The judges have made their decisions. They carefully considered the four criteria listed in the rules as they made their final decisions. Those four criteria are: originality (25 percent), creativity (25 percent), use of language (25 percent), and appropriateness to contest theme (25 percent). The final winners and their stories are listed below. Enjoy!
****************************************************************************************************
First prize is a $25 AMAZON electronic gift card, a free white tote bag from the Center for Writing Excellence proclaiming the winning status, publication with bio and photo on our blog with links from the I4IE Center for Writing Excellence Website for a minimum of one year. PLUS: publication in the annual Fiction in Five Anthology and a FREE e-copy of the Anthology at the end of the contest year! (First annual Fiction in Five Anthology due out August, 2011)
First Place Winner: Alter Call by Bethany Nuckolls, who lives in Concord, NC where she is working on completing her first book. She has degrees in Creative Writing and English from the University of North Carolina at Wilmington, and is currently studying at Queen’s University in Charlotte. Bethany has been diagnosed with chronic wanderlust, a serious ailment that has caused her to spend the past three years living in Europe and Asia.
Alter Call
Brother Bartholomeus bent over the freshly inked words, as tiny and close-knit as stitches. His black beard scratched at the edge of his paper, and his thick-rimmed glasses slipped down his nose, but he hardly noticed these minor distractions.
“Verbum caro factum est…” the monk muttered, dipping his quill. “And the Word became flesh.” Another verse. Another page, destined for the unbrowsed scriptorium. And soon the call to Vespers.
BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP! Roosting pigeons lunged from the stone sill of the open window, followed by the monk’s apoplectic face. The sunlight blazing off of the hoods and windshields below nearly blinded him. The car alarm rent the once peaceful Bavarian countryside.
Opposite the monastery, a guest at the Morriott Hotel screamed an expletive at his neighbor’s apartment, which was pulsing with the bass amplitude of a dozen home entertainment speakers. Next door to the towering complex, a family exited the gift shop Monastic Moments and peered curiously up at the old, stone turrets. The mother wriggled free of her screaming toddler’s grip and fished a camera out of her purse. But before she could take a photograph, Bartholomeus had already ducked his head back inside and slammed the window shut.
Even in the dusk of his cell, Bartholomeus could not continue his Latin translations while the noise of worldly sins broke down his solitude. He pried up the third floorboard from his bed, and grabbed a Milka chocolate bar. Technically, members of the order were not permitted such frivolous foods that delighted only the tongue, not the stomach. But Bartholomeus was not sure he would survive these days without them. His cloister had become the heart of a metropolis, after the Abbot had sold the surrounding land. Pollution and run-off from the cities had made the land unusable for farming, and the order needed money. After all, Friedeberg Abbey was one of the very last extant monasteries in Europe…and now, Germany’s number one tourist attraction.
“Real, live monks at work!” the tour guides bellowed from their livespeakers. “Right here in this ancient fortress. If you’re lucky, you might catch a glimpse our revered brothers. What happens behind these walls of millennia-aged stone? Who knows! After all, what goes on in the abbey, stays in the abbey.”
The brotherhood was indeed discouraged from leaving the abbey, and nothing could have repulsed Bartholomeus more than to step outside into that hell of blacktopped noise, but today he needed a picnic. He knew of one green spot left in the world, one holy acre on a hill not yet given over to Commercial Horse of the Apocalypse. Bartholomeus carefully wiped the chocolate smears from his fingers and beard with a linen napkin, then packed his hand-sewn satchel with a humble lunch: wheat crackers and a blessed water bottle.
The walk was hot and tiresome, but in the glare of the afternoon, the tourists had taken to the shopping malls and shaded beer gardens. Bartholomeus settled onto his hilltop with a sigh of relief, and let the indulgence of the sun lull him into a peaceful trance.
“Mommy! Mommy! There’s a man in a dress!”
Brother Bartholomeus started awake. The bells for Vespers were chiming. He was late.
“Oh, stop right there, Sweetie! Turn to the camera. Smile!”
With a speed that defied the length of his beard, Bartholomeus leaped to his feet and out of the frame of the shot. The family he had seen at the gift store was standing on his hilltop, gawking at him.
“Guten Tag,” the man said in a flat, American accent. “Mein. Name. ist. Frank.”
