We're excited to announce the winners of the Unigo Fifth Month Scholarship!
“May is the fifth month of the year. Write a letter to the number five explaining why five is important. Be serious or be funny. Either way, here’s a high five to you for being original.”
The number five has just become these winners’ lucky number. Our Fifth Month Scholarship celebrates the number five by awarding a $1,500 scholarship to an applicant who can tell us what’s so great about this pentamerous digit. We’ll high-five to that! See our past winners and their scholarship responses below.
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I’m sorry it must end this way. It isn’t what I wanted. A scribbled note — such a trope from a bygone era I know you’d never approve of. Then again, maybe that’s why I’m leaving. We never did quite fit, did we? Don’t write and don’t try to find me. I’ve gone on the five o’clock train, so it’s too late. Just remember the time we had — that May in Cancun, that last Cinco de Mayo together, our fifth-anniversary party. Remember how your five digits gripped mine as we boarded the plane to leave just days before that category-five hurricane swept the coast? I thought you’d never let go. You loved me then, didn’t you?
I think my senses will remember you most — all five. When you begin to fade, I’ll smell your perfume on a passing stranger and remember. Chanel, wasn’t it? No. 5, of course. I know you’ll be better without me. I was absentee at best and I don’t want to lie anymore, so I’m coming clean in this letter. I’m not an accountant in the five boroughs. I work for the CIA and regularly with her majesty's secret police (MI-5). I’m trusting you to burn this letter now that you know the truth. You were never a fool, Cinq. I’m sorry I treated you this way. I have to leave. Send the quintuplets my love.
Five, being the first good prime, always assumed she was better than everyone else. She was the untouchable one (and not to mention the only one of her odd kind). She was boron’s atomic number for heavens sake, doesn’t that mean anything to anyone? Those morons, she would think.
With white collar felons, doped up baseball players, alleged communist, and rebel spies constantly pleading her, she was hard to get to. Yet, I loved her so. With Five, I was alive. Perhaps it was her Coco Chanel perfume that attracted to me first but all it took was a workweek and my maroon heart was in the shape of the pentagon. Next thing I know, I’m writing sonnets in iambic pentameter for her.
I wish I could say she loved me back. I wish I could say we were a perfect fifth, in consonant harmony. But she tore through me like a tropical cyclone, only destruction left in her wake.
Five changed my life. Before her, I had nothing to live four. Now I know what love is and I can move on to the sexy prime of my life. I still see her everywhere. The number of seconds I have to eat before the donut is ruining for good, the number of elements that compose my universe, the number of Jackson’s that occupied my cassette player. And I know I will always be able to count on her.
Rachel C. Lanexa, VAMajor: Creative Writing
A bumpy ride in a wooden wagon. Mouths vibrating—a childish war call. Padded elbows pushed up against splintering beams. Squeezing my eyes shut, I wished the length of the yard would last forever. How much longer, Dad?
Five more minutes.
Those days we spent in blanket forts. Hidden in a world of fleece and cushions. An empire built out of rickety chairs and ruled by sunburnt heroes. The tick of the clock felt rushed—grownups must use faulty batteries. They whispered to my mother that it was time to leave. Guess what kids?
You only get five more minutes.
I wish I could shrink back into the age of hiccups and buttercups and the magical number five. My world could come crashing down with the thought of five more minutes. Sheer agony, ripping apart my joyous existence.
Five always seemed like a threat. An end. But looking back, I see the beauty in those three hundred seconds.
Words that were able to be spoken. Storms we escaped in our havens of sheets and quilts. Tummy tickling bumps on wagons that made up my childhood.
One day I’ll break it to my children. I’ll dash their dreams and end their playdates with that warning. “Five more minutes.” Three hundred more seconds to enjoy this slice of life.
But what they might not notice—until five or fifteen or fifty years later—is that there’s no end to the immeasurable number of gifts wrapped within the ever elusive miracle of five.
Breanna S. Solana Beach, CAMajor: Biochemistry and Cell Biology
Five was my age when I met him; he was just the older boy next door.
Over time we became best friends: five years, then five years more.
Five, you are the number of minutes it took
to sign his life away.
You are the number of hours I spent
begging him to stay.
Now he represents our country, and that building with five sides.
You are the number of nights I had nightmares, afraid for him to fight.
You are the number of years on his contract,
times a thousand miles away.
You are the number of months without contact;
the minutes we got for that phone call, once it finally came.
Five care-packages, five letters, five times thirty sleepless nights.
Five friends lost during that deployment,
Rest in peace, Semper Fi.
Five, you were the number of days left,
when I finally started to count down.
Times 100 gives the number of faces
that were there when that plane touched the ground.
Five sisters, five brothers, five mothers, five fathers;
Five minutes, five seconds, that felt like five hours.
Five, you are the number of men who stepped off before he;
the number of crying families that stood before me.
You are the number of seconds it took,
before I, too, began to sob.
When I saw him step off that plane in one piece,
five is the number of times I thanked God.
Thank you, Five, for being a number I can count on.
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