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Poetry Contest Winners

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poetryIn April, Clermont County Public Library celebrated National Poetry Month with a poetry contest.  On May 6th, the New Richmond branch library, and River City Writers’ Group, hosted our first annual poetry reading.  Here are the 1st place winning poems in the youth and adult categories.

I Am and Nothing More

By youth winner, Tiffany Fite

I am the harmony

I am the melody

I am the tenor of voice

I am the sunshine

I am the darkness

I am the gray of the dawn

I am a quiet moment

I am a lioness roar

I am also none of these things

I am and nothing more

 

The Moon is My Companion

By Lisa Brandstetter Holt

She is a silent chaperone,

A quiet presence ever known

as reflected light, a wave’s flight,

caught atop firs that cool the night.

 

Her weight, I sense within my bones

caressing me with miles of stone.

I carry her less well these days,

a willow bending with her phase.

 

Amid a velvet sky so starred,

our surfaces are pocked and marred.

Our atmospheres are cold and spare,

with rigid hearts, this lea is bare.

 

Yet she has guided all below

with gentle pull and tender glow.

Though far away from those a tilt,

she makes her loving presence felt.

 

A faithful friend, she does abide

when no one else is by my side,

when my house is not a home.

Sequestered, yes, but not alone.

 

 

 

Thank You, Grandpa – Honorable Mention for the Short Story Contest

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By Tom Gumbert

“Goodness,” Rachel said watching his fingers work the dirt. She stared at the wriggling digits as they pawed, clawed, pushed and prodded through the rich topsoil of the family cemetery. “It’s been years since I’ve seen you this energetic. Thank you, Grandpa.” She touched the headstone with her fingertips. “Hard to believe it’s been twenty years. I was six years old on that hot August day when Daddy passed. I was exploring the woods around your farm, playing in the creek and discovering the wonders of crawdads and tadpoles when Grandma called. I knew something was wrong. She sounded…scared.” Leaning forward she brushed away algae from her daddy’s headstone. “Strange, how now I can only recall snippets of the conversation with Grandma. An ‘accident,’ I remember her calling it. ‘Serious—chainsaw—your father.’” She sat back on her legs and looked over at him. “What I do remember vividly is the burial. There was the preacher, you and grandma, and the gravedigger. The pine casket rested in the open grave and at the conclusion of the service, you, looking handsome in your new Sears suit,” she smiled at him, “picked up a clump of dirt, crumbled it and let it fall onto the casket. “That night a terrible thunderstorm rolled through and I’m not sure if it was the fury of the storm or the thought of Daddy, cold in the ground, trying to dig his way out that kept me awake.” She shrugged. “I slipped into your room, curled up on the floor at the foot of the bed and fell asleep. When I woke, I was in the bed, wrapped in the bedsheet Grandma used as a summer blanket. Sunlight filled the room and I could hear Grandma downstairs. “I learned later that you had found me on the floor and put me into your bed. For the next two years it was the only place I felt comfortable enough to sleep. Then Grandma died.” She thought she heard a muffled cry and looked toward him, the fingers now still. “I know it’s painful,” she whispered, “but we have to do this. It’s best for both of us.” Rachel adjusted her sitting position, pulling her legs from under her and stretching them out over the grass. “Grandma was buried next to Daddy on an inappropriately beautiful summer day. We stayed at the gravesite until it was completely filled and before leaving, you planted daisies on either side of the headstone, grooming the dirt with your hands.” She looked and smiled as his fingers again starting working the dirt. “From that day forward it was just the two of us. Mom, I know—a forbidden subject, had disappeared when I was a baby, so it was you who raised me through the transformation from little girl to young woman. Thank you, Grandpa.” His muffled response caught her attention and she noticed his fingers stopped. “Tired? I don’t imagine they let you work in those well-manicured gardens at the home. Pity. I remember how much you enjoyed working with your hands.” They sat in silence, Rachel lighting a cigarette and enjoying the warmth of the late spring sun. “I should have come for you sooner,” she admitted. “That group home was no place for you.” He was still and she wondered what he might be thinking. Looking at the headstones she was struck by how faded her memories were of her father and grandmother and by the fact that she knew absolutely nothing about her Aunt Ellen, who died at age twelve and whom no one ever spoke. Taking another draw on her cigarette she extinguished it against the headstone and dropped it in her pocket. “It’s nice up here, I see why you picked this spot.” Kneeling, she reached out, gently touching his fingers. They wriggled at her touch and she smiled. “It must have been tough for you after Grandma died,” she acknowledged, “trying to raise me by yourself while dealing with the loss of your wife and son, so recently departed.” She shook her head. “The county wanted to take me away but they underestimated you. They didn’t know the strength of your determination, didn’t understand you had a plan.” She sat back, pulling her legs to her chest, struggling to keep her emotions under control. “You made me who I am; taught me so much and you probably don’t even realize it. Thank you, Grandpa.” Spying a four-leaf clover she plucked it, twirling it between her forefinger and thumb. “My lucky day,” she said, “finding you after ten years. Oh don’t worry,” she said noticing his fingers stiffen, “you’ll never go back there. Not after all the trouble I went through to spring you.” “Institutions are for the helpless and the insane,” she said a smile frozen on her face, “and you’re not helpless and I’m not insane.” She stood and stared down at him. “But you know that. You knew it when you were molesting me, but that didn’t stop you from telling people I was. All part of your plan,” Rachel said pacing now. “And it worked beautifully. They would have put me away had I not runaway,” she laughed. “‘She’s troubled,’ people said, ‘and the abuse self-inflicted.’ Who would ever suspect you, the kindly grandfather? Ah, you played the part so well.” She shook her head smiling. “I applaud you,” she said clapping her hands together. “Brilliant acting; another lesson you unknowingly taught me. Thank you, Grandpa.” She toed the rigid fingers poking through the grave—still no movement. “Then it’s done.” She relit her cigarette, took a long drag, held it and finally exhaled. “What a day,” she said looking at the sky. “So much work but so worth it. When you first realized who I was—the look on your face—priceless!” She ground out the tip of the cigarette against his fingers. “Thank you, Grandpa.”