“I speak English,” Bartholomeus muttered.
“Oh!” the woman cried. “Do you translate for the tourists?”
“No,” the monk sneered. “I am not an interpreter. I translate the Holy Scriptures from Latin into English.”
“Holy Scriptures?” the man asked.
“Yes, the Bible.”
“Fantastic!” The man fumbled with a device in his pocket. “You mean The Really Long Book. I’ve got that loaded on my new piPhone.”
It was the monk’s turn to stare.
“This is the latest from Pineapple,” the man said. A ray of light widened in the air above the device to form a white page. “What’s your favorite verse?”
Bartholomeus noted that the man was enjoying his wondering gaze, so he closed his eyes, meditatively, and said, “John 1:1.”
The man read from the magical page. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was called God, and the Word was eventually made irrelevant and determined to have never existed in the first place.”
Bartholomeus’ eyes snapped open. “That’s not–”
The bells were still ringing. “I have to go,” Bartholomeus said, brusquely.
“Hey,” said the man. “Come by for dinner if you like. Room 516 at the Morriott.”
The monk grabbed up his satchel and hurried towards his haven home.
But that haven had become the Judgment Seat. Father Helmfried held the chocolate-stained napkin before Bartholomeus’ pleading eyes.
“This is unacceptable,” the Abbot rumbled. “First cursing. Then tardiness. Now this. I am afraid, Brother Bartholomeus, the cloistered life may not suit you.”
Like the blasts of a jackhammer, the Abbot’s words pounded into Bartholomeus’ soul. The monk looked about his cell one last time, recalling only the divine silences.
Gathering up his treasured Latin texts, Bartholomeus left the abbey’s walls, crossed the vehicular wilderness, and entered the cavernous lobby of the Morriott. “Visitor for room 516,” he told the receptionist, dismally. She gave his habit a quizzical look.
“Reenactor,” he sighed.
In time, the Friedeberg Abbey closed down and even the old Abbott left, though actors came to take the monks’ places in the pews of the chapel. Bartholomeus continued his translation work in relative seclusion in a rented storage unit, occasionally making a sportsmanlike appearance on cosmic nights at Benedictine Bowling. But while his life was humble, his name became known far and wide for his epic-length book titled The Bible, distributed world-wide, and adapted for the piPhone.
****************************************************************************************************
Second prize is a free tote bag from the Center for Writing Excellence proclaiming the winning status and publication with bio and photo on our blog with links from the I4IE Center for Writing Excellence Website for a minimum of one year. PLUS: publication in the annual Fiction in Five Anthology and a FREE e-copy of the Anthology at the end of the contest year! (First annual Fiction in Five Anthology due out August, 2011)
Second place winner: Picture This by Carol Clark. Carol writes short fiction and poetry in the Philadelphia suburbs. She is also an editor with EveryDayFiction, where she enjoys poring over flash pieces and discovering fresh voices. Carol loves to immerse herself in all things literary, and participates in several local and online reading and writing groups. She also enjoys movies, cooking, and spending time with family and friends.
Picture This
Looking back, I can’t imagine what made me take that camera from Carlsons’ store. Yeah, I was young and stupid, just like the rest of my friends who spent their time smoking pot, drinking too much, and stealing stuff. I guess in my adolescent mind, taking this mini camera was like snatching a chocolate bar. At any rate, I suppose I figured since the Carlsons were friends of the family, I’d pay them back eventually for the camera. It was just one small act in the scheme of things.
* * * * *
“Jason Walters, stop right there or I’m calling the police.”
Shit, I was nailed. I slowly turned to face her. Mrs. Carlson wasn’t wearing that friendly, shopkeeper smile anymore. Instead, she had her hand on the phone, fingers threatening to dial.
I wasn’t insane. And I wasn’t a bad kid. So I walked over to her, and dumped the camera from the inside of my jacket onto the counter. Looking up, I saw a red-faced, shaking woman who was not about to let up.
“Anyone else Jason, and I could understand it. But you?” Mrs. C. wiped the small camera’s lens with a napkin, then placed the item on a shelf behind her. She was still glaring at me, but her face started to return to its normal color. Most of the shaking had stopped too.
