USC Dornsife Magazine 2022 Creative Writing Contest: Runners-Up
SECOND PLACE
Record Player
By Halle Schaffer (BA, political science, ’24)
My roommate bought a record player for our new living room. Today, it casts a shadow on our mustard walls, spin, spinning, spins in the dawn’s yawning light. Joy Division crackles on its rotation, sizzling like the great disks of a fried egg. It’s a sound we share — the beginning foundations of our home — gathered on the couch or in the nook, a witness to the symphony of our Saturday morning.
My Dad’s always been sound-sensitive. In my childhood home, each noise echoed like an unwelcome bell. We plugged into our rooms, into our headphones, so as not to disturb the others with the noises of our lives. We were ruled by Dad’s Iron ears. Any murmur and he’d pounce on us with a quick retort, “Could you, uh, keep that to yourself?”
Now, in this bright yellow apartment, I think, “How did I stumble upon this place?” She’s charms! — this music maker, the record player an ancient relic passed into the new.
Occasionally, someone pads into the main room with slippers or socks or bare feet, and tells a joke, or shares stories, or smiles. Giggles bubble up between us six, before the crackling static of the spinning Saturn record player consumes us again. It’s always on, a background noise, the soundtrack for this new year of our lives.
Of course, these echoes can be all-consuming, a part of my nature I haven’t faced. I’d become innately fearful of the sound of life, I think. At first, I couldn’t understand how something so disruptive could be a source of joy.
That first week, I called my mom constantly, trusting her with my frustration.
Through Facetime, I saw AirPods dangling from her ears. “Don’t sweat the small stuff,” she said.
The small stuff. I toss this thought around. It’s all small. My roommate chomping, loudly, on her toast. The simultaneous clacking of five Mac computers. The sizzle, sizzling of grilled cheeses, the excess flow, flowing of water for cleaning the dishes. It’s a new crackling that I’m not used to, a grandeur expression of what life sounds like. Not tip-toeing around a house, so afraid of the music reminding us we’re alive.
But back to our Saturday morning. Joy Division warps into Panic! At The Disco. Pancakes hiss on the pan. Someone laughs, mouth sticky with syrup. It’s a lexicon, some new preposterous world filled with a momentous melody. I laugh along, learning now to be unafraid of the sounds I’m bound to make.
Last week, my dad shipped earplugs to my apartment. The note I received with it: “Something you could use while you’re sleeping.” They’ve been sitting at the bottom of my desk drawer, untouched. I think he would be disappointed. Unfortunately, he’s not here to revel in our music. It’s this noise, I’ve realized, these small moments, that sing to us the adventure of being alive.
Such is the joy of living through the voices of friends. How she charms! — the beauty of this music maker.
JOINT THIRD PLACE
a reunion with nostalgia
By Janessa Ulug (BA, political science, ’26)
it is then, in this bustling crowd of empty faces and jumbled conversation, that I brush shoulders with nostalgia. she is sunny and speckled and blue-tinted, and she smells like honey. tangerine juice drips from her hands, and i’m not sure who is the source of this easy breeze. is it the freckled woman with molasses-colored hair, or perhaps the smiling toddler clutching her father’s pinky? is it the tattered, forgotten sunhat riding a seat of the subway? is it my own worn hands, wrinkled and spotted from years of use? the gentle waves of nostalgia grip my shoulders and wash over me, untying my hair and letting it fall loose. as the wind of the city rustles my messy waves and nips at my ears, i thank nostalgia for our brief, bittersweet reunion, and fall into step with the crowd once again.
JOINT THIRD PLACE
DREAM FREE
By Shandela Contreras (BA, creative writing, ’25)
Crawled onto land that had not cried a river of tears to welcome me
Where the ancestors sang me a lullaby from cotton clouds
I was birthed from dreams that dared my first word to be mama
and nightmares that she would be lost to stars that could not return her home to rug scraped knees
Of a crawling child that picked every word she could fit in her mouth, every vowel morphed into twigs of her bones
I basked in the field of hope and the rays of its burn
when there was not much left of it in the crib of darkness, I napped facing north