Story by Katie Berriochoa, Staff Writer

Two SDA students won hundreds of dollars after placing in a local writing contest. Hosted by The Rancho Santa Fe Literary Society, the contest is available to high school students around the county. This year Senior Katherine Joplin took home first place along with $1000 while classmate Junior Michelle Xu won second place and was awarded $500. Along with the money, they were given a chance to speak with Pulitzer Prize winning author Michael Cunningham.

After announcing the information about the contest in classes around campus, English and Creative Writing teacher Rob Ross picked four students to represent SDA.“It’s hard to choose art…but I feel very happy with the students I chose,” said Ross. In order to enter students were asked to write an essay or short story using the line, “can one have too much of a good thing.”

Joplin, who is pursuing a writing career, was drawn to the contest after hearing about it from Ross., “I was interested in the money, but mostly I wanted recognition for my story. I want to be a writer, so contests like these seem ideal for getting my name out, since starting as an unknown author is the hardest part about entering a career like this,” said Joplin.

“I really couldn’t believe [that I won] at first,” said Xu after learning over email that she placed in the contest.

RSFLS then held a banquet at the Grand Del Mar where Joplin and Xu along with students from other schools spoke with Cunningham. “It was cool to see [Joplin] talk to Michael because she’s going to Stanford and he gave her some worthwhile advice about the college…and an autograph,” said Ross. “This kind of event is the kind of thing that spurs people into wanting to go into writing as a career…I was really happy for the kids,” said Ross.

Below are copies of the award winning stories that the students wrote.

Ring Around the Rosebush: A Gothic Story
By Katherine Joplin

It was a wet and chilly midnight, the kind when the sky takes the wind in its teeth and shakes it around like a mangled rabbit. When the sky has fangs, with a bite like Novocain and cold saliva that spills down in what we know as rain. Droplets lashed the silent black pine trees and trickled into the swollen river, which gobbled them up like a lover’s tongue. The whole forest seemed to sway like a kelp bed caught in a current, rooted to a sea floor strewn with rocks and slugs and slurping sea anemones. A dark woman wandered through the shuddering forest, despondent and broken as the twigs underfoot. The storm gnawed her with its molars and blew its icy breath into her hair, but to no avail: her soul had been driven from her body long ago, and she was like the walking dead. Finally she sank down wearily by the river, and considered making a hole in it. She noticed a withered little flower clinging to the slippery mud; a brown and stunted rose with sickly buds. She touched a thorn and pricked her finger, drawing a crimson bead. The rose drank the blood eagerly, and a few anemic white petals opened on the drooping head. The girl laughed with no merriment at the ugly little rose. “Hungry?” she asked grimly. “You would suck my blood and my beauty and rule the riverbank like a queen, with a thousand thrumming bees for suitors. But can one desire too much of a good thing? It’s a curse and a burden, and you don’t want it.” A few tears fell down her milky cheeks and splashed the rose’s blossom, which cried with her. I want it! I want it! “Then you are foolish to want my twisted veins. But take what you want and leave me to my sleep.” And the empty woman sadly extended her milk-white little finger and the rose, greedily and pityingly, wrapped a thorny vine around it. And they held a sacred sisters’ vow, a maidens’ bond, and the rose imbibed her sweet and lovely blood that nourished so much more than the icy rain water, and grew plump and beautiful with glossy green leaves and fat white flowers that sparkled with droplets. The rosebush ate the girl who, with a sigh of relief, gave over her burden and withered away into dust and ash that quickly mingled with the muddy river bank. The comely wild rose stretched skywards with pride and ecstasy, admiring her beautiful white blossoms like so many upturned dresses, thick and lacy and full. She let out a silent cry of joy. The girl had spoken true, and now all her cursed blood ran like honey through the rose’s stems. But then a sudden tremor shook the rose from her spindly roots to her pearly crown. A beat of passion, a squeeze of angst, and a rush of terrible loneliness. For her pact with the woman had unforeseen consequences. She had not only devoured the girl’s blood and beauty, but her aching heart as well, and now it beat with poignant agony from within the tangles of the rose’s tubers, like a terrible throbbing tumor or a fattened tap root. The rose cried out for the pain of having a heart, which pumped blood red passion through her and dyed her white flowers the deepest crimson. Now she was more beautiful than ever before, but a dark and perilous beauty like a harlot’s paints or a swan’s wound. The rose gasped and quaked. The blood was liquid agony, a molten concoction of anguish and desolation and heartache. She lamented this terrible misfortune and cursed the dead girl for giving her a heart. The next morning, the sun had begun to peek through the storm clouds, and the rose’s spirits lifted somewhat. She drank her fill of sunlight through her shiny leaves, and her heart drank up warmth and cheer, although she was very lonely. The riverbank was so barren. Only pine trees for company, and they stood tall and black and austere, like silent sentinels and watch men. A deer wandered from the woods and saw the fragrant rosebush, her leaves mouthwateringly green and succulent. It crept up to the rose and tore a branch from her thorny stem. The rose shrieked in surprise and pain, and lashed out with her prickly brambles. The deer lurched back and ran away. The rose wept when she saw her maimed stump, oozing fluid and stringy fibers that had once held a limb high and proud. She wished she hadn’t driven the deer away. Life and limb were acceptable sacrifices for companionship and, if she had had her wits about her, the rose would have let the deer munch her leaves if they could be friends. But it was too late, and the forest creature was gone.