“Tell you what I’m going to do, Jason Walters. I like you, you’re a good kid, come from a good family. And I’m sure this was just one bad decision today, am I right?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Absolutely.”
“Good.” Mrs. C. managed a smile, and I knew I was in the clear. I turned to leave the store.
“There is one thing though.”
I stopped in my tracks. Instead of an upset tone, I heard the confident voice of a woman who wanted something. I turned to face her again.
“Seeing as I’m willing to forget this incident, don’t you think you could do something for me?
So that was it. This normally cheerful and upright Mom-type had a dark side. It was just like being with my friends – she wanted to strike a deal.
“You know my Cynthia, right?”
I started getting nervous. Of course I knew Cynthia. Who didn’t? But what did this have to do with her? Pimply-faced and shaped like a pineapple, Cindy Carlson was every teenage boy’s nightmare. I was starting to wish Mrs. C. had called the police.
“Well as you know, the prom is coming up. And Cynthia, well…she has problems being, you know…social. So it would just be the kindest thing on your part to ask her out, y’know, be her date for the prom. “
I couldn’t move. My life as I knew it was over. Barely seventeen and just clinging to the edge of cool, my fate was sealed. I was going to the prom with Cindy Carlson.
I picked her up in my old blue Chevy promptly at eight, per her mother’s instructions. I took a huge swig of diet coke from my water bottle, and tried to prepare myself for the evening. Walking the stone path up to their house, I repeated to myself that this was only one night. As long as there were no photographs. It would all be over soon.
As I remember, neither of us talked much on the way to the school. I did comment that she looked pretty in her pale pink gown, and when I helped her out of the car, I noticed her face was almost pimple-free. Could be make-up, I thought, but then I saw these crystal blue eyes that made her almost attractive. I shook it off, and we walked into the auditorium.
Now, I was no dancer, no matter who my partner was. But the DJ was pretty cool, playing all the tunes I loved. So Cindy and I got up and danced a few, then I found a table in the corner for us. She didn’t look so bad, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
I searched for conversation.
“So you ready to leave Valley View?” I thought this was a decent question.
“Yeah, I am. Off to bigger and better things.” She looked at me and smiled. I got the impression that she hadn’t smiled in a long time.
It was nine-thirty when we sat down. When I looked at my watch again it was eleven. We’d been talking, just the two of us, about everything. School, classes, what we wanted to do with our lives. I was amazed when she told me she wanted to be an architect, same as me. We talked about downtown, the new buildings under construction, and how we’d love to see a high-rise go up on the corner of Second and Front Streets.
No one stared or pointed at us. No one laughed, no one mocked, and I didn’t feel repulsed.
We were still talking when I walked her up to her door at midnight. I didn’t know what to make of this night, of this whole situation. But without thinking, I put my arm around her waist and kissed her. Sweet lips, soft skin. We said goodnight, and on the ride home, I didn’t think pineapples or pimples or anything. Just that I had a good time.
* * * * *
Funny when you look back on things. This morning, like every other morning, Cindy and I try to get in our last sips of coffee before the morning commute. We don’t have much quiet around here anymore, what with the twins and their music and boyfriends. Like I said, funny when you look back on things. The girls both got our smarts and Cindy’s sparkling blue eyes. Oh yeah, and their faces are starting to break out a little. But no big deal, I think they’re perfect. The way I see it, I made out like a bandit. Or, so to speak.
****************************************************************************************************
Third prize is publication with bio and photo on our blog with links from the I4IE Center for Writing Excellence Website for a minimum of one year. PLUS: publication in the annual Fiction in Five Anthology and a FREE e-copy of the Anthology at the end of the contest year! (First annual Fiction in Five Anthology due out August, 2011)
Third place winner: Mr. Watson’s Satchel by Tamela Flasch. Tamela is the mother of two wonderful children. Since completing her BS in Elementary Education and Education of the Deaf in Minot North Dakota, she has taught at the college and elementary school levels and worked as the Executive Director for an early childhood intervention program. She currently teaches Pre-Kindergarten in Yorkton, Saskatchewan, Canada. In her spare time Tamela enjoys photography, writing, and most of all spending time with her family and friends. She looks forward to writing well into her 90’s as she has many stories to tell and is just beginning to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard as the case may be).
