GSS Writing Contest Winners!

Hey everyone! I'm Grant, an LA based writer/artist and long time friend of GSS. Welcome to the start of a new blog series for the website that will be published in addition to the Love Letter every week. Get Some Sleep is so important to me, and I'm excited to share the brand's past, present, and future evolution with all of you here. We'll be going through the daily minutia and interesting projects that happen every day in the operation of the brand.

Last month I had the idea to run a poetry/ short story contest and wow was it a success. As someone who has entered many literary contests, I thought it would be fun to judge one and also give everyone a chance to have their work read and shared. There was a surprising amount of fantastic poems submitted which shocked me as I read through each one. The depth and emotion explored was searing and extremely personable. I applaud everyone for their vulnerability and willingness to share incredibly personal aspects of their life with us. The prompt was, "How do all the pretty things make you feel?" The winning entires are as follows, with a bit of my commentary about what I specifically enjoyed about each: 

Poetry First place:

"Pretty Chemicals" By Elle SD.

GRASS IS GREEN AND SPIKY AND CONTAINS

BUGS AND SOMETIMES MAKES YOUR LEGS

ITCHY AND THE SKY IS BLUE BUT SOMETIMES

GRAY AND YELLOW AND RED AND PINK AND

PURPLE. NAVY TO BABY AND LIGHT TO DARK.

SOMETIMES A WINDOW IS OPEN AND

SOMETIMES YOU CAN SEE JUPITER.

SOMETIMES THERE IS A CHEMICAL IN THE

AIR THAT IS CALLED ENERGY BUT IT IS NOT

SOMETIMES - IT IS CONSTANT AND

INVISIBLE. IT IS A FAITH THAT WE DON’T

REALIZE WE ALL HAVE. EXPLAIN A MOOD

WITHOUT USING THE COLOR BLUE. EXPLAIN

HOW A TV SCREEN COMMUNICATES LAUGHTER

INTO AN ELDERLY PERSONS FACE. TELL ME

WHY A SEMICOLON INDI-CATES; CONTINUE.

TELL ME WHY THE DEVIL EXISTS AND GOD

PUT HIM HERE. HE IS IN MY LOVER’S LIPS

AND ON MINE IN THE FORM OF A POWDER.

EXPLAIN THE CONCERN IN SOMEBODY’S EYES.

EXPLAIN ME A CEILING WITH NO FLOOR -

VUL-NER-A-BIL-ITY. TELL ME WHY THE

UNDEVELOPED WILLPOWER IS CALLED WEAK

WHEN MAYBE IT WAS NEVER THERE. TELL ME

WHY MY WILLPOWER IS BIGGER THAN

EVERYTHING OUT THERE. A MILLIPEDE AND

TECHNO MUSIC IT ALL IS THE SAME. ONE

DAY I WILL BE OUT OF HERE, SLAIN, AND

THIS WILL ALL BE IN VAIN.

I adored the imagery in this poem- a fantastic use of colors and stylistic formatting. I loved the way you broke up your words and the meter and rhythm. I read a lot of poetry and this was easily one of my favorites of the year. Amazing work.

Poetry Runner Ups:

"Spring" By Caleb Gammons

I can smell the asphalt heating up in the sun, softening into summer.

I can feel the flora fawning over its fresh

Flowers,

Pollen peppering my nose, promising that

I can make it to summer.

I can see the people, pallid profiles prone

Below the pale blue picnic blanket that

Spring flung over the world to sit on until

Summer arrives.

They are out and about,

Recharging solar batteries drained by

Seasonal sadness, depression.

Light lightens loads of languish,

Laughable in the loud

Green of the grass and warmth of the wind.

Summer is returning.

I love the promise of change developed in this poem. It’s a beautiful look into the endearing nature of the circling cycles of the year. Spring is a poignant way to delve into nature and how all the pretty things make you feel :)

"Embrace" by Tom

I remembered how it felt, but not the winter’s

cold raindrops on my cracking skin.

I still remember the storms, or don’t I?

It matters not to mud, the empty sky or the newly fallen trees.

Pain eclipses time. It’s a fire escape from a broken age -

from breathless moments to darkened hallways of memory.

To those better knowing: chance to pass each room

without looking too close.

My home was sold.

There’s people there now, but no one I know.

Who was it that covered the garden and exhumed its worms

which once plodded through my weary mind?

Their peace is not my own.

The downtown’s shuttered windows cast some light on my dismay.

Where are they now, the faces I once knew?

What does it mean to go home and not be recognized?

When something changes, is it really gone for good?

At last, in the heat of that long day saturated in June’s golden hue

we came upon graffiti not yet faded:

A watchful eye that once belonged to a face, now washed away.

Its absent lips spoke to the boundary of an emptiness

I’ll never truly know.

My favorite part of this was the imagery at the end of the faded graffiti. I love the idea of returning to a place you used to call home and only finding phantom traces of your old life. This resonated with me a lot, but stylistically I feel like its a formidable poem as well. Great work!

Short Writing First Prize:

“How do all the pretty things make you feel” by A. D.

To you who asked,

The pretty things in life reconfirm that I do hold things precious.

On the days that feel especially bleak, and my skin is crawling as though it is fitted

around the wrong body, I remember all the trinkets that I’ve bought, the memories I’ve made, and the people I hold dear. To me, they are so pretty. To me, they are so terribly precious that I have to acknowledge that there must be some good in me, since they are still with me. After all, like does attract like.

There must be some part of myself that others hold precious. Like how I hold others

precious to me. Conventionally, I understand that there is something to be appreciated when I look in the mirror. But when I am left alone with my thoughts, I can’t help but think about how there is nothing else present. I feel as though I exist purely to sit still and look pretty, then my arms grow goosebumps and I’m scratching and my skin wants to peel off but it just won’t come off and I’m scared that there’s no part of myself that I find pretty other than the skin that hates me.

The clothes that fill my closet, the makeup that I put on my face; I understand that I’m the one wearing them but it feels more like I’m a mannequin. I serve to show that things look good, and that they are wearable and usable and I feel like that’s my entire purpose. Yet, my pretty and precious people, the ones who treat me as more than an accessory, they tell me that I am meant for far more than the confines of my own mind. To them, I am someone equally as pretty and precious and my skin calms. It lays flat against muscles, and tendons, and bones, and the scratching against my soul dies down.

My nails stop digging at my chest, red lines stark against tan skin, more tender and sore than the rest of my torso, not covered in goosebumps yet still marred by my own self. There’s no hole in my chest, only evidence of a silver spoon trying to break concrete. There are scratches and scars and and bruises, but there is no hole. I can’t physically remove from my chest but it feels too big to contain within my chest at times. I’m left wondering how others do it. How could they carry such a heavy thing so easily, so gracefully, so gently. I want to hold my heart in my hands, and give it to my precious, pretty people. Maybe I won’t have to carry such a heavy thing by myself, but I don’t know how to tell them in words and I feel that giving them this letter makes my heart an even heavier burden. I hope that this makes sense to you. I hope that your heart isn’t too big and heavy for you to carry. I hope that if it is, you’re better able to share that weight than I am. I may not know you, but you also have pretty, precious people that think you are just as pretty, precious.

I hope this letter reaches you safely,

A.D.

You did an outstanding job of developing this narrative through striking metaphors. My favorite was, “only evidence of a silver spoon trying to break concrete.” It’s hard to explore yourself so vividly in writing and this was a phenomenal example of confessional prose.

Thank you so much again to everyone who entered. We may run another writing contest next year if you are all interested! If you feel like sharing your thoughts about any of the writing please leave a comment! See you next week :)