I let Brady borrow my car, and by the time they left, nearly everyone else had gone home. Someone had mentioned a bus stop around the corner, so here I am, tired and underdressed in my carefully planned party outfit.
I’m not scared of the bus. I rode the city bus for a semester freshman year. Buses smell like sour coffee, but they get you where you need to go. I would feel better, though, if the trees weren’t watching me, their dead branches shivering. I’d feel better if this deserted country road was full of traffic and sunlight, instead of this silent blanket of night. Everything would be better if I hadn’t left my phone in my car, which is currently miles away at the emergency room with Brady and his girlfriend.
It would be better if I wasn’t alone.
I’m peering up the road, hoping for headlights, when I see him.
Tucked into the treeline directly across the road from where I sit is a man. At least I think it’s a man. I can’t make out much, but I can see that they’re tall, taller than I am, and wearing a puffy winter jacket.
“Hello?” I try, squinting in an attempt to distinguish the figure from the forest behind them. There is no answer. The figure is motionless.
I didn’t drink much. I had half a beer. Or maybe it was two. Either way, I’m not hammered enough to imagine this.
I try again. “I’m so sorry to bother you…Is there any way I could maybe borrow your phone? I’ve been waiting for the bus for almost a half hour now, and I’d really love to get home.” I reflexively smile. “It’s been one of those nights, you know?”
The person moves a step forward.
Oh my god. I’m such an idiot. I don’t know a thing about this person, and I just revealed that I am completely lost and helpless.
“You know what? I just remembered— my friend lives around here! I’m totally good,” I lie. At this point, I’d rather walk the mile back to Brady’s house than stay here with this creep.
I get to my feet, glance back across the road— and freeze. The figure is gone.
A tendril of fear tickles my stomach. I scan the woods, my eyes flitting up and down the road. Nothing but trees and shadows.
This isn’t funny anymore.
“Ok, what the hell?” I demand. “What kind of dumb game–”
There is a rustle of movement behind me, I feel my skull implode, and everything is gone.
Third Place: Cedar Robertson, age 14, Louisville, Colorado
The Outback was an old, tired, beautiful place. It has been a wonderful place since I first knew it, a perfect home for a dingo like me. Few roads ran through the desert, all red dirt not a strip of asphalt in sight. Grass pushed through the barren red sand. The brown-gold grass flowed southwest in the cool brisk morning wind and red sand showed where I had come from a long trail of indents in the ground snaking away from the waterhole I approached.
A small brown gray bandicoot was slumped on the hot earth, tired but sheltered from the slowly rising sun by one of the few eucalyptus that found water. I slowed to a painstakingly quiet walk. The bandicoot was still clueless, sipping from a pool of muddy brown water that turned the smooth sand into squelching mud. Not ideal for sneaking up on bandicoots. The wind began to change. I almost reached the mud and it seemed like the small bandicoot was almost done drinking. I had to leave now and my window of opportunity was closing quickly. I launched at top speed towards the bandicoot. The wind blew by me almost as if I was floating through the air. I hit the ground sprinting and by the time the bandicoot noticed me I was on top of it, quickly closing my gleaming white teeth on its golden fur. But something was wrong. The bandicoot was young and its parents were nowhere. Bandicoot parents were always overprotective. It must be an orphan, and I would never forgive myself if I killed an orphan. It just isn’t right. But my teeth were closing rapidly and there was no way to stop them. But instead of feeling my teeth rip into flesh, I was left with a mouthful of mushy brown mud, staining my golden-yellow fur.
The bandicoot who miraculously had gotten away from my mouth exclaimed, “That bites, Mr. Dingo!” thinking he was the funniest marsupial in Australia.
“I could have ended your life but I took pity on you. You don’t want me regretting my decision. Because I will change my mind!” I snapped, trying my best to look like a fierce dog and not just pathetic. “Where are your parents, you puny little guinea pig?”
“The men with the strange walking sticks took them, and they said that they would come back for me when I’m big enough. Personally I think my guns are bigger than any other bandicoots!” The tiny creature boasted while flexing mosquito bite-sized muscles.
“Do you mean the poachers took them?” I growled, though I was shifting from angry to interested.
“Oh, yeah, that’s what they called themselves. They were headed across the desert.”
“What's your name, little one? I’m Alec,” I said gently, already knowing what I was going to do.