Unrevealed – Honorable Mention for the Short Story Contest

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By Gary Presley

The father breathed deeply and slowly as his youngest son, Jeremy, sat down at the table for dinner. The rest of his family understood and respected his decision to stay out of it, and did what they could to conduct their business with him on the periphery, but Jeremy continued to ask, to cajole, to hound him to join in. Dinnertime, with all family members in attendance and all recording devices slurping real life into their digital bellies, was Jeremy’s bully pulpit. Contractually under the new law, the man had chosen not be shown or heard on any platform, giving the ten-year-old’s nightly pleadings a monologistic flavor. But it enhanced the ratings, views, clicks and time-shifted perusals of the dinners, as the public’s desire grew to learn more about this man they were forbidden to see or hear.

And it began.

“How was your day, father?” The man always smiled at Jeremy’s opening, which was different each dinner. The video monitor by the kitchen door showed an uptick on Jeremy’s feed. Jenny typed something on her phone, and the monitor showed her following rise as well. The click-whoring had begun.

“Leave Dad alone,” Jenny said. “You ruin every dinner trying to get him to go viral, and you know he won’t.” Small spike.

The family LOL’d at Jeremy’s practiced stunned, hurt look. “I am not. You think I’m too young to understand The Privacy Rights Act, but I’m not. I do understand it, I just want him to be part of the family.”

Lois, coming in from the kitchen with the pot roast, tsk-tsked as she set it on the table. “Your father is part of the family, Jeremy. What you want is for him to be part of your feed.” The line on the monitor that showed Lois’s approval rating nudged up. “Is that fair? Did you help your friend Billy last week when his ratings fell and he needed a boost?”

