WRiting Contest #3

Laureate Category Winning SUbmissions

Peaches and Sour Cream
By Mars Chen
First Place, Laureate Category

I exist in the pit
and flesh
and juice
and stem
of a man’s peach fuzz
propagated on the
peach flush blessing a
woman’s every curve.

The fruit of a mother’s labour
of a mother whose second 9-month
term ended in disappointment
daughter or not.

Because there aren’t enough strokes in|
好 for another 女,
and certainly none for anything other.

But watch me carve a womb
in between the in-betweens,
nested amongst the
irony and paradox.

A sac that will hold me,
where no one is held.
Where a word for hold
ceases to exist
in that language
that does not exist.

And my tongue will
adlib the gaps in translation,
as it did when 嘉仪
and Jenny
didn’t have a word for
Mars in between.

We Once Wore Chroma.
By Tom Chen
Second Place, Laureate Category

We once wore chroma, bright and free,
held eyes of sunlight, fulfilled with glee.
Our suits of innocence neatly worn,
untouched by endings yet unborn.

Nursery rhymes and songs that spree,
echoed in laughter, wild and free.
In playground kingdoms, young and bold,
no thought of futures growing cold.

Zestful nature turned to stressed distress,
left to right, now more and less.
Boundaries drawn on paper thin,
as innocence fades and wars begin.

Held eyes of color, spilling light,
now turned dark in endless fight.
Soft hands, once held sticks in play,
now clench arms to keep the dark at bay.

Educated to be embellished,
turned to society's slaves unslaved.
Bound to systems, withheld to bend,
in loops that twist but never end.

As time ticks and lights dim
our popularity slowly turned grim.
Ethos, pathos, logos become our reign,
as youth dissolves in silent pain.

Color fades, but memory stays,
of those bright hues and carefree days.
We once wore our chroma, bold and true,
before the world changed red and blue.

Step by Step, Until I Reach the End
By Chloe Ren
Thrid Place, Laureate Category

A single finger grazes the side of the light switch,
hand trembling as it avoids the smooth white surface
even as it presses down.

Click.

The point of contact itches, feeling dirtier than before.

There’s two fingers now, dripping droplets onto the floor,
fresh from the sink water where the hand was just
washed. The fingers tap the switch.

Click.

Wiping on the towel—it’s uncomfortable, but it’s not dirty.

It comes as an afterthought,
the hand unhesitatingly touching the light switch,
decisively flicking the clean surface.

Click.

The hand leaves.

Dreaming of the Beautiful Game
By James Zhang
Honourable Mention, Laureate Category

Find a patch of earth,
anywhere the grass stretches wide,
and bring a ball—round as the moon,
full of possibilities.

Press your fingers to the seams,
feel the quiet promise of motion.
Push it forward.
Let it roll, wobble, spin.
Chase after it.

Bare your legs to the sun,
or to the rain.
Both will kiss you,
leaving their marks—mud streaks,
a flush of warmth,
a streak of cold across your cheek.

Learn the language of your feet,
how they speak to the ball:
a nudge, a sweep, a kick.
Listen as it answers
with a thud, a whisper, a crack.

Dribble through the invisible defenders
of trees, chairs, or shadows.
Pretend to be someone else—
a hero with a number on their back,
or just yourself,
but braver.

Find others.
Call them friends.
Or let the game make them so.
Pass the ball,
a gift wrapped in motion.
Receive it like a secret
meant only for you.

Miss a goal,
again and again,
until the misses
are as much a part of you
as the moments the net ripples.
Celebrate both.

Hear the crowd—
real or imagined—
cheering in your ears,
their voices rising like the wind
pushing you forward.
Let their joy become yours.

Play until the stars come out
or your breath runs short.
Feel the ache in your legs,
the burn in your lungs.
These are love letters
your body writes to the game.

When you are away,
watch the ball in your dreams,
rolling forever on endless fields.
You will know, then,
that soccer is not just played—
it is lived,
and it lives in you.

Bridge to Tomorrow
By Adhisri Venkat
Honourable Mention, Laureate Category

They told me not to leave.
they told me familiarity once lost would never be found again,
with the feet that carried me here
i continued

i know what i had lost,
not what i was searching for
not where i was
nor what i am any longer
the corridor carried the edge of
memories,
reminders of who i was,
my friends and everything i’d known,

i imagined it to be the epitome of inspection, hope

but colours of regret and angst shone underneath my feet
spilling from today
my hopes, stolen, left me wronged

between the ends of today and the edge of tomorrow
the voices echo into mine
as i'm told to look forward

the memory i have of today feel strangely
alien

the passage now
enigmatic,
purposeless,
one that resembles an otherworldly architecture
each interchange greater than the last

but tomorrow will come
looking only ahead i'm not sure what happened today

maybe
just maybe the bridge i walk through was never taking me forward
instead a complex layer that continued to grow on itself

growing
rising
like the sea
except when i turned back
its swallowed my footprints with it

I've reached tomorrow