* Warning for possibly distressing content relating to child abuse and violence within the short story "I Smile Now."
I Smile Now - Judges Choice
Anonymous
Anonymous
That’s why I was excited when everyone had to put on a mask.
Mommy never let me go outside of the cottage. I was to sulk in that awful house spoiled
with spiderwebs and dead flies; they’re corpses sat on every windowsill collecting dust. The
house was damp and dark; a hoarder’s heaven. It’s favorite colors being a deep ebony
effortlessly matched with antique cream, with hints of worn out buttercup. There was a
permanent mist in the building. The kitchen was Mommy’s favorite room.
Mommy was sweet like a lollipop in company, but with me, she was dreadful; she had
infuriating eyes, like daggers themselves. Mommy had issues, too many to count; she told me I
had “issues,” too, but she lied. I disagreed with most things Mommy said, sometimes I bit my
tongue until it bled, other times I made sure to let her know of her wrongness; Mommy didn’t
like being wrong. She told me I “talked back” too much––so she shut me up.
When I “talked back,” Mommy got angry, she was furious, so she took me to the kitchen.
She took me to the kitchen, took her knife, and made sure I couldn’t speak anymore. It took a
while for my scars to heal when I was younger, because she opened fresh wounds too often; I’ve
learned better how to stay quiet when she angers me, even though the damage is already done.
My mouth is a hideous creature, just like Mommy.
She didn’t let me go outside with my scars, she made sure to threaten me with everything
she could. She didn’t love me enough, but she told me she did; she told me I was ungrateful and
that I didn’t deserve her admiration. Mommy left more pain in my head than she did on my
face––but that’s never easy visualized.
I was so happy when people got sick––so sick they’d have to wear cloth on their faces,
covering up their scars; their scars weren’t as big as mine, though, I’m still winning the game.
I’d never gone to a real school, but when we had to cover our face, I would be able to hide my
hurt. Mommy let me go to real school this time, but she made it very clear, “Don’t ever take the
cloth from your face, not to eat, speak, run, hide, play, work, laugh, or anytime where anyone
can see you,” “Yes, Mommy,” I lied, , I was good at lying.
The kids at school were pushy, they were too social, friendly. They were worried, I think.
It was never my intention to confuse, but these were genuine people, unlike Mommy. “Why
don’t you eat?” “Why don’t you take off the mask?” They badgered me. I would never disagree
with them, though.
I like people; I don’t like Mommy. I am not an introvert; I am an extrovert. I will not be
manipulated by my mom.
My scars haven’t healed, yet––I don’t think they will––I still can’t take off the mask. I
think people will catch on eventually, though, then I will be free from the pain. I’m sure you’ve
met me, have you asked me to take off the covering? Which one? The emotional one or the
physical one?
Have you seen me? Have you seen my smile? It isn’t conventional, but I smile, now.
Mommy never let me go outside of the cottage. I was to sulk in that awful house spoiled
with spiderwebs and dead flies; they’re corpses sat on every windowsill collecting dust. The
house was damp and dark; a hoarder’s heaven. It’s favorite colors being a deep ebony
effortlessly matched with antique cream, with hints of worn out buttercup. There was a
permanent mist in the building. The kitchen was Mommy’s favorite room.
Mommy was sweet like a lollipop in company, but with me, she was dreadful; she had
infuriating eyes, like daggers themselves. Mommy had issues, too many to count; she told me I
had “issues,” too, but she lied. I disagreed with most things Mommy said, sometimes I bit my
tongue until it bled, other times I made sure to let her know of her wrongness; Mommy didn’t
like being wrong. She told me I “talked back” too much––so she shut me up.
When I “talked back,” Mommy got angry, she was furious, so she took me to the kitchen.
She took me to the kitchen, took her knife, and made sure I couldn’t speak anymore. It took a
while for my scars to heal when I was younger, because she opened fresh wounds too often; I’ve
learned better how to stay quiet when she angers me, even though the damage is already done.
My mouth is a hideous creature, just like Mommy.
She didn’t let me go outside with my scars, she made sure to threaten me with everything
she could. She didn’t love me enough, but she told me she did; she told me I was ungrateful and
that I didn’t deserve her admiration. Mommy left more pain in my head than she did on my
face––but that’s never easy visualized.
I was so happy when people got sick––so sick they’d have to wear cloth on their faces,
covering up their scars; their scars weren’t as big as mine, though, I’m still winning the game.
I’d never gone to a real school, but when we had to cover our face, I would be able to hide my
hurt. Mommy let me go to real school this time, but she made it very clear, “Don’t ever take the
cloth from your face, not to eat, speak, run, hide, play, work, laugh, or anytime where anyone
can see you,” “Yes, Mommy,” I lied, , I was good at lying.
The kids at school were pushy, they were too social, friendly. They were worried, I think.
It was never my intention to confuse, but these were genuine people, unlike Mommy. “Why
don’t you eat?” “Why don’t you take off the mask?” They badgered me. I would never disagree
with them, though.
I like people; I don’t like Mommy. I am not an introvert; I am an extrovert. I will not be
manipulated by my mom.
My scars haven’t healed, yet––I don’t think they will––I still can’t take off the mask. I
think people will catch on eventually, though, then I will be free from the pain. I’m sure you’ve
met me, have you asked me to take off the covering? Which one? The emotional one or the
physical one?
Have you seen me? Have you seen my smile? It isn’t conventional, but I smile, now.