“Kyle!” he exclaimed in a joyful voice.
“Kyle, what do you say we go find your parents?” I asked, warming up to him gradually.
“I’m down!” Kyle exclaimed.
Honorable Mention: Kaia Miller, age 15, Boulder, Colorado
It’s almost December. The silver-white fingers of frost have begun to climb up your window, a powdery dusting of sugar coating the grass. You like the sound it makes, the sugar-spun undergrowth. You like to look back the way you’ve come and see only your tiny footprints in the grass. You like to make patterns, walking in circles and jumping as far as you can. You pretend that you’re the artist, and the whole world is your canvas. By the time you come back, countless others have tromped through your masterpiece and the magic is gone. But you like to think the grass has a memory, that it remembers your footprint-scribbles. Maybe it keeps a photo-album, flipping through the pages when it’s feeling lonely. Don’t worry, you tell it. I’ll be back again tomorrow. Then you remember why you’re out here so early, and your footsteps speed up. You have places to be.
You found them almost a month ago. They were tucked in a bush, hidden under a pile of dead leaves. They looked too small to be real, but they squeaked when you poked them. There was no mother in sight. That was the day you started waking up so early. When you made that trek to the tree stump you hid them in. Everyday you brought them pop-tarts, and as the weather cooled, you snuck blankets out of the house. Your mother still can’t figure out where they went.
You make it to the stump in no time. The cave at the base of the roots is protected by a roof of sticks that you wove. Frost has crept along the sticks and leaves, tiny icicles dripping from the haggard shelter. It’s almost like someone has built windows into the tiny home in the stump. You feel bad, knocking off the ice to get inside. But you know that they matter more than any pretty ice sculpture.
Are you hungry? You ask them. They mew in response, tiny, fuzzy bodies squiggling in anticipation of their breakfast. You knew they would be. You feed each of them one-by-one, breaking off pieces of the pop-tart in your mittened fingers and placing them inside their miniature mouths. The biggest one shoves her way to the front, but you make her wait her turn. Manners, you say, remembering your mother’s lessons in etiquette. You must raise them to be polite if theres any chance of her letting you keep them.
All too soon, it’s time for you to scurry home. You cast one last glance at them, miserable and cold, huddled together for warmth. They look so sad that you can’t help it. We’re ahead of schedule, you inform them. Be on your best behavior. You tuck all four into your coat, shielding them from the dusting of snow that has begun to fall. You run the whole way home, stopping to catch your breath only once. Mom? You ask when you get home. I have a surprise for you.
Logo created by AJ Martin
2023 Winning Entries
Please note that entries appear as we received them, typos and all :)
12 and Under Poetry
First Place: Alistar Pike, age 12, Nelson, New Hampshire (also, highest-scoring entry overall)
Silent Artists
A shout out poem
Here's to the silent artists hidden among the shadows,
To the worn down pencil graphite and almost dead erasers,
To the filled up papers and small details,
To the rage of “Will you draw me?”s and others editing the artwork,
To the burning passion of sketching on school papers,
To the hatred of the void of blank space left untouched on the paper.
Here's to the favorite hoodies, falling apart, and covered in paint.
Here's to the pained hands of writers and poets and to the stories they write,
Here's to the silent, secret places for brainstorming, dark and lonely,
To the never ending despair of leaving the paper and pencil on the desk,
To the blank canvases, longing to be painted,
To the people who draw well-known and loved characters,
To the love of staying home, letting ideas run freely,
To the ones who get the dreaded artist blocks.
Here's to the silent artists, always listening, always drawing, but never stopping.
Second Place: Theodore Hafer, age 12, Louisville, Colorado
Powerful Roses
Five roses with skinny trunks and stinging thorns. Five who don’t belong in the ashes and destruction. But they are here overcoming it.
They send their roots into the charred ground. Piercing the cracked concrete, and the rubble left behind. Their strength is indomitable. Roses that move the wind. Force fire to bend in their wake. They grow upwards with every anger. This is how they suffer.
Roses that hook petals and make stunning displays. While the roots suffer in the toxic, inhospitable ground.
When I am too scared to keep going. I look to them. When fire flows over my head, Snatching my last breath. I look at them. When there is nothing left they are there. Pushing and Pushing back against the cruelty of nature.
Enduring together.