Sufficiently scolded, Jeremy tapped on his phone. His rating among peers spiked briefly, although his approval among married women 37-45 dropped significantly.

Lois sat down. “Everyone silence your devices and hold hands,” she said. They all tapped, then took the hands of the person on either side, and sat quietly, some with eyes closed, for a few moments. Ratings, approvals and trends flickered silently on the monitor. Phones and tablets sat beside plates, saying nothing but flowing with increased excitement. “Now eat!” she said.

“Oh, crap,” said John, at 17 their oldest son, a fan favorite with his shaggy, dark hair and bright eyes. “I forgot my afternoon reveal. It’ll only take a few minutes. School was pretty dull today. Mom?”

Lois sighed. Her husband rolled his eyes. “Oh, all right. Does anyone else need to reveal?” she asked, to mumbled “no’s” and “uh-uh’s” around the table.

There was a minute of unusual silence while serving bowls were passed before Tara, 16, blonde and bright, said quietly, “I broke up with Lance today.”

The wall monitor was like fireworks. Off camera, the father shook his head. On camera, the mother again tsked.

“I’m sorry, Tara. I hope they don’t run a poll to see who your next boyfriend should be,” Lois said, checking her tablet while buttering a roll. “Oh, dear.”

Jenny smirked and held up her phone near Tara. “Too late. Nathan Sponsell!”

“Girls!” Lois said. “You know your father likes the old mating rituals.”

It was true, he thought, he did. It gave time to talk about what was good and bad about the ex-boyfriend before diving into the new one. And it was private. He liked private, but he was no cave-dwelling technophobe. He had a phone. He used it to call friends so they could get together in a real place (“meat space,” his kids called it). And talk, face to face. Unabbreviated, unfiltered, unplugged. Why did he still call it “unplugged” when everything was wireless and battery operated, he wondered.

“Nathan’s not so bad,” Tara said. “Hey! He’s already sent me a text to ask me out. How old-fashioned!”

Everyone laughed, even the dad, and everyone tapped something into a device, except the dad. John retook his seat, having wrapped his afternoon reveal.

At his end of the table, Jeremy tapped something into his phone, then sat back. On the monitor the slope of his clicks-per-minute line started tilting toward vertical. His mother gasped. “What have you done?” then checked her tablet. “Jeremy?”

John checked his phone, then grabbed Jeremy’s phone and tapped angrily while Jeremy tried to grab the phone back. On the monitor, Jeremy’s clicks line returned to its previous level.

John handed the phone back. “Don’t be a punk,” he said. “They’ll let you off now because you’re ten, but if you do that after your birthday,” he paused, almost sputtered, “well, I don’t know what they’ll do to you, but it won’t be fun.”

The father looked down the table at Jeremy, then across to John, and cocked his head slightly.

“He posted a photo of you laughing just now,” John said. “I’m pretty sure I scrubbed it from all the sites before it rooted in the servers, and I blurred your face on the rest. I don’t think he understands The Privacy Rights Act as well as he thinks he does.”

Jeremy sat silently and glanced at the monitor, not quite smirking, looking satisfied.

“The law is the least of his worries,” Lois said, tapping quickly onto her tablet. “Nothing but inbound data for you for the next two weeks, mister. And there’s a whole backyard of leaves with your name on each and every one of them.”

Jeremy slumped, but Jenny grinned. “Swift justice with two weeks of real-world labor. Love it.” She thumb-typed a few sentences on her phone that showed up on the monitor, ending with LMFAO.

“Watch your language, young lady, we’re at the dinner table,” Lois said.

The father smiled, and reached for the carrots.

About the Author: Ben Filla

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ben filla

Ben Filla, winner of Clermont County Public Library’s Short Story Contest.

Profile by: Adam Baker, Clermont Co. Public Library Communications Manager 

Story ideas come easy for Ben Filla, an instructor in the Business Information Technology program at UC-Clermont. However, it’s the follow-through that seems to give him the most trouble.

