Grand Prize Winner

Anders

16 years old

California

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December 25, 1914​

An icy gust slices into my otherworldly lair.

Gunshots and powder will fill the air.

Tanks will come rolling, the men must prepare to fight,

I squeal, so giddy, so full of delight,

I will emerge to collect souls as to the lifeless ground they fall,

I’ll feast on the sound of death’s silent caterwaul,

I’ll devour the men who aren’t lucky enough to live,

They’ll bleed and they’ll die and have nothing left to give.

I’ll lick my lips and I’ll feed on their screams,

I am terror and I am death, I am the stuff of dreams.

I slither quietly from my cavernous pit,

And see something frightening, I have to admit,

It’s terrifying, and the reason for which I cannot assume,

There are no souls for me to consume.

Through the foggy air, I see the fighting has stopped,

There’s no death or wailing in sight and my heart has dropped.

I fly at the nearest soldier, I’m curious.

I scream at him, “Man, this lack of destruction is making me furious!”

He glances right at me, and his countenance shifts,

He looks at the ground, then his strong chin lifts,

His jaw is set, his eyes are stone,

He whispers, “We are cold and wet, please leave us alone.”

I laugh and he flinches, such a small insignificant thing,

I can see that he’s tired; he’ll soon feel death’s sting.

The man stands up—I am shocked by his faithful soul,

I feel an unseen power pulling me back into my malicious hole.

The man begins to sob icy tears of relief,

This little cold man with infallible belief.

“I name thee Satan, now get thee away,

I see you are hungry, but this is Baby Jesus’ day.”

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