PCHS Writes is designed to inspire more students to write and to write from their hearts instead of strictly within the walls of their required English classes.
And this month’s entries impressed judges so much that both stories had to be published.
“The Moratur Ceremony” is by Annalise Brinton, a Park City High School sophomore, who enjoys creativity and writing horror stories.
“Commitment” is by Vivian Pulham, a Park City High School sophomore, who loves writing, making music, reading, skiing and mountain biking. Pulham has won the PCHS Writes contest before.
“The Moratur Ceremony”
By Annalise Brinton
For over 150 years, March 3rd has been a day of celebration. It’s the day our people decide to stay another year and continue taking advantage of The Gardeners’ generosity.
The Moratur Ceremony is always my favorite part. The consuming, especially. The beauty of it. It’s riveting — and frankly, it’s quite a small price to pay for endless contentment in both life and death.
I bow my head, taking three steps back in order to allow The Gatherer to step through. He’s wearing his usual cobalt blue cloak, the color standing out against the muted browns of the cloaks on the other side of him. The Gatherer takes his time making his way to the podium up front, busy admiring the people here for the Moratur.
“My people.” The voice is low, familiar. People shut up at the sound. “This is the one hundred sixty-eighth Moratur Ceremony. It is about the same premise as always – paying quite a small price in order to achieve endless peace.”
The Gatherer begins walking from side to side on the stage slowly, his head tilted up toward The Gardener.
“I truly am delighted to feel the presence of so many of you here today, and The Gardener is, too. They smile down upon us, my children. And now, it is time to show our respect for them.”
Murmurs of excitement echo throughout the crowd at that. The ceremony is one of the most coveted events throughout the whole year; people love it.
“Number one, please step forward.”
A young boy that I recognize, Abraham Adams, emerges from the crowd. He looks excited, glancing back at his friends with a nervous grin on his face.
“Please, put on the ceremonial robe.”
He grabbed the white cloth, slipping it over his shoulders. The cloth stretches taut over his shoulders, but he doesn’t seem to mind the clear discomfort.
“Approach the plate.”
He steps forward, his feet sinking slightly into the mud beneath the plate. A dark-red liquid squelches out, coating his feet completely. He nervously places his hands on either side of the plate, shifting closer to the table. The liquid seeps off the plate onto the table, covering his hands, too.
“May I consume, Gatherer?” The words sound practiced, careful.
“You may.”
Abraham leans forward eagerly, his grin only growing.
The Gatherer’s face twists into a smile when he sees the fervor with which Abraham consumes. “Eat, my child.” Abraham listens. He tears off bite after bite, only pausing when he has to breathe, or to periodically give thanks to The Gardener for this opportunity.
Far too soon, it’s gone. Consumed.
Abraham stands up proudly, grinning from ear to ear. His normally white teeth have chunks of meat between them, blood dripping off of his chin onto the white ceremonial robe.
He holds out his arms proudly, uproarious applause and cheering ringing through my ears. I’m sure it’s even louder for him, standing up on the podium. I can’t wait for my turn. Only three were selected this year, and I happen to be one of them. After the consumption, we will finally be part of The Planters – only one step below The Gatherer, and that much closer to The Gardener.
“Number two, step forward.”
Cassie Campbell squeals with excitement, practically skipping over to the podium.
Abraham slips off the robe, handing it to her with a smile. Cassie grabs it, slipping it over her head with even more ardor than Abraham expressed.
“May I consume, Gatherer?” She asks, still mid-step toward the plate.
“You may.”
Her consuming seems to take much longer than Abraham’s. My heart is pounding faster, and everything else seems slower as the excitement begins to take control of my body.
She finally straightens up, triumphant as the applause breaks out once more. The white robe is almost completely stained now, so overly saturated that the blood is dripping off the sleeves.
“Number three, step forward.”
A grin appears on my face almost of its own accord, my limbs shaking with excitement.
I step up to Cassie, who slides off the robe and hands it to me with a grin.
I slip it on, the caked-on liquid making the robe stiff. I step up to the plate, placing my hands on either side of it. In front of me lies my meal. My sign of commitment. The sign that I’m finally a Planter.
“May I consume, Gatherer?” I chirp quietly, glancing up at his hooded face.
He smiles down upon me, nodding his head. “You may.”
I lean forward toward the hunk of meat, tearing into what I assume is the stomach first. The flesh is tough, pork-like. I don’t mind. While I begin consuming, The Gatherer begins his customary speech.
“We are grown from the Earth, and to the Earth we shall return.”
He pauses for a moment, allowing everyone to ponder the quote we hear yearly.
I barely even process the words, now face-deep in what I think is an arm. But I’m careful to avoid what looks like the fingers, leaving them untouched for the rest of the people. One finger or toe is consumed annually, and they’re saved for all of eternity. It’s a generous deal, and frankly, one that not all of these people are worthy of.
But me. I get to enjoy a feast, one that was prepared for me.
“The ones who don’t recommit are a blessing. They were grown for us, hand-picked by The Gardener. A gift from our God. One meant to be utilised. The Gardener’s gifts feed us, sustain us. Provide us with the endless contentment that we all crave so desperately.”
I begin on the last limb, ignoring the liquid dripping off my face, down my neck, under my shirt. It’s warm, comforting. Yet another gift provided by The Gardener.
“My children, consuming is a sign that we appreciate the generosity of The Gardener. Appreciate the lengths to which he goes for us on the daily. The ability to recommit is a gift, one that I am glad you have all chosen to take.”
I straighten up once I’m done, giving a curt nod of thanks to The Gardener. I slip the robe off my shoulders, folding it before placing it beneath the table. The applause and whistles break out around me, before settling back down to hear the Gardener. I step away from the plate, joining Cassie and Abraham where they’re standing.