Night fell, and the clear skies were like a diamond garden. The rose wondered what it would be like to live in a garden–full of other flowers, each pretty but she the prettiest of them all. Nurtured by gardeners, admired by neighbors. Adored and never lonely. Wondering at the experience of growing behind a wall, the rose pulled some river stones around her into a circle, and rather liked the separation and refinement they afforded her. She hoped she might one day live in a proper garden, and gazed longingly at the night sky. The moon was the queen flower of that heavenly garden, a silver blossom set among glistening dew drops. The lonely rosebush gazed at the sky, admiring the moon’s creamy pure petals and longing for her company. But the moon was jealous of the rose’s beauty and vitality, so strong and flushed crimson that she felt pasty pale and cold as ice by comparison: a sip of milk next to a draft of wine. And the moon was terribly self-conscious of her scarred and pockmarked face, though she tried to powder up with stardust and asteroid glitter. She hated the lovely crimson rose, and scornfully spat a shooting star into the dust and turned away in disdain. Rejected again, the rosebush hung her pretty flowered head. With a sound like snapping heartstrings, a few petals fell from the rose. She plunged into a deep depression that not even the sunlight could cure. She lived this way for a long time, pining for love and friendship, pained by the heart she should never have had. Her nights were filled with dreams of flower fields and butterfly-filled skies where she would never be lonely again. But few humans came this way, and she was certain her dreams were for naught. She was so beautiful. Why would no one come for her? Finally one day a young man happened to wander to her pine grove, and forded the river to where the rosebush grew. The rose saw him and fell deeply in love. One glimpse and she was lost in glittering fantasies–of cosmic love and high gloss endings, of gentle hands and soft garden pail showers. She hoped he would bring her home to his garden, and water her and prune her leaves and tell her how beautiful she was, and imagined how all the other plants would look on her with envy. She waited and hoped and dreamed, on tenterhooks. And he did–a beam of sunlight streaming upon the rosebush, turning her crimson petals to flame. Love had made her more spectacular than ever. “What a lovely thing,” he mused, drawing near. He admired the large and fluttering blossoms, and the rosebush trembled as he fingered a glossy leaf. The heart, buried deep with her roots, beat passionately at his touch. He reached for a stem and she let herself believe. Then he tore off a flower and went away. This was the final violation. The rosebush seethed with rejection and rage. All her love and loneliness festered in her heart and turned to the blackest hate. Everyone she encountered spurned her and abused her, taking what they wanted. The rose was bitter and weary. If only she had stayed small and ugly and heartless, the same as all the other plants in the forest, she might have escaped such hardships. A heart was a painful burden, a pounding anchor, and she had no further need of it, never again. Her heart turned to stone. The rose blossoms withered like dead spiders. With dark purpose, her vines grew long and wild, and she grew and grew until she draped over the trees and shrubs all around, sucking their life out where her thorns pricked and leaving them mummified. Prickly vines searched and scrabbled. There were no more flowers, only shriveled black rose hips that tasted like bitterness. Still the monster rose grew, until she enveloped the whole pine grove in her thorny arms, spun a tangled web of prickles and spread deeper into the forest–a thick bramble of serrated leaves and sharp thorns. She clogged up the river with her tendrils and detritus, and drained the life from the forest all around until it was a dead wood, a shrouded wood, a festering snarl of hungry and chaotic vines that picked the bones. And she brooded jealously in her knotted tumor on the river bank, clutching her pine tree corpses and fattening on squirrels that came too near. From time to time, humans and animals wandered into the monster’s hungry embrace. They ducked under heavy vines and the petrified cadavers of trees, crawled into the snare, the slipknot, the waiting jaws. The rustling maze of shrouded pockets, the living maze with thorny crawlers that twisted on all sides like itching hands. Few returned. I ventured in there once. I crept in through the dark and thorny crevices, leaves like knives and thorns like claws that draped over my shoulders in a haunting embrace. Deep into the thick heart of the snarl, where vines knotted around each other and the earth and sky alike were matted with dead leaves. Deep into the prickly belly dripping with forgotten rainstorms not dried by the sun. Deep where the secrets were buried like stones in the sand and the rose hips clustered like shiny black eyes, watching warily. I found the source and I touched the sinewy stem from whence the madness spewed; the steam pipe beneath the broiling cloud. For all the clutter and tangled squeeze, it was an empty place really. Beneath the knotted labyrinth of the rose grove, the void festered like an icy well that echoed with rasping anger and whispers of what once was and what had become.