True Joy Comes From The People We Love
Bowen Knight - 2024
I have come to believe that I learn the most through the hardest things.
My dad has been a pilot for half of my life. I was with him for a lot of his training and
was there for almost all of his flights after he got his license. Some of my most memorable and
hardest moments came out of flying with my dad.
The aircraft that I came to love was a relatively new red, white, and blue husky
taildragger. It allowed my dad and I to do things that we couldn’t do in any other aircraft. Its big
bloated tires allowed us to land on almost any surface. It was slower than most aircraft, teaching
me that it wasn't always about the destination, but about the journey. We would follow the James
River for miles, dipping from one side to another as we came around river bends, flying low
enough that we could wave to boats and paddle boards as they waved back to us. This plane was
the one object that I could say I ever fell in love with.
I have always dreamed of becoming a pilot. Flying is the one thing that separates me
from the darkness of this cruel world. It is unlike any experience. As you look over the dash you
feel the plane. You feel the wind moving elegantly around the body as if it were your own. There
is no limitation, no ground to keep you from going down, and no gravity to keep you from going
up. Flying connects you to this world in a way that is not possible through anything else. You
witness the beauty of nature and see the good that this world has to offer.
When a plane stalls, the pilot loses almost all control of the aircraft for around five
seconds. A loud horn rings in your ears before the nose of the plane dips like a roller coaster
going over the top of a hill. I was there the first time my dad practiced stalls, and years later I
was there for the stall that changed our lives forever.
On the 4th of July in 2017, with a full tank of fuel, my dad and I made a decision. A
decision that would never be forgotten. As I ran through the cornfield inhaling fumes of fuel, I
thought my dad was dead. When my mom pulled up, I told her that everything was going to be
okay. I didn't mention hearing my dad’s voice fade as he screamed for help. I didn't mention that
in reality I had no clue whether or not my dad was even alive. Even though I was there, I was
just as clueless as everyone else. I mean who knew that people made runways for remote control
planes.
Everything happens for a reason. Those are the words I repeated to myself for what felt
like years of staring at a hospital ceiling, waiting to hear about the condition of my dad. When I
overheard the doctors talking to my mom, they made it seem like they had known that my dad
was going to survive, but in reality they didn’t learn it much sooner than I did. It's true. No
matter how long it takes us to realize, good comes out of everything. Even the worst. I came to
realize that it was never the plane that brought me the joy, it was the experience. Now I look at
my family with new eyes. Instead of ignoring my siblings because I really don't care about their
college classes, I listen, and I don’t take for granted the gift of family.
Sometimes it takes going through the darkness to see the light. Objects are temporary.
Moments are forever. Even though the plane is lost, the memories I share with my dad will
forever be in my heart.
Joy doesn't come from physical objects but from the experiences we share with people
we love.
My dad has been a pilot for half of my life. I was with him for a lot of his training and
was there for almost all of his flights after he got his license. Some of my most memorable and
hardest moments came out of flying with my dad.
The aircraft that I came to love was a relatively new red, white, and blue husky
taildragger. It allowed my dad and I to do things that we couldn’t do in any other aircraft. Its big
bloated tires allowed us to land on almost any surface. It was slower than most aircraft, teaching
me that it wasn't always about the destination, but about the journey. We would follow the James
River for miles, dipping from one side to another as we came around river bends, flying low
enough that we could wave to boats and paddle boards as they waved back to us. This plane was
the one object that I could say I ever fell in love with.
I have always dreamed of becoming a pilot. Flying is the one thing that separates me
from the darkness of this cruel world. It is unlike any experience. As you look over the dash you
feel the plane. You feel the wind moving elegantly around the body as if it were your own. There
is no limitation, no ground to keep you from going down, and no gravity to keep you from going
up. Flying connects you to this world in a way that is not possible through anything else. You
witness the beauty of nature and see the good that this world has to offer.
When a plane stalls, the pilot loses almost all control of the aircraft for around five
seconds. A loud horn rings in your ears before the nose of the plane dips like a roller coaster
going over the top of a hill. I was there the first time my dad practiced stalls, and years later I
was there for the stall that changed our lives forever.
On the 4th of July in 2017, with a full tank of fuel, my dad and I made a decision. A
decision that would never be forgotten. As I ran through the cornfield inhaling fumes of fuel, I
thought my dad was dead. When my mom pulled up, I told her that everything was going to be
okay. I didn't mention hearing my dad’s voice fade as he screamed for help. I didn't mention that
in reality I had no clue whether or not my dad was even alive. Even though I was there, I was
just as clueless as everyone else. I mean who knew that people made runways for remote control
planes.
Everything happens for a reason. Those are the words I repeated to myself for what felt
like years of staring at a hospital ceiling, waiting to hear about the condition of my dad. When I
overheard the doctors talking to my mom, they made it seem like they had known that my dad
was going to survive, but in reality they didn’t learn it much sooner than I did. It's true. No
matter how long it takes us to realize, good comes out of everything. Even the worst. I came to
realize that it was never the plane that brought me the joy, it was the experience. Now I look at
my family with new eyes. Instead of ignoring my siblings because I really don't care about their
college classes, I listen, and I don’t take for granted the gift of family.
Sometimes it takes going through the darkness to see the light. Objects are temporary.
Moments are forever. Even though the plane is lost, the memories I share with my dad will
forever be in my heart.
Joy doesn't come from physical objects but from the experiences we share with people
we love.