Third Place: Vivienne Possley, age 12, Louisville, Colorado
Inside that counts
My first day at a new school.
Scary, exciting, different.
New beginnings can be hard.
I can already see hundreds of different kinds of people;
Short, tall, quiet, loud.
Each one like a bag of chips, not the same but not all that different.
Hot Cheetos.
She’s spicy and she’ll stain your fingers red.
But you always come back for more.
Her confidence is blinding.
And her addictive chemical flashing in the light.
Nevertheless, people still buy her.
Funyuns.
He smells.
When you eat him his stinky aroma lingers on your tongue for days.
When you eat him, you stink too.
But look a little closer and you’ll find a really funny guy.
(I think we have all been the stinky kid at one point.)
Sweet potato chips.
He’s not for everyone, and that’s okay with him.
He’s a little different from the classic potato chip.
Buzy halls filled with people, but still oblivious to friends.
But when you get to know and understand him;
he can be an extremely caring and kind person.
Jalapeño cheddar ruffles.
Some people love her, some hate her.
I don’t understand why because she’s not that spicy.
She’s just got a lil’ kick.
High heels, flowing dresses, and claw clips.
Hence the little ruffles.
All-natural multigrain tortilla chips.
They're a bit of an outcast.
Most people don’t like them because they misbehave a lot.
They are on most of the teachers' bad sides.
And there aren't a lot of people who enjoy them.
But when you look deeper, you can find a nice person who just needs a little help with their math.
New beginnings can be hard.
But it will get easier.
You just have to look past the label and ingredient list,
find the real chip in the bag, not the “enlarged for detail” stamp,
plastered on the front.
Find the real chip inside the bag.
Honorable Mention: Sabi Gargan, age 12, Harrisville, New Hampshire
Hawk
I see you
Sitting on the wire
Which species, I do not know
Watching you sit there
Waiting, knowing, for some unsuspecting rodent
To wiggle past
The comfort of knowing
Knowing anything
A pleasure known by many humans
While others sit in the dark
Waiting for an opportunity
You watch us
Cars, bikes, bare torn feet.
We rush past
Busy, busy, busy
No time to think
To appreciate life
You sit there, tranquil
Watching
As the gray, foggy world goes by
Leaving emptiness in its wake
We speed past all the time, never important in your life
I envy your peace
Through the struggles of life
You, hawk
12 and Under Short Story
First Place: Rebekkah Copel, age 8, Arvada, Colorado
The Walk
Ooh it’s a walk it’s a walk! My owners are taking me for a walk! What are we gonna do? Where are we gonna go? It’s a waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalk!
Ooh! Ooh! What if we see friends?
Ooh what's that smell? It smells so gooooooooooooooooood! I have to roll in it!
Ooh is that a rabbit? Oh, come on! Little owner is scaring it away! Why did they have to do that? I was only gonna eat it a little bit!
Ooh! I see friend number 10! Hallo friend number 10! I want to play! You want to play? Let’s play! Sorry, Owner is pulling me away. I can’t play today.
Oh god I got to pee! Agh! Where where where… ah, here is a good spot to pee. Have to bury it…
Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww, home already?
Lemme out! Wait! First water! Lemme out! Zoomies! Lemme in! Can we please go on another one?
Second Place: Audrey Buchen, age 12, Appleton, Wisconsin
Ever since Mom told me we are descended from mermaids, nothing has been the same. Fire scares me now. It chases me in my dreams. And now, that dream is a reality. The sharp siren of the fire alarm jostles me out of another nightmare, but the nightmare isn’t over. The house is on fire.
I stand up, grappling to find my glasses in the darkness. Slowly, the fire starts to enter my room. It's too late to go out the door. Smoke fills my lungs as I gasp, choking to reach the window. It seems like the flames are chasing me. I jump out the window and run, trying to get to the tree where we agreed to meet if there was ever a fire.
It's too late. The tree is already burned. I find my mother and father carrying the twins, coughing and running. The fire follows us, like it stalks us. You’d think if you were a mermaid things would be special, but not in this world. Here, magic is hunted. The committee will send fires to your home until you run. And then the fire will chase you.
As we run, I stumble, and the flames are gaining on us. Pain shoots through my arm as I stand up and start to run again. We run, trying to get to the community pond, where at least Mom and I will have an edge. The flames start to surround me. I blindly stumble toward the water and fall in.
