Creative writing students earn awards: Read the 1st place entries

Baker High School students were honored recently for their creative writing.

Congratulations to the following Creative Writing Fiction writers who earned top awards in our SUNY Oswego Flash Fiction contest: 
 
1st place: Alexander Jacobson for "Midnight Motorist"
2nd place: Marisa Barnard for "Rescue Me"
3rd: place: Justin Chimento for "Mrs. Brennan"

Honorable Mention: 
 
Mariana Rinaldo for "Untitled"
Viviana Vanderstouw for "For Better or For Worse”
Dante Campagna for "Are You Unhappy? Smile More"
Milo Austin for "An Old Friend"
Christian Ficcara for "The Flesh"
 
Congratulations to the following Creative Writing Fiction writers who earned top awards in the Baker Flash Fiction Contest: 
 
1st Place: Mariana Rinaldo for "Untitled"
2nd Place: Nora O'Grady for "Them or Me"
3rd Place: Blake Tripodi for "Paralysis"  
 
Disclaimer: This was a horror fiction writing contest and while both stories are excellent and award-winning, the content may be disturbing to a younger audience.
  By Alexander Jacobson
 
I studied the car wreck before me, the cold nipping at my nose. Snow drifted from the sky, falling through the broken windshield and onto the stained passenger seat. The scene reeked of booze and blood, but there was no bottle or person near it. It was peculiar.
 
I was just a simple motorist, on my way to a dinner party with my friends. But the sight of the car slammed into the tree grabbed my attention, and I quickly pulled over. The car’s headlights still shone, illuminating the snowflakes as they blanketed the blacktop. I readied my cell phone, prepared to call for an ambulance but the oddities of the scene stopped me.
 
As I looked through the driver’s window, I saw what seemed to be some kind of beer, or whiskey, spilled over the seat. Glass shards glistened with the inside lights on, illuminating the small splatters of blood. There was no one inside that I could see, and the keys were still in the ignition. But what surprised me the most was the fact that this car was not a modern one. It was a Dodge Mirada, and in mint condition too. Well, it used to be. Now it was crumpled up like a tissue.
 
I used my phone to contact the authorities, but no one answered. Damn snowstorm must be blocking the signal. I walked away from the wreck, got back into my car, and drove back down the road. I had a party to attend. The road became long and winding, seemingly going on forever. I came to a sudden stop when I saw something along the road: a car crashed into a tree.
 
Once again, I pulled over and went over to it. But what surprised me was not the fact that there were two car crashes on this road; no, it was the fact that it was the same car crash I just drove away from. How the hell was that possible? The road wasn’t a loop, or at least, it didn’t seem to be. Maybe it was? No. I shook the thought from my mind and looked again. 
 
The same details. Alcohol and blood in the air. Broken windshield. No one inside. But this time, I noticed something new. A framed photograph on the passenger’s seat. I opened the door and picked it up, looking at it with the illumination of the headlights. It was a photo of a little girl, smiling at the camera. She looked rather cute. Perhaps the drunken driver was a father? A mother? No matter. I absent-mindedly put the picture into my coat pocket and got back in my car. I had a party to go to and that was that.
 
Again, I set off down the road. The snow was coming down heavier, and it became harder and harder to see the winding path. Yet again, I stopped at the car crash. How the hell was I finding it over and over again? I was driving forward, I was sure of it. And I wasn’t driving in a circle. I decided to check by reaching into my glovebox and pulling out my map of the area. As I looked at it, I became confused. It was empty.
 
No, this wasn’t possible. Before I left, I checked it over and over again, and it was a map! It had locations and markers and rivers and roads. How the hell does a map lose its features? My markings on where the dinner party was were still there. But the route was gone. I frustratedly threw the map onto the floor of the car and stomped off to the wreck. I was going to find out what was happening here.
 
As I investigated, everything from the last wreck was still there. The photo of the girl, the stench, the glass shards. It seemed to be identical. But my attention caught on the bottle of Chardonnay on the dashboard. I quickly reached out to grab it to check it for details, but when I looked, it just had the words “CHARDONNAY FOR PARTY” written on it. I was perplexed, and then saw the map on the floor of the car. I stashed the bottle in my pocket and looked at the map. It was empty too. I angrily crumpled the stupid piece of paper and threw it off into the woods. I’m getting to that damn dinner party, one way or another. 
 