“Now, my children. Consume.”
The people surge forward, their grubby hands grabbing the fingers and toes that The Gatherer provided for us without hesitation. The crunches sound loudly throughout, commitments happening right before my eyes.
The Gatherer never fails to provide for us, ever. His generosity is always valued.
“Commitment”
By Vivian Pulham
High school history. It was an easy class, and it was one of those rare classes that people actually enjoyed going to. I just managed to survive my second period, which included a pop quiz and a spilled coffee.
The pop quiz wasn’t even that bad, but the coffee was a tragedy. It’s what I live on nowadays. I was examining the new brown spot on my white hoodie when I walked into the classroom. People were talking, laughing, or complaining about tests — a typical history class. I wandered over to my seat by the window, where a guy that I barely knew placed a piece of paper on my desk and quickly walked away.
That was weird, I thought. Usually, people just leave their trash on the floor or, rarely, in the trash can. Never purposefully on my desk. He didn’t even make eye contact — just paper, desk, and then a speed walk. I glanced around the classroom, watching as he hurriedly went to the back of the room to take a seat. I knew his name, Liam or something, but we’ve maybe spoken twice. Ever.
I grabbed the paper and held it tight in my hands. I unfolded the paper and stared at the words, not really wanting to read them. At the top of the paper, it read my name, “For Olivia” (definitely not weird). Which is exactly what someone writes when something is weird.
Then my eyes came upon the main text of the note. “Question: Will you go out with me sometime?” Underneath were two small check boxes. 1. Yes 2. Also yes. At the bottom of the note in tiny letters, “If no, please recycle responsibly.”
I stared at the note for a couple of seconds, slowly zoning out.
“Everything ok?” Sofia slid into the seat next to mine, dropping her bag with a thud. She leaned over my shoulder because she liked to know everyone’s business.
“What’s that?” she said.
“Nothing,” I said as I folded the paper back up. Sofia snatched it out of my hands before I could even blink. How does she do that?
“Sofia,” I hissed. Her eyes scanned the page in about two seconds. Her mouth curled into the biggest grin.
“Ohh my gosh.. You got a love letter! It’s like you’re in a movie!”
“It’s not a movie…” I muttered, my cheeks getting slightly flushed because of this newfound attention.
“Well, what are you going to say?” She asked with enthusiasm.
What was I going to say?
The class went on with Ms. Thompson lecturing us on the American Revolution, but I wasn’t listening. My brain was stuck on a folded piece of paper and a boy in the back row pretending not to look at me. I couldn’t say yes, but I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.
By the end of class, I still hadn’t checked any box. When the bell rang, everyone filed out of the classroom. I was trying to shove the note into my notebook when someone walked over to me.
“Hey,” Liam said, “Did you read it?”
“I did,” I said.
He looked at me like the entire world depended on my answer.
“I’m not really looking to go out with anyone right now,” I said slowly, my voice softer than I would’ve liked.
“Oh!” His face fell for a moment, then he forced a smile. “That’s alright. I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“I don’t think so,” I said, getting annoyed with every second.
“Right. Well, make sure you recycle it,” he said as he walked out the door.
As he left, Sofia ran to my side, watching him go. “He’s not giving up, is he?”
I glanced at the note that was still in my hand.
“Apparently not,” I said.
And somehow I knew this wasn’t the last time I’d find a piece of paper on my desk with impossible answers.
A week later, I had received a note on my desk every school day. Each with the same question and answers. At first, I tried to smile and politely shake my head, but by the end of the week, I would crumple the note and dramatically throw it away.
By Monday, even Sofia was getting annoyed on my behalf. When I walked into history, there it was again. Same note. Same question and answers. Same walk to the back of the classroom.
I didn’t even begin to sit down before I grabbed the note and threw it on the ground. A few people who sat close to me glanced over. Liam froze as he was walking to his seat. For a brief moment, our eyes met. He gave me a small, hopeful smile.
Sofia appeared at my side, eyeing the note like a dangerous animal.
“Another one?” she hissed into my ear.
“Every day,” I muttered.
“Maybe today he’ll add a third box. Yes, but in a different font,” she joked.
I bent down and scooped up the note on the ground. I noticed something a little different about today’s note, though.
At the bottom, it read, “If you’re tired of these, just tell me straight, and I’ll stop. I just think you’re really cool.”
Something in my chest tugged. No one had called me cool before. Not in a serious way, at least. I was only the kind of person who freaked out about coffee spills.
I glanced back at him.
Liam was pretending to take notes, but was obviously nervous about something.
At the end of class, when the bell rang, I stayed in my seat while everyone bolted towards the door. I could feel Sofia’s eyes watching me.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said
I waited, guessing that he would come over. Sure enough, his shadow fell across my desk.
“Hey,” Liam said quietly. “Did you um…read it?”
I met his eyes. I looked him over and saw how nervous he looked.
“I did,” I said while grabbing the piece of paper and checking the first and second box.
“What?” His voice cracked at the surprise that I might actually change my mind.
“I need you to know that I’m not looking for anyone, but I’m willing to try going for some coffee.”
For a second, he just stared at me like he didn’t understand the language I just spoke.
“Coffee,” he repeated. “With me?”
I rolled my eyes, but I could feel a smile appearing on my face. “No, with George Washington,” I said, “Yes, with you.”
He laughed, the nervousness vanishing from his voice.
“Okay then. Coffee after school on Friday?”
“Text me the details,” I said, handing him the same note with my phone number newly added. As he walked back to his seat, still grinning, I felt a new fluttery feeling I didn’t think I had. Maybe I wasn’t looking for anyone, but someone had found me anyway.