“I have many, many stories partially written,” Filla said. “Your contest was great in that it encouraged me to just go ahead and try.”

His passion for writing began about 10 years ago. Before moving to Batavia with his wife and five boys, Filla was an admissions counselor at Miami University Middleton. There, he started a film club on campus where he worked with students to create short films. However, his creativity didn’t stop there.

“I was left with a lot of story ideas, but a limited crew to get stuff made,” he said. “I kind of decided that maybe it’d be better to focus on stories, because writing, at least initially, requires just me.”

The idea for his winning entry, “Bobby Darin, Take Me Home” came to him during a recent car ride.

“Something triggered in me the question: What if I had a memory of a place with someone I loved very much, but could never go back to that exact moment in time?” he said. “How would I feel if it was impossible to relive it in the same way, with the same person?”

While crafting the story, he tapped into childhood experiences for inspiration.

“As a kid I’d tag along when my stepdad would take his mother to weekly doctor’s appointments and I remember thinking how fragile she seemed,” Filla said.

One memory in particular helped him paint a key scene at the end of his story.

“I used to play in an orchard just outside of Chardon, Ohio when I visited my grandma’s farm,” he said. “That whole area has grown up considerably, but you can still see the clock tower on Chardon Square from miles away.”

As for the Bobby Darin song he used in the story, Filla credits a little bit of fate for that.

“When I write I sometimes listen to music that I think fits the genre of what I’m trying to capture,” he said. “I was listening to big band music and just happened to hear Beyond the Sea at just the right time in my thinking process, and it seemed to pull it all together nicely.”

Winner of the Short Story Contest

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Ben Filla wrote the winning entry for our short story contest. This is  his story, “Bobby Darin, Take Me Home”. Congratulations, Ben!

Frank Meeks was old. At ninety, he’d outlived all of his friends, and sadly, even his wife. All he had left was a son, who was aged and retired himself. He felt as though he might never die. His doctors kept cleaning his blood and would tell him absurd things like, “Mr. Meeks, you’ve got the body of a man half your age – you may live forever!” Condescending pleasantries he thought, but he understood they were trying to keep things light. The irony was he’d had rheumatic fever as a child which left him with a weakened heart, and he probably should have died years ago. It was always the same on Saturday mornings. His son would come by the nursing home early, around seven o’clock. Most days Frank was awake and moving before day break. When he was a working man, he’d get up and enjoy his black coffee and cigarette as the birds began their morning chorus. Of course he gave up the cigarettes long ago when his Rosie got sick. Everyone said she’d outlive everyone – she had been a model of health. Never smoked, rarely drank. But it seems cancer can find you even if you eat your greens and walk every morning. It leveled her, squeezing her breath away. It shattered him. He was dressed in the same clothes he always wore. The same style he’d been wearing in the twenty-three years she’d been gone – simple white cotton V-neck t-shirt that comes in a pack of three and a pair of blue jeans. It probably wasn’t really a style. No, the jeans were flat and square in a sky blue polyester. Probably just blue pants. Rosie had lovingly joked that he was in a class of his own. “Just need to make a quick stop dad,” his son said once they finished up at the doctor’s. “Oh?” Frank wondered. “My order came in this week and I’ve been meaning to pick it up,” his son explained as he parked in the expansive lot. They were at one of those big box stores. Gone were the days of getting to know the neighborhood clerks and pride in buying local. Frank understood the value of a dollar but was proudly American. “I’ll just stay here,” Frank muttered in a delayed response. Funny how your brain can do that. He heard the question, but it kind of hung there and didn’t process until his mind had come back around to the moment. “I’ll just stay here,” he mumbled again. The dialysis made him tired. He was nodding in and out, eyes jarring open at every little sound. A car horn bellowed in the distance and his eyes shot open. He let out a breath and a puzzled expression formed across his brow. Old and tired. Frank pressed the satellite radio button that played his favorites. It always took him back to happier times, and he’d be lying to say there wasn’t a part of him that missed the way things used to be. That part of him grew bigger every day. A jazzy brass tune filled the van, and now with his seat comfortably reclined, his eyes closed a bit easier. Another distant honk, and he startled again. Cars full of families, trucks making deliveries. His eyes followed the busyness along. Through the hustle and bustle, Frank could barely make out the lake on the horizon below. The town really had changed. The music switched tempo, and he was taken aback. The velvety voice of Bobby Darin came through the surround speakers. “Beyond the Sea” had been their song, and suddenly she was right there. It was like Rosie was sitting there with him. He hadn’t heard their song in years. “I think this is the spot,” he spoke quietly through his fingers, thoughtfully pinching his bottom lip. There was the expansive court house to the east and the Presbyterian steeple, now peeking over a fast food restaurant, to the north. This was, or had been, the orchard Rosie and he came to when they first started dating. “I’ll be…,” he trailed off in his memory. This was the apple orchard where he worked a summer, the summer he met her. “Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me,” she had said. She’d jest when that Andrews Sisters’ song came on in the old farm truck, but it was the sound of Bobby Darin that always moved her a bit closer to him. A full smile crept up his cheek. What a beautiful person she was. So happy, so vibrant. Vivacious. She brought him to life. He lived off the energy of the people around him, and her energy was infectious. Yes, he was positive this was their orchard. They were so young then. Her skin was soft and flawless with freckles, smiley eyes – eyes that had always reminded him of the brilliant hot springs of Yellowstone, an amazing azure center with myriad hues fringing the edges. And her hair, soft and red with little curls and flips here or there. She was always trying to straighten it out a bit, but he loved how it never could quite follow her directions. She was perfect. Ah, this song. His heart sang along. “Dream Boat”, she’d call him as they sat on the hill and watched the ships come up from the seaway toward the port. “Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere,” he’d whisper to her. “Cyprus? Sicily? Santorini?” She’d giggle. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Take me to all those places. Take me beyond the sea Frankie.” The din of the traffic was now gone and Bobby Darin was all he heard. “…She’s there watching for me…” “…My heart will lead me there soon…” “…Happy we’ll be beyond the sea.” His son opened the van door. “Ready to go home dad?”, but Frank was already there. His heart had taken him home.