I swim toward the surface and stare. The flames are being pushed back by a shadow. Slowly the shadow eats the flames. I don't know who saved us, or why, or how we have to repay it. But for now, we are safe and we have each other.
Third Place: Olive McBride, age 12, Nelson, New Hampshire
Two New Redwoods
I wake to the sound of birdsong filtering through my open window. I stay under the coarse woolen blanket for an extra minute, enjoying the fresh air and dappled sunlight, before I start my day. The floor is rough under my bare feet. I grab a wooden pendant and slide it over my neck. I am enjoying my chamomile tea when I notice something is different. The birds have stopped singing. I slip on my leather boots and walk outside. I’m still in my nightgown, but no one is here to see me. At least, no one should be. Yet standing in a clearing are two men. And they are holding chainsaws. No. I cannot let this happen. How dare they come into the ancient redwood forest and stomp all over the needle strewn paths with their soiled boots! My duty is to protect the forest, and I intend to do so. The roar of a chainsaw coming to life brings me back to reality. I sprint at them, my nightgown streaming out behind me like the wings of a butterfly. With every step I take, I am more and more powerful. An anger rises up inside of me. The wooden pendant at my neck starts to glow. These people have no sympathy for the forest that stood long before them. A chainsaw cannot be the demise of something so strong. My rage and love boils up until it cannot be contained. A bright yellow beam erupts from the pendant and engulfs the men. They were never seen again, but two new redwoods sprouted up near my log cabin. They serve as a warning. Anyone foolish enough to threaten this forest will find themselves a part of it.
Honorable Mention: Valentina Primarti, age 10, Rockaway Park, New York
I pushed through crowds of people. Rain drops pelted my winter coat which I pulled towards me looking for warmth. I was breathing heavily as I ran away from my horror. Who knew when you go pray at a graveyard souls will be awakened. I neared my house running with all my power. I ran in and slammed the door and locked every entrance to my house. “ What? Who's there? what is the matter?”. My moms panicked voice filled the air. “Mom, Blood was gushing and it was saying my name”. “What? What happened, are you ok? What do you need? My mom was as red as a tomato, she was hyperventilating. “ Mom, are you ok?” “Are you ok? That is the real question”. “ Yes i am fine” I said. I was still breathing heavily. “ I will make you some hot chocolate and fresh cookies”. “ Thank you mom; you are awesome” I shaked. I pulled a blanket up and snuggled close as I reached for the remote. The screen flashed. The news came on. “ This evening Something strange is happening, there seems to be a wild creature running around terrorizing....”. Suddenly I heard a sharp knock on the door. “ Who is that sweetheart, can you check”. I smelt the warm aroma of Hot chocolate and freshly baked cookies. I looked through the window and saw it looking at me. I shrieked. Then I saw black. I rose slowly shivering “Mom? Where are you?”. It looked so familiar, almost like I had been there. It came out and placed its cold hands around my neck so I could not breathe. I was crying. “ Please let me go please PLEASE”. He pulled out a knife and started sharpening.” you pray for my enemy you pay”. He jerked his hand into my heart.
13-16 Poetry
First Place: Lucie Perarnaud, age 15, Boulder, Colorado
A Conglomeration of Colors
Red is the lifeblood
The river running through us all
Red is love, all the roses and the valentines
Red is the explosion of autumn leaves
The fire hydrant, and the flames
Red is rage, war fading into forever
Red stains blades and bullets
Marks memories
With messages of impermanence
Red
Crumbling clay
Crazed cackling
Red is the wolf
Catching her prey
Black is candlelit darkness, snuffed
Deep shadows, portals into void
Black is a sky without stars, my mothers hair
Black is empty space, until you close your eyes
Black is calligraphy ink on the edge of a brush
Quivering as it drops onto paper, a spreading stain of darkness
Black, all that remains of a forest after fire
The midnight ocean
The inside of a butterfly’s cocoon
Waiting to see the sun
White is sea foam, and the old phone
That fell down the stairs
White cloudy skies, that yield snow
Caught in my hair, melting on my tongue
White pages
Filled with stories to get lost in
White of the bones, bleached by sun, smoothed by water
White
Of tiny spring flowers
Of soft fur and brittle ice
White is the beach sand, so hot under my bare feet
So good for building castles
Blueberries on my tongue
A sign of summer sweetness
Blue sky, blue dye
Staining my clothes as I paint
Blue of my first saddle pad, for my first horse
Blue is water, shadow, and sky
All the untouchable things
Blue eyes
That my brother has on some days
Blue is quiet
Unassuming
Everywhere
And often unnoticed
Second Place: Sally Ingalls, age 13, Keene, New Hampshire
A book, read
End to end
Page to page
A game,
Played, lived, won
Heavy sighs mean
Grief,
Love,
Loss,
Longing,
They mean
Anger and
Love and
Joy and
Pain
Red eyes and slow rolling tears of signs of lives lived,
Well and full
Right and fine
Books, Stories, Tales must end for if not
Pages and Pages
Will turn and no one will be there for the ending
Movies, Skits, Shows have to have closure or else
You might fall asleep before seeing the finish
Crystal tears rotate
But not because of the end
Not because of no more
Pages
No more
Chapters
No more room;
But be sure it is said,
Crystal tears roll, slowly
For a celebration of life,
For love and loved,
For accomplishments and accomplished,
For survive and survived,
For live and lived.