Pond
By Michelle Xu

Drum beats echoed in the horizon. No matter how fast she ran, the chanting seemed to get faster and closer. Closer. Wait, what? The chanting seemed to be in front of her. Had she gone in a circle? Cuts and scrapes burned with each step she took. Disorientated, the sounds of drums and chanting seemed to surround her; she couldn’t tell what was real from what wasn’t. Vines, leaves, and translucent, glowing things reached for her, causing more cuts and scrapes. All she wanted was some time alone, away from her husband, and somehow she got this. Here. Where the hell is here anyway?

Gemma Everly was supposed to spend her Saturday with Wes, her husband. They planned to go bike riding around the lake and then stop for a nice picnic. At five in the morning, however, Gemma’s boss called and demanded that she go in for an emergency meeting. She tried explaining to Wes that the company was trying to make a deal with a wealthy Japanese Corporation and that it was important that she go as Project VP. Again, another fight ensued. It seemed like every time they made up and mended things, something else had to go wrong.

“I’ll be home later tonight; maybe we can still go out for dinner?” Gemma suggested.

“Well, maybe that plan would get canceled too. So I think I’ll go over to Ben’s house since I know he actually sticks to plans.”

“Why are we fighting anyway? Is it my fault I got called in? This could be a make-it or break-it meeting and you know that the company is on the rocks already. This could determine if I have a job or not. Don’t be so immature. I’m sorry I screwed up your plans again, but this is important to me. Why can’t you realize that?” Gemma threw her hands up in exasperation.

Wes stayed silent, but anger still flashed through his eyes. The couple parted ways still upset and frustrated.

Gemma spent the rest of the day working. She ran from room to room preparing for the unexpected meeting. The representatives from the Japanese corporation arrived promptly at noon and the meeting progressed just as planned. They ended with handshakes and bows as Gemma nervously awaited the news.

“Honestly, it could have been better, Gemma. It didn’t seem like you were really there. This is our biggest deal yet and you didn’t look friendly at all. You’re a bit preoccupied, why don’t you go home and I’ll have some of our interns clean up and I’ll put away the files?” Her boss said to her afterwards.

Gemma drove home, hoping Wes would still be there. They needed to talk, but to her dismay, Wes wasn’t home. Like he had said that morning, he left a note saying he was at Ben’s. Gemma sighed; she just needed to get away from it all and have a little time alone to think. She changed out of her working clothes and into hiking gear, planning to go on her own on the hike that Wes had planned.

The walk began as a peaceful stroll along a trail that weaved around the lake. The lake shimmered under the glow of the warm sun. The peacefulness hung like an aura, only disturbed by the soft ripples across the pond. The rings seemed to spread infinitely, rings on top of rings on top of rings. Nearing the edge of the water, Gemma took off her socks and shoes and rolled up her pants before sitting by the edge with her feet dipping into the water. The cool water lapped at her calves as if summoning her to jump in. She leaned back on the grass and opened Grapes of Wrath to pass the time. As the sky darkened, the sun set, and the clouds rolled in, Gemma put her book away and started to make her way home. She cursed under her breath as thunder rolled in the distance and lightning flashed in the sky. Before she was even half way home, rain began to pour from the clouds. Just her luck. She began to scramble off the trail and into the trees for cover from the rain when, suddenly, lightning struck again.

“Crap, when there’s a thunderstorm you’re supposed to avoid trees right? But it’s pouring so hard…” Gemma thought to herself. She started to veer away from the forest and back out onto the trail, when the slippery leaf-covered ground beneath her fell away as she fell head first into a pond. Spinning, she tried to find the surface. She opened her eyes in the water and a whole new world appeared: a magical world filled with mermaids, sirens, and selkies. Gemma fought for breath.

“I’m dreaming. I’m dreaming. Or I’m drowning. How can a pond be so deep?”

Curving and spinning, the streamlined, golden scaled creatures slithered around performing acrobatics. The golden scales gleamed like moving treasure under the water. Gemma felt herself reaching towards one. Just as her fingers brushed against the smooth and cold scales, she found herself sitting in the grass next to a pond. In the distance, a frog croaked, the sound echoing in the quiet night. There was a splash, a whisper of wind, a soft hum of leaves, a rustling of grass; the pond and its surroundings blended together to make a beautiful symphony. It was a clear night. No rains, no storms; all was peaceful. Gemma neared the edge of the pool and gasped. There in the reflection she saw the stormy scene she had just come from.