 

Amelia Writer’s Group – December 11, 2012

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The next meeting of the Amelia Writer’s Group will be on December 11th at 6:00 p.m.

During the November meeting Brooks Rexroat talked about writing motivation and inspiration.  You can see his presentation on his website - http://brooksrexroat.com/  under academic presentations.

Also, check out the new INK TANK/ reading series.  Founded by Mr. Rexroat, this series The series, is free and open to the public at the the 1215 Wine Bar and Coffee Lab on Vine Street..  The series will  include established featured authors from around the Midwest region and emerging writers from Cincinnati. For more information, you can go to the webiste – https://www.facebook.com/InkTankReadingSeries.

 

Try these writing prompts for December.

 

1.  Describe a special Christmas morning.

2.  Play out the life story of a little boy crying at the top of his lungs because his mother won’t buy him a plastic fireman’s hat.

3.  Write about the only time you hosted Thanksgiving—and how it went so terribly wrong. Start with the line, “For my first Thanksgiving as host, I bought the biggest turkey they had in the store,” and end your story with “And that’s why we all ate hamburgers.

Five Words – black friday, smoke, local deli, presents, motorcycle

 

Web of Horror Story

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Our teens participated in a contest to write a group story. They started with the classic line “It was a dark and stormy night…” and this is the result.

It was a dark and stormy night…

Nora was told to stay far away from the house on west Fifth Avenue since she was a little girl.

But there was always something alluring about that house to her, so one day at daybreak when she was around 19 years, she was walking towards the house on west Fifth Avenue because something in her needed to know why her parents had always tried to get her away that street and house. Finally she turned the corner on to the dreaded west fifth avenue with a new skip in her step and a new attitude to boot.