No one can live forever
And now just happens to be your time, my friend
So, I’m sorry to bother
Sorry to cause a ripple in the seas of lives.
Sorry to bother your peaceful,
Happy,
Still life
But much, much more is ahead for you.
More mountains to climb,
More trees to scale
And rocks to skip
And tall, dry, yellow meadows to run through.
While the grass may not be greener on the other side
I am sure it is for you
So, sorry to bother
But don’t cry because it’s gone,
Lost like dust in the wind
Cry and smile and applaud
because it happened,
Like a seed to flower to grow
Grow
Grow,
To dead
And over again
Sorry to bother but now is your time
Sorry to bother but
Know,
Forever,
That you have all of our dearest love.
Third Place: Luke Raimond, age 14, Louisville, Colorado
Every New Day
Every new day,
we are all just a little bit older.
closer to our end,
to our one truth
to the earth,
to where we came.
And every new day,
as the sun arizes just
over the boundless horizon,
painting the sky gold and verdant red,
another child is born,
another person dies,
and the world keeps turning,
no matter how slow it seems.
And every new day,
we love, we laugh,
we cry and we hurt,
and every new day
we start fresh,
and we start knowing
that that we know not
exactly what the day will bring.
And every new day,
We push ever onwards,
Terrified of what may lurk
In the shadows
Daring fate
Eyes fixed only at our goals
Struggling to keep sane
To keep from giving up
On ourselves.
We all grow and fall,
live and die,
tossed in the cycle of the seasons,
but in the end,
There will
Always come
a brand
new
day.
Honorable Mention: Kaia Miller, age 14, Boulder, Colorado
The Dragon
After William J. Smith
Watch as he leaps
up into the blue sky
as his wing sweeps
and he flies right on by
a guttural roar
and barritone bray
the creature of lore
skyrockets away
watch as he dives
towards the glimmering bay
talons like knives
and wings blue as a jay
regal and grand
faster than sound
tail beats the sand
and whips around
and as you gaze on
the magnificent beast
he looks down upon
the awe he’s released.
13-16 Short Story
First Place: Luke Raimond, age 14, Louisville, Colorado
Nameless
A name is a cage. It traps you in your skin. A name is a way to address me, you, them, but it confines me to me. Some people treasure their names because they see themselves as their ancestors’ legacy, inherited through the name. They see them as who they are, the sum of their parts. But everyone is more than just the sum of their parts. To you I am Luke, translating to bringer of light, blond, blue eyes, around 5 feet tall, pale, and thin, but I can be more, less, the only person on earth, or no one at all. I want to be nameless. Free. Free to fly from the syllabic prison that is Luke. namelessness is a liberation. A setting aside of burden to be light enough to fly. A name is a cage. A cage perpetuated by years of numbing civilization. It's cold iron bars closing in mercilessly day by day like a lifeless snake coiling around its prey. But why then should I abide? Damn the bars. Kill the snake. Forge a key and be free of the name. Step out of the shadows of the cage and hold aloft your soul to the golden day. Cast your name aside and open your heart to the world.
Be free and fly.
