UN F C Hi ~ - o S - = OVER THE EDGE - Ape oth-Septomber sabi 2008 Writing Competition Winners The Following are the first place, second place, and third place entries in this year’s UNBC High School writing competition. Let’s hope these Kelly Road Secondary School students join UNBC’s GAIA next year. FIRST PLACE This is How He Became My Universe By Zachary D. KerrHolden, Grade Twelve, Kelly Road Secondary School A midnight barfly zipped about the entrance, stumbling and bumbling about the doorway. He was not sure about whether if once again he should indulge in the poisons that have ruined his life, the thick liquids that stole his memories. After fishing through his pockets, counting out the amount of copper and nickel he would need to sell his soul at least one more time, and finally (and very lazily) flew through the doorway, stand- ing in the humble interior of the establishment. His rag-tag appearance told me that he was experienced in failure. He was clothed in dirt and filth and mud, coated with sort of manifested disgrace that begged for forgiveness, but deserved none. Every move he made, every slight gesture was a detailed self-portrait of his mistakes. The weight on his shoulders was the spade he used to dig his own hole. Nothing about him, or his existence, was significant. He was smog in a tsunami, a walk-on extra in a star-studded tragedy. He awkwardly made his way to the bar, and took the stool two to the right of mine. The stool shook and wobbled. Even furniture protested his existence. Once he conquered this sec- ond-rate pedestal of his, he used some sort of sign language ‘to get the bartender’s attention. The bartender seemed to roll on well-greased wheels in front of the nothing-man, and in a smooth, rehearsed voice said these words: “What will you have?” The nothing-man, who up to this point had been looking at his filth weaved folded hands, tilted his direction upwards to the bartender. He looked at him with a great sense of des- peration. He looked at the bartender as if he were Jesus and himself a leper, waiting to be cured of his horrid ailment. The nothing-man thought for a while. His face scrunched up, and he cleared his throat of cobwebs. When he was ready, that is when he had thought of what had been asked of him, he said these words: ‘Double o’ whisky, please sir.” ‘whishky’ and ‘sir’ ‘soor’. The texture of the voice itself was extremely coarse and lumpy, like a frequently traveled dirt word. Each word was a struggle, a proverbial pothole. In a past life, or possibly only years ago, he could have been a screamer, a loud mouth extravagant spender. Only he must have shrieked once too many, since his voice had seemingly been disintegrated into pure gravel. The bartender placed a thick glass in front of the nothing- man with a satisfying clunk. The brown, thick fluid molded itself in the shape of the glass. Two finely sculpted ice cubes bobbed up-and-down, up-and-down, up-and-down. They barely gleamed under the dim electric glow. The bartender said, ‘That will be five dollars, please and thank-you.” And the nothing-man responded, “I only have four.” The nothing-man’s eyes turned to glass with these words. However would he be able to forget the past now? And so naturally, and with extreme displeasure, the bartender Only he said ‘whisky’ said, “Sorry, buddy, but no dollar, no drink.” The way he gave this statement with a sense of rhythm was beautiful. How- ever how the nothing-man’s response was horrific. He turned to me, and with his gravely, sad, unforgiving voice asked me this: “Hey young fella? Can you spare me a bill? I did not dare respond right away. I let the moment sink so far into me that it became a memory. I can forget about memories. No matter how much I did not look at the man’s face, he never looked away. He was addicted to me, or at least until he could become addicted once again to alcohol. He was a man who became addicted to whatever momentarily relieved pain, which at this moment was one of the six one-dollar coins nestled loosely in my pocket. I resisted giving into the man. Who was I to be the advo- cate of his sickness? Who was I to fuel his obviously dying fire? For a while, I made no sort of contact of the man. And all he did was sit on his borrowed makeshift pedestal, star- ing at me, every once in a while would mutter a very deadly word. “Please”. Please”, he would say. He was pitiful. This nothing-man had soon become something to me, and I did not enjoy that in any way. Who was he to stumble into my life, pleading for relief? This man was an insect, and yet at this moment in my life, he was all that mattered. And I hate him for that. _ An extensive period of time passed, or rather, crawled. I had long finished my beer, and many of the other patrons of the already near-vacant bar had left. I counted four bodies. The bartender’s, the nothing-man’s, some lonely salesman- type, and mme figure on the road sitting at a booth. The well- dressed man also did not matter, but in a completely different way from the nothing-man. It was getting late, or rather, it was getting early. A mere hour and a half ago, I had been talking to some golden haired women, nurturing a beer. The bartender yelled out “Last-call!” in that smooth, rehearsed voice of his. The nothing-man, with knowing that this was his last chance, croaked out that poisonous word. “Please” he said “Please, young-fella. Just a loony, is all I need.” © His words were slurred and broken and disgusting. I stood up, and looked at that nothing-man straight in the eyes for the first and last time. They were like whirl pools; only one was going in the opposite direction of the other. They were dark, and shattered, but still, it was as if there was a painted layer of gloss over them to give them some sort of supernatural shine. He was like a disease stray cat, Pathetic and stringy enough for you to take notice, but not enough for you to care. As we stared at one another, he mouthed, but did not speak, that sword one more time, “Please”. With a mix of violence and anger and pity, I reached into my pocket, grabbed a loony, and tossed it at him. As I did this, I said these words, not exclaimed, but loud enough to make out: “Fuck it.” I left the bar that night, and looked up at the sky. The stars were completely revealed, staring down at me. I in no way felt as if some larger power was smiling down at me for my charity. I did not feel special or honest or pure. I felt sick. That man took away my right now to care. That is the most important and powerful right I have as a human being. On the flip side, however, I did not feel like a villain, I did not feel like a devil’s advocate. This is what bothers me about the whole thing. That nothing-man got through me to the point where as I fed him his addiction for another night, I felt not anger or pleasure. I felt as if it was a normal everyday thing. All I really wanted was to feel something. I resisted giving into the man. Who was I to be the ad- vocate of his sickness? Who was I to fuel his obviously dying fire?