Fame
By: Kristen Rambo
Harbor Springs High School – 9th Grade
3rd Place - Prose
I needn’t say it again. The word reverberates still in your mind. You read the title,
did you not? Even now, the word echoes in the deepest recesses of your conscious.
Do you long for the caress of its brutal insecurity? Do you envy those who thrive in
its greedy glitter? Or do you simply see the word as it is in its pure simplicity? For
fame is nothing but a word, no?
Ah, but there it is. The question. For fame is not just a word, is it? I think of this as I
kiss her. Perhaps, in another time—another life—I could love this woman. But now
she is a pawn in my game. What we have is not love. It is a cold enjoyment in the
flesh of the other. Not quite lust, not quite hate. Who am I? I am the way of life you dream of in your darkest hours. I am the word
many of you claim but few possess. I, dear reader, am Fame. The woman I hold is
Poverty. Perhaps not in money, perhaps not in livelihood, but even still, as our lips
part I see the need, the longing, in her eyes. Perhaps I was wrong before. Perhaps it
is only I that feels a cold enjoyment for her. As she stares at me—always staring,
always watching—I see the spark of lust in her eyes. Not quite love, not quite hate.
Fame is just a word, yes? No, even as I speak, you are thinking of my glory. My
history. I am as real as poverty, and can be seen as such. For what is poverty without
fame? If all were poor, none would be famous, and I would not be speaking to you
now. But if everyone were famous, would no one be poor? Yet if all were famous,
would anyone have fame? These people you hold above yourselves—these beings
you follow and idolize—they give you the standard of fame’s bounty, but in turn give
you the starkness of my mistress, Poverty. For if all were mad, what need would
asylums have? If all were heroes, would anyone be? If all were happy, could you ever
truly understand your luck? If all were rich, who would set the standard of struggle?
Yin has always outshone yang, but without yang, yin would not be as bright. And
here it is. The point.
Not to you, or your mother, or your neighbor, or even to me. Not to anyone except
Society. The point, dear reader, is the concept of scientific energy. If a sad man dies,
an ignorant, happy friend follows. Every reaction has an equal and opposite
reaction. All connected by this famous principal and bound to its indifferent leash.
There it is again. Did you think you’d escape it? I control you. I am bred into you as
human beings. You yearn for attention, to be watched by others, but you loathe
judgment. It’s a cruel twist of quirks that gives the Fates their amusement. Society,
my dear mother Society, loves me so. I am her precious child. But she looks upon
Poverty with a cold eye, cursing her for her worthlessness even as she coos sweet
words of sympathy. Poverty inches towards her, begging, but Society turns away in
disgust. So she comes to me, and I pull her close, giving her a release. I know not
who this woman is. I do not see beyond her yearning. Yes, there is the new money,
the money earned through blood and tears. But by the time it reaches my hold, it is
already as corrupted as old money by my aura of glamour. No one can escape me.
Not even you.
Now tell me, dear reader, is fame really just a word?