Second Place: Cedar Robertson, age 13, Louisville, Colorado
Touching down
The moment you dream of, the moment that makes your eyes glaze over in school. The moment of heroism. The moment that most of us never get to have. The blazing orange scoreboard shows that we’re down by six and that we have one chance to save the season. The air is warmer now but the April wind still bites into my bones. I bend down touching the earth sheltering against the gusts of frigid air. Then in that silent cold world, the play begins. I accelerate forward, barely touching the brown grass. My foot plants hard, reversing the slowly tilting field, and the pain bites into my knee. I know I can't stop running though. Quickly the blue-painted endzone absorbs me. I see my defender stumbling behind vaguely pointing, yelling for help. The cool wind carries away his calls. Through the fog, the battered brown ball appears wobbling through the white sky. It’s a beacon of hope or a last resort. It’s when you have to roll an eleven to stay in a Monopoly game. It’s football. I leap up to the ball, stretching farther than I thought I could. I feel the laces hit my numb hand. I clutch for it but my hands clash into each other. The ball falls, shrinking away from me. The ball hits my calf, giving me a chance. I dive and everything around me evaporates. All I see is the ball. I hurl my body forward. The blare of the buzzer shakes through everything. The ball hits my hand, and bounces towards me. I pin it on my leg. The mist lifts for a second showing glowing sunshine. My team rushes the field tackling me, and in that heap of teenage bodies, I celebrate my first catch of the year.
Third Place: Lucie Perarnaud, age 15, Boulder, Colorado
The moon is missing from the sky tonight, lending me cover as I slip out of the village. In moments, I am surrounded by jungle. Ferns brush against my bare legs as I move through the thick underbrush leading to the Meeting Place. I can feel the mossy ground beneath my feet, the cool softness after the rain. I strain my eyes, trying to see through the perpetual darkness. In the weeks past, the jungle has become a familiar place, yet my instincts are still strong, warning me that this is not friendly territory. Still, I know this path well, and I push on.
The jungle opens up before me, and I have arrived. The massive tree grows in the center of the clearing, the grandmother of this jungle. She holds the inky sky in her branches, catching stars like dewdrops on her leaves. The orchids that grow upon her boughs remind me of the flowers I placed on the final resting place of my grandmother, so many years ago. This is the meeting place. The heart of the wild land.
A dark shadow moves in the corner of my eye, and I resist the sudden urge to run. I know who this is. She moves with the quiet confidence of an apex predator, slinking out of the shadows. She is as black as the sky above, this jaguar, with eyes like an amber flame.
We stand together, paying silent homage to the grandmother tree. Then the spell is broken and the jaguar turns to look at me, her eyes piercing mine. She flicks her tail, telling me to follow. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. A moment later, I trail her into the jungle on silent paws.
Honorable Mention: Kaia Miller, age 14, Boulder, Colorado
Otto Ward glared at the girl at his door.
“Your roof caught my cat.” Alice Cleary crossed her arms and stared at him. His roof was innocent, thank you very much, and Alice was clearly lying.
“More like your cat is destroying my roof.” He would not be blamed, especially by Alice, of all people.
“I demand you free my cat.”
“No. You get your own cat down.” They both stalked to his yard. The cat in question, an orange tabby named Killer, mewed helplessly.
“The poor thing is traumatized by your roof. I’ll call the city on you if you don’t do something about it.”
“Well, you’re the one who put it up there in the first place.” Otto stormed into his shed, and returned with a rusty red ladder. It wobbled against the house in the wind. “You go up there. I’ll hold it.”
“It’s your roof, you go.”
“But it’s not my cat.” Grumbling like a rhino, Alice began to climb. Otto, grumpy but trustworthy, held the ladder as best he could. But the roof was tall and ladder weak; it came crashing down like a hurricane.
“I’ll kill you, Otto Ward!” Alice dangled from the roof by her fingertips. “Get me down!” Otto couldn’t think. His irksome neighbor was seconds from falling to her death from his roof. He had to do something. So he ran inside.
“Ward!” He could hear her screaming his name, along with some choice insults. Otto clumsily dialed 9-1-1, and a fire truck was soon pulling into his yard. Their much sturdier ladder had Alice down safely in no time. The two were warned against using the rusty ladder again, and the fire department left.
“Thanks.” Alice muttered darkly. Otto only grunted. “But my cat is still on your roof.”
Thanks so much to everyone who entered! We really enjoyed reading your work, and hope that you keep writing.
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