First place winners, 2026 Arts Unlimited District 214/Daily Herald Community Arts and Writing Contest

Visual Art: “The Bathers” by Joseph Burlini

Poetry: “A Writing Teacher Tries to Write a Poem” by Christine Headley

Judge’s comment: This poem shows the trepidation of someone putting forth their work for others to see in a beautiful light. The fact that it was initiated, at least in the poem, by a student, makes this all the more real and powerful. Readers are left pondering if that’s the only reason to do it — because of the student’s encouragement and the very real feelings coming through with “who would possibly want to read what I write?”

Helping my senior with his essay’s draft, he smiles — pleased

at what we craft together. He says to me,

“You should write something. You should be a writer.”

Caught spotlighted in the shift of focus, suddenly shy,

I dodge. I tell him my truth:

“I’m a 54-year-old, high school English teacher.

Who would possibly want to read what I write?”

Still, the suggestion sticks like lint, a fuzzy idea

on the edge of the fabric of my days.

I’m 54. What would I write?

I start with that number:

54.

I consider the symmetry of other numbers. I have taught

30 years at this high school. When I retire in

2029, it will be exactly

40 years since I graduated from this same school, class of

1989.

I have lived in

1 home for

21 years with

1 husband + 2 kids + … 1 that almost was —

4 dogs + 7 tiny guinea pigs.

I count on

2 best friends … 1 who might cease to be —

23 colleagues.

I can quantify.

But what of quality?

I have lived an examined life. Scrutiny

has yielded a cultivation of what I deem best:

awareness of fragility

desire to thrive

knowledge: we humans don’t get to stay in this beautiful world.

I teach my students of Oliver’s “one wild and precious life” and

Frost’s “road less traveled” and

encourage them: embrace that wisdom.

But I know this: I am hiding behind other poet’s words. Why don’t I write?

Why I don’t write:

What if the sum total of my many numbers has left me,

Lear-like, with nothing to say?

I prefer the safe math of my profession:

54 divided by

3 yields

18: the age of my student, who has been kind

to suggest I might have something to say. My student

in whom I place my work and my hope. My student

who has faith, who believes in a promised future,

who has most of life’s

numbers yet

to add.

Prose: “9-1-1” by Dennis F. Depcik

Judge’s comment: Written in the present tense, there is an immediacy and an intimacy to this story. And so many questions. Will any be answered? That question is why we want to read 9-1-1. Again and again.

I bolt from the couch to the foyer, my heart pounding against my chest.

Maggie has fallen down the stairs and is lying on the floor, her body and face flat against the tile, her arms limp at her side and her legs bent and splayed on the bottom step.

“Oh God! Maggie!!”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t move. She just lies there on the hard floor.

I bend low. Her eyes are open a slit. She seems to be looking at me and muttering something as I fall to my knees. It sounds like a moan, a soft, intermittent moan. Or, is she trying to tell me something?

I lean closer. “What is it? Oh God, please tell me you’re okay.”

Maggie lies there, looking at me through the glistening sliver of her eyes, moaning or trying to speak. I repeatedly ask her if she’s alright, hoping she will shake her head, even slightly — give me some sign — move an arm, a finger — something to show that she’s not hurt badly.

I kneel there, gently brushing her face with my fingers. Is she unconscious or did she just have the wind knocked out of her? Should I let her lie here a few minutes to catch her breath? Should I try to get her to the couch? No! I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to move her. But I don’t want her lying face down on this cold floor. I’ll give her a little more time to catch her breath.

I notice blood trickling from her nose. “Honey, you’re bleeding,” I calmly say. I hurry to the kitchen, dampen a wash cloth with warm water and return. I pat the blood from her face then place the wash cloth beneath her nose. What’s wrong with me? Why am I focusing on a little blood? Maybe this nosebleed is the worst of her fall. This I can do. I can take care of her this way. I can wipe the blood from her face until she catches her breath.

It’s been several minutes and Maggie hasn’t moved or spoken. She just lies there, softly moaning — not answering my questions or acknowledging my pleas. She should have caught her breath by now.

“Maggie, I’m gonna call 9-1-1.”

Why am I telling her this? I’m not seeking permission. But I know how much she hates hospitals and doctors and would do anything to avoid either. Maybe she’ll whisper “No … I’ll be okay. Just give me some time.” She is going to be okay. I know it. She’s going to be just fine. “Say something, move something — please.”

“That’s it! I’m calling 9-1-1!” My last hope that Maggie will respond and stop me. She doesn’t.

I hurry to the kitchen, get the phone, return to Maggie’s side, and dial.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“I … I’m not sure, but I … uh … I think my wife needs an ambulance.”