Mr. Watson’s Satchel
Upon leaving the garden, Mr. Watson scuttled to his room and closed the door. He knew he had to hurry. If he didn’t return soon the guards would begin looking for him, and if they found him heaven only knows what they would do. Last time Pa tried to escape, they took him to the gas chamber; Ma died of a broken heart not long after.
He’d lost seventeen pounds in the last thirty nine days. Taking only a small mouthful of whatever food was brought to him was the safest bet and the medication doled out was quickly tucked into his satchel. Mr. Watson was certain they were trying to poison him. He scratched another notch on the wall. He’d wanted to make it to day forty but his gut told him this was the day.
Seizing his satchel and ensuring no one was watching, Mr. Watson walked briskly to the tree line not looking back. Paranoid of every sound he knew he had to push on, trudging through the thick undergrowth and scratching branches.
He knew the direction he had to go and knew it would be a good couple of hours before he reached safety…if he reached safety.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Julie and Daniel were in the back yard clearing the jungle of vines and overgrowth from the garden when they heard their front door slam. Rushing into the house they saw her Grandfather panicking to lock the door. Sweating profusely and breathing heavily he quickly closed all the curtains and sat on the floor under the window.
“What are you doing in my house?” he demanded.
“Helping you clean the garden Grandpa. How did you get here?” Mr. Watson was too busy peeking out the curtain to respond.
“Let me get you a drink of water you must be thirsty from your long trek. Would you like a sandwich too grandpa?” she asked. Again no response so Julie moved into the kitchen and prepared his cheese spread sandwich. Ensuring Grandpa wasn’t looking, she added crushed lorazepam from the bottle on top of the refrigerator. Grandpa sat motionless under the window clutching his satchel.
“I’m glad you’re safe Grandpa. You look so skinny, have you been eating? How did you get away?” Julie wondered as she sat on the floor beside her Grandfather.
“Had to sneak off when they was working us in the fields. I went to relieve myself and didn’t turn back. They’s tryin’ ta poison me I tell ya. I been starvin’ ta death nearly forty days. Can’t eat the food and they try make me eat pills.” He opened his satchel to show Julie the collection he had in a balled up napkin. “The end was comin’ soon if I didn’t get out. Just like for Ma and Pa.” He took the last bite of his sandwich, looked down and shook his head “Yep, the end was comin’ soon.”
After an hour of being crouched by the window, Mr. Watson began to feel relaxed and started looking around the home he once lived in. A photograph of he and Emily eating pineapple in the sun porch was perched on the piano. “Grandma looks good doesn’t she Grandpa?” Julie wanted him to be as comfortable as possible in her home. “She’s a beauty” he replied, tears in his eyes.
A short time later Daniel came into the room with a goodie bag for Grandpa; clean shirt, a water bottle, a new satchel, and his favorite chocolate bar.
“Shall we go for a ride?” he asked.
“Where ya takin’ me young man?” Grandpa asked.
“Don’t worry Grandpa, I’ll come too. It’ll be fine. Trust me.” Julie knew it was for the best; it was what his children wanted.
As they drove, Mr. Watson had a look of confusion on his face. He wondered quietly to himself where the woods had gone. He had spent what seemed like hours whacking through them to get home.
Julie spoke quietly on her cell as they drove. “Yes, his satchel. He’s fine. We’ll be there shortly.”
As they pulled up to the dementia wing at Sunnydale Care Home, three nurses stood outside the doors waiting. “Welcome back John. We missed you while you were away.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Where are you going Mr. Watson?” asked the nurse as he idly walked from the garden toward the side door. “To relieve myself – unless I can do it here in the flowers” he retorted. The new nurse simply shook her head and continued planting with the other residents. Mr. Watson knew he would have to be quick or they would capture him, and if they found him, heaven only knows what they’d do.
****************************************************************************************************
Honorable Mention prize is publication in the annual Fiction in Five Anthology and a FREE e-copy of the Anthology at the end of the contest year! (First annual Fiction in Five Anthology due out August, 2011)
Honorable Mention Winners:
Shoplifting 101 by Sandy Jennings-Hammond, of Des Moines, IA
You can read these and all the Honorable Mention winning stories in the Annual Fiction in Five Anthology, due out in August, 2011. Congratulations to all our wonderful writers!
Center for Writing Excellence 