As she reached the house, she felt as though something was watching her from one of the big almost fully boarded up black windows that bore down on to her. The house that had haunted her nightmares ever since she was little stood right in front of her, looking gloomy as always. By the look of the house, after so many years of being vandalized and being torn apart by everything that touched it without being fixed, it made the house look terrifying dangerous and gloomy with pain and sorrow. Continue reading →

Amelia Library Writer’s Group November 13, 2012

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The next meeting of the Amelia Library Writer’s Group will be held on November 13, 2012.  Instead of the usual group format we will be having a speaker.  Mr. Brooks Rexroat will be speaking about writing across the genres – whether it is fiction, poetry, or nonfiction.  He will also address motivation and keeping those  negative blocks at bay.

Brooks Rexroat is a writer, teacher, and musician who lives and works in Cincinnati, Ohio. He holds a bachelor of arts degree in print journalism from Morehead State University (Kentucky), and worked as a reporter, editor, and photographer at community, regional, and metropolitan newspapers.  He recently spoke  about publishing and editing at the new Union Township library in Clermont County.

The program will begin at 6:00 p.m.

 

Amelia Writer’s Group October 9, 2012

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The Amelia Writer’s Group will meet on October 9 at 6:00 p.m. in the Amelia library meeting room.

If you wish to share your writing please allow 15 minutes for reading and 5 minutes for feedback.  Please bring copies to share.

Prompts -

1.  A guy just shows up at your front door.  Write about what happens once you look through your peephole and see him.  Start your writing with – “If you know what’s good for you”.

2.  When the ball hit you in the head, you were knocked out cold for ten minutes.  During that time, you had what you can best describe as the weirdest dream of your life.  Describe that dream with as many details as you can remember.

3.  Write a story of a little boy crying at the top of his lungs because his mother won’t buy him a plastic fireman’s hat.

Five words – Use these five words in a story -

barefoot, vending machine, wings, dumpster, fog

 

Author Visit – Maggie Green

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maggie greenThe demand and interest for locally grown fruits and vegetables has increased and along with it the number of reasons for eating local foods –  eating local means boosting the local economy, fresher produce,local food tastes better, keeps us in touch with the seasons, produce is handled less and doesn’t have to stand up to the rigors of shipping.

The Amelia Library will welcome author Maggie Green on September 10th, at 6:30 p.m.   Maggie Green is the author of The Kentucky Fresh Cookbook.  Ms. Green specializes in culinary nutrition and cookbook development. Ms. Green, as a cookbook editor has edited several well-known trade cookbooks including: James Beard Award-winning cookbook, BakeWise by Shirley Corriher, and 75th Anniversary Edition of the Joy of Cooking.

The Kentucky Fresh cookbook contains more than 200 recipes using fresh ingredients throughout the year.  She complements her recipes with tidbits about her own experiences with food including regional food traditions she grew up with.  Green appeals to modern tastes using up-to-date, easy to follow recipes and cooking techniques, and she addresses the concerns of contemporary cooks with regard to saving time, promoting good health, and protecting the environment. The Kentucky Fresh Cookbook contains a year’s worth of recipes and menus for everyday meals, holiday events, and special family occasions.  Copies of the Kentucky Fresh Cookbook will be available to purchase.

For more information and recipes for cooking local check out these  resources on CCPL’s shelves:

Farm fresh flavors : over 450 delicious recipes using local ingredients by  Randall Smith

Farm to fork:  cooking local, cooking fresh by Emeril Lagasse

The Locavore’s handbook :  the busy person’s guide to eating local on a budget by Leda Meredith

Mark Bittman’s Kitchen express:  202 inspired seasonal dishes by Mark Bittman

The farm to table cookbook:  the art of eating locally by Ivy Manning

Pleanty:  eating locally on the 100 mile diet  by Alisa Smith

The comfort table by Katie Lee

 Check our newsletter and calendar of events for all Clermont County Library’s upcoming events/programs. Programs are offered free of charge for all ages at all 10 branches.