The voice asks a litany of questions: How did your wife fall? Is she breathing? Is she conscious? How long has it been? — and others in the protocol. I answer each calmly and completely. Then I begin to worry. What if she thinks it’s not an emergency. “Look,” I add, “I think she’s hurt bad. Please hurry.”

“Emergency assistance is on its way, sir. Please remain on the phone until the paramedics arrive.”

“Wait! Tell them they’ll have to come through the garage. I can’t open the front door because my wife is lying there.” Within a few minutes I hear sirens and see blue lights flashing on my dining room walls. “They’re here.” I tell the voice. “Thanks for your help.”

I rush from Maggie’s side to open the garage door. Several men in blue are already hurrying up our driveway and quickly follow me to the foyer. Two kneel next to Maggie, beginning their ritual. A third is kneeling on the living room floor rummaging through a bag of assorted medical equipment. The two next to Maggie move quickly: opening her eyelids, cuffing her arm to check her blood pressure, and taking her pulse. Their speed comforts and frightens me — they obviously know what they’re doing, but now I’m more concerned that her fall may be more serious.

More men in blue enter our home and crowd into the foyer. There’s about six now and I’m getting lost among them. I don’t know where to stand to be out of their way, but close to Maggie. One of the men whispers something to those hovering near. I can’t hear what he says, but two of them push past me, then out the garage. Soon they return with additional equipment and hasten to Maggie’s side. This can’t be good.

A police officer approaches: What happened? How did she fall? Where were you when she fell? How quickly did you get to her? How long before you called 9-1-1? My stomach is churning and my knees slightly buckle as I lean against the wall to steady myself. I glance toward Maggie. Five or six men are standing and kneeling around her and I can barely see her. The questions continue and I try to answer as best I can, but my mind isn’t with the officer. My eyes dart around him. Why does it take so many men to work on her? How bad is this? Why is she still lying on that hard floor, not moving?

A man with a white shirt, places his hand on my shoulder, “Sir, can we go to another room so I can get some information.” I walk with Whiteshirt to our family room. He begins asking the same questions I just answered. Why is he asking me the same questions? Why is he taking me away from Maggie? Why aren’t they rushing her to the ambulance? Maybe that’s a good sign. I answer more questions from Whiteshirt, but my mind is with Maggie and I don’t know if I’m giving the same answers I did earlier. I don’t care.

When Whiteshirt finishes, he walks to the foyer as I lag behind, not wanting to get in the way. He bends over and speaks to one of the men in blue who has been working on Maggie since they arrived. I try to read the face of the man in blue for any sign, but it remains blank.

Why aren’t they telling me that she’s okay? Can’t they just let me go to her side? If she is conscious, she must be so frightened. I watch all these men standing over her, men she doesn’t know — prodding her, taking her pulse, turning her on her side, placing a brace on her neck, sliding a white plastic board under her, covering her mouth with an oxygen mask. I just want to touch her hand and tell her I’m still here — that’s all.

I don’t even know if she’s alive. Why don’t they at least tell me that?

The men in blue are busy wrapping Maggie in blankets and placing her on a gurney when Whiteshirt comes to me. “She’s stable now, sir. We’re going to have to transport her to the hospital.”

“Hospital? Wait! I want her to go to Lutheran General.”

“I’m sorry sir, we can’t do that. We have to transport her to the nearest trauma center.”

“ … the nearest trauma center?” The room starts spinning and I’m having difficulty breathing. If they have to take her to the nearest trauma center, this has to be far more serious than I feared.

The paramedics are wheeling Maggie to the waiting ambulance. Thank God it’s almost midnight and our neighbors are probably asleep. If not, they’re watching from behind drawn curtains. I don’t want to see any of them now. I don’t want them gathering, asking questions. Maggie would be embarrassed that they were milling around, gawking at her.

After lifting Maggie into the ambulance, three paramedics enter and close the door. The light is on, revealing silhouettes moving in hurried motions. The police have left and the firemen seem to be doing the same. I don’t know what’s going on. What are they doing to her? I want to tear open the doors to see what’s happening.

Whiteshirt notices me anxiously pacing. “Sir, they’re still stabilizing your wife. They’ll let you know what’s happening before they leave.” And then Whiteshirt is gone.

Now it’s just me standing alone at the edge of my driveway watching silhouettes bustling behind the lighted windows of the ambulance. What are they doing? Why aren’t they driving off? What’s taking them so long?

About ten minutes later, the blue lights start flashing as the ambulance begins moving and makes its turn around our cul-de-sac. When it nears my house, I inch closer to the curb, raising my right arm to signal my presence — anxious for my update.

The ambulance drives past and turns the corner. Flashing blue lights fade in my neighbors’ windows.

I stand alone, arms numb at my side.

Still no answers.