“What is going on?” She asked into the empty space. She took a few minutes trying to gather herself. It was clear, dry, and the perfect temperature. Looking down, she realized she was completely dry and in a flowing white dress—a long delicate slip that fell down to her ankles. As she stood up, an arrow whizzed passed her head.

“My day cannot get any better than this,” Gemma thought sarcastically more arrows began to shoot her way. She ran towards the forest, hoping it would give her cover. “All I wanted was a quiet day to myself by the lake. Is that too much to ask for? Can one desire too much of a good thing? Somehow that ‘me’ time turned into this? What the heck is this?!” As the plain grass faded away and was replaced by dense forest, Gemma regretted running in. Immediately she stepped barefoot onto a rock. She stopped and winced in pain as another arrow sliced the side of her arm. Soon drums and chanting ensued. The drums seemed to match her heartbeat—faster and faster, louder and louder. Gemma cried out in pain as she began to run again. It wasn’t until the drumming started to fade that she noticed the forest wasn’t like a normal forest, but rather it was filled with glowing plant forms. The forest literally seemed to be alive. Soft leaves brushed against her arms, and fur lined the edges of a few trees. Sharp, glass-like plants stabbed through the ground, their red glow warned off potential predators. Three-eyed monkey-like creatures gossiped in the trees. One-legged birds perched on purple branches. This world was ethereal and filled with magic. Gemma could feel the powerful energy vibrating within the Earth. Before she could stop and catch her breath, the drums seemed to pick up once again. Closer. Closer. She didn’t know where to run. This forest was alien to her. No where to go but what felt like forward. How could they catch up so quickly?

Sounds of hoofs echoed within the forest. The consistent beating of hoof to dirt shook the Earth, causing Gemma to nearly stumble. Without warning, the forest cleared and once again soft, green grass was layered upon hills. Centaurs. The sound of hoofs was coming from centaurs. A great herd of blue, black, and violet centaurs pounded across the grass.

Without thinking Gemma screamed, “Help! Please? Anyone? I’m being chased.” Most of the centaurs ignored her. A few snarled and spat at her, “It’s just a filthy human.” Finally, an old but wise centaur slowly left the herd and trotted towards her.

“Human, we have not had one of your kind here since the reign of The Great One. You have caused havoc upon our lands and since then, there has been no king. Only tribes of species fighting for power. We banished you from our land, why have you returned?” The aged yet powerful voice boomed.

“I really did not mean to come here. I mean no one here harm. I fell into a pond and woke up in this land. I just need to go home. Please, can you help me?” Gemma begged.

“Come.” The old centaur turned and gestured to his back. Gemma took a second to calm herself before jumping up onto his back. Immediately, the centaur cantered up the grassy hills and didn’t stop until the sounds of drums and chanting faded away.

“The demons have given up chase. You may get down and I will tell you how to get home.” The centaur commanded. Gemma did just that and nodded a thank you.

“Now, close your eyes and imagine your home. Think about all the wonderful memories you have ever had in that home. All you need to do is tap the heels of your feet together. Do it three times and say ‘There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like—-

“Grammy! What are you doing?! It was just getting to the good part. You think I’m too young to understand your bedtime stories, but I know that you’re just copying the Wizard of Oz. Tell me what really happens Grandma Gemma!” The little girl demanded.

“But sweetie, that is really how it goes,” Gemma laughed, giving Fae, her granddaughter, a warm hug.

“No, no, no, no. That’s a lie, Grammy. I want to know what happens. How did you get home? Did you ever figure out the centaur’s name? You must have done something to get out because you and Grandpa Wes had my mommy and then she had me. Please Grammy? I promise I won’t tell anyone where the secret portal is. I won’t let anyone take over the magic land ever again!” Fae begged, grasping onto Gemma’s sleeve. Gemma laughed and gave Fae’s hand a small pat.

“Not tonight dear. It’s time to sleep. I’ll finish the story tomorrow.” As Gemma got up, she placed a quick kiss upon Fae’s forehead and switched off the lights.

And when Gemma closed the door, she whispered to herself, “The centaur’s name is Fae, dear. His name is Fae.” With that, Gemma slipped on her shoes and walked out into the forest. She paused in front of a pond and looked in. Nothing. Gemma was certain that her adventure all those years ago wasn’t a dream, for she still owned that white dress she wore that day. She bent down and dipped her fingers into the cool water. A flash of golden scales caught her eyes… could it be?