I got in my car and angrily drove on, setting the booze on the seat beside me. What the hell was going on? Am I insane? No, I’m not! I’m perfectly sane! I’m normal, and this is all just a crazy set of coincidences. This whole situation has a rational explanation, I’m sure of it. I will just get to the party and be normal-
 
Everything slowed. Yet it all happened so quickly. I crashed into a tree, folding up the front of the car like a crumpled tissue. I flew out of the windshield, while some glass shards came in and cut my skin, spattering my blood along the passenger seat. The bottle of Chardonnay fell, spilling its contents onto the seats. The last bit of life I had given out as a person’s face looked down at me in worry and shock.
   
I studied the car wreck before me, the cold nipping at my nose. Snow drifted from the sky, falling through the broken windshield and onto the stained passenger seat. The scene reeked of booze and blood, and the driver lay dead on the crushed hood. A bottle of Chardonnay lay spilled on the passenger seat, and a photograph lay knocked over by the force of the car hitting the tree. 
 
On the floor of the car was an empty map with directions to some dinner party scribbled on it, but on the back was most likely the mad ramblings of this now deceased driver. The car was a Mirada. It was peculiar. 
 
  By Mariana Rinaldo
 
I just hoped no one could hear it. 
The screaming beneath my skin.
The bugs crawling underneath it.
The sound of my flesh decaying and increasing in volume by the millisecond until it is defining and piercing my ears. The skin breaking down and being eaten by the bugs that infested themselves in underneath my epidermis.
            I peel my face off of the sink to look in the mirror, bracing myself for the monster I have become. My eyes crawl themselves up to meet the display of something that used to be my face. As I look up to see -
Nothing. 
No bugs and my skin still alive and intact. 
It happened again. I take a shallow breath letting reality fill my lungs once again.
 
            Why was I genetically predisposed to live in my own personal hell? I knew they weren’t there. But what if they were? 
Maybe I was going crazy. 
 
I must have looked it at least. 
I had this habit of picking at myself when I felt them. I would push and scratch at my pores, hoping that possibly they would be forced to exit. Whether they would be exiting my mind or skin was a different story.
 
Going into my room, I remember to take deep breaths as I throw what I wish was my lifeless body onto the bed.  In an effort to collect what last bit of sanity I had left, I started practicing coping techniques I learned from former psychiatrists and various treatment programs in my younger years.
            It may just have been a placebo effect but after a while these techniques like tapping on my temples and focusing on specific things in my room and describing them to myself began to help. Eventually, I started to focus on one thing in my room.
A painting. 
It was probably my favorite thing I owned.
            I would describe the brushstrokes of lavender pink and yellow molding itself into a beautiful sunset with puffy clouds that were warm and inviting. I could almost feel my body melting into this painting. As I melted into this painting, the bugs begin to melt away as well.
  
But today was different.
 
I start to feel them again this time. 
 
The pitter-patter of their feet. Then the biting starts. It’s small at first so I try and shake it out of my head. 
Then the bites become more aggressive.
They are growing, getting stronger. My eyes creep down to my arm.
 
There’s movement.
Not movement of my veins or my pulse. 
Something skidders underneath my skin.
 
I saw it this time. 
I wasn’t crazy. 
I was infested. 
My muscles are being shredded and devoured by the demonic creatures inside me. 
I’m not breathing anymore. 
The oxygen is just escaping my lungs. 
 
It’s ok. 
It’s ok. 
I can fix this. 
I’ll be ok. 
Everything is ok.
 
I'm practically crawling by the time I reach the kitchen. 
What little muscles I have left in my legs is no longer functional due the crushing realization of what is to come.
 
I pull my torso onto the counter and then the rest of what's left of me. 
I turn the water on to as high as it can go and grab all of the tools I will need.
The water is steaming and is scolding to the touch. I start scrubbing. Vigorously and with intent. Nothing can stop me. Not the smell of my burning flesh. Not the blisters that form the moment my hands hit the water.
Nothing. Not until I reach it.
The final layers of the skin that are left on my hands are shedded.
One of the creatures runs across the countertop. A small cockroach with hot sticky blood on its back.
It’s working. I knew I wasn't crazy.
I had to keep going. I couldn't stop now. Grabbing the potato peeler, I brace myself for what is about to ensue. 
I start at my toes. Digging the serrated edge just above my toenails. The pain quickly turns to nothingness. I remove the layers of skin I had left on my legs to expose the muscle and tendon. I feel like a weight has been lifted. I can't stop, not now. The only thing that even slows me down is the chunks of flesh that I need to pick out of the peeler.
I can feel them leaving my body. Setting themselves free. I start hacking at my arms and torso. I needed to keep going. I can hear the blood dripping off of the countertop and coagulating on the tile. The thick metallic smell fills my lungs.
The job is complete. They are free.
I am now free.