June, 2011 Winners

After much debate and discussion the judges have awarded the following entries the First, Second, and Third Place prizes in the June, 2011 Fiction in Five Contest. Each of these stories, as well as the honorable mention winners, are published in the first annual Fiction in Five Anthology, which is available now. To order your copy, click the link in the right column.

So, without further ado,  the Center for Writing Excellence is very proud to  present the winners of the June, 2011 Fiction in Five contest.

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The First Place winner, Tim Noonan,won a $25 Amazon gift card and a white canvas tote bag proclaiming his status as a winning writer. Here is his story:

Jane

By Tim Noonan grew up and went to school in Boston, MA. He’s currently an elementary school teacher in Los Angeles. In his free time, Tim enjoys writing and producing short films and commercials. He’s recently begun exploring short stories and creative non-fiction and is thrilled and honored to have Jane win first place in the June Fiction in Five Contest. Tim studies and performs improv, sketch, and standup comedy at the Second City Training Center in Hollywood.  Check out his website for more info: http://www.noonanta.com.

The last thing you expect to find in a swimming pool is Neil Young. But there he was. Staring up at me bleary eyed from the bottom of the little inflatable pool I’d picked out with Jane just last month. It had been so hot and we had been looking for any way to cool down we could find. I fished him out, cringing as the cardboard flaked apart in my hand, his sprawling signature tearing in half, the vinyl falling out and slicing the water. There goes my only real “collector’s item” I thought with surprising equanimity, wondering what else Jane had in store for me. She was prone to tantrums and I had been gone nearly a week now. I could only imagine what she thought of my sudden trip, my abandoning her out of the blue. I continued up the walkway, wondering if Jane would be inside waiting for me, or if she had gone to her cousin’s again. There had been tears at the airport.

I slipped as my foot landed on a bottle of sunscreen, squeezed dry, its contents dried and painting the once yellow and pink chrysanthemum flowers a less flattering chalky white. I balled up Neil and tossed him beside the bottle, clearly I was going to have some cleaning up to do later, and right then all I wanted was to climb into my bed and sleep. Jetlagged they call it. Tired and cranky, I found myself hoping that I wouldn’t find Jane inside. I also hoped her path of destruction ended at the front door where my umbrella rested between the slats on the iron handrail. Had she put it through, opened it, and then pulled it back out? The skeleton bent, poking through the torn fabric indicated that she had, and then dropped it to move on to something else. What went through Jane’s head, I never knew. Oh well, it was just “stuff” – an album, flowers, my umbrella, all just things. My attachment to things seemed to have lessened since Jane. Jane had put things into perspective. I didn’t seem to care so much about material things anymore I mused as I put my key in and turned the knob. But still, I steeled myself as I stepped into the foyer.

Nothing on fire; that was good. I poked my head into the living room. No Jane. But, was that stuffing bleeding out of the gash in the leather couch? That would be fun to repair. And there was Neil’s former home on the entertainment center beside the sound system, seemingly still intact, his neighbors pulled out and scattered across the carpet. How had she honed in on my most precious one? It was a gift really. I dropped my suitcase and kicked off my shoes. Literally, the shoes flew from my feet, I didn’t think Jane would mind my addition to her handiwork. I got one to hit the armrest on the couch. Ten points.  The other landed on “Let it Bleed,” sorry Mick. Twenty points.  I walked softly down the hall to the kitchen.

Pages ran along the hardwood like stepping stones. Not my manuscript! I said it aloud to no one in particular. It couldn’t be. I had had enough foresight to lock that one in the desk drawer, in my locked home office. Jane didn’t know where the key for that was. Did she? Upon closer inspection, they were pages ripped from the wall calendar that had hung beside the phone. I made it from Groundhog Day to Thanksgiving without spotting any other damage. I landed on Christmas at the threshold to the kitchen. New Year’s was resting in a puddle of pink dish soap pooled up on the floor in front of the sink; the bottle on the counter, the soap level below the point of dripping out. So, making me slip and break my neck, that was Jane’s M.O.  I turned back to go up the stairs.

On the fourth step, my foot landed on a star. A charm from a bracelet Jane had given me as a “just because” gift. I winced as I dug it out from my sole. I scooped up the chain, the heart and remaining charms from the step above and put them in my pocket. Had she been upset that I wasn’t wearing it anymore? Maybe I could fix it and start wearing it again. I found myself trying harder with Jane. But maybe that’s what I needed. Two years ago – had it been that long already – I would be fuming by now. But today, despite the long flight and cab ride home, the hot July sun that had me staining the underarms of my shirt with sweat, and the general exhaustion that seemed to come with living with Jane, I wanted nothing more than to see her right at that moment, to hold her in my arms and kiss her on her beautiful forehead. I hoped she was home.

Upstairs, the hallway was empty; the bathroom unoccupied. The door to my office was shut, presumably still locked, but the door to my bedroom was open just a crack. I could hear the soft whir of the air conditioner inside. I cautiously entered.

“Shhhh,” Rebecca looked at me from under a Dora the Explorer fleece blanket, Jane cradled in her arms. “She just fell asleep.”

My wife brushed the fine blonde hair back from Jane’s eyes, as my daughter sucked her thumb, murmuring in her sleep. Rebecca could barely keep her eyes open herself.

“Tough week?” I asked, carefully climbing in beside Jane.

Rebecca nodded, let out a tired sigh.

“Why are you smiling like that?” she asked unable to keep a smile from breaking across her own face.

“I’m just glad to be home.”

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Second Place, The Disappearing Line, won its author, Kim Van Sickler, a tote bag and publication both on the Website and in the Anthology. Here is her story:

The Disappearing Line

By Kim Van Sickler of Willoughby Hills, Ohio. Kim is a former prosecutor, grant writer, and marketing director, who would much rather be creating fictional worlds at her computer with her reading companion by her side. She started writing short stories to tighten her prose. Her ultimate goal is see her mermaid and witch MG novels perfected and published. She’s a member of Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators and active in local and online critique groups. She’s also an active Girl Scout volunteer, gardener, biker/spinner, and mother of two, step-mother of three.)

Aunt Belinda warned me not to go to the palm reader at the fair last summer. But of course I wouldn’t listen. My mother’s oldest sister is THE BIGGEST KNOW-IT-ALL ever. She finds problems with everything. “Don’t encourage these charlatans, Bradley. They’ll take your money faster than you can say, ‘Fraud’ and give you worthless advice. Why don’t you go on those twirly rides you like so much instead?”

So maybe you can see why I didn’t listen to her.

It was Labor Day. But the day I marked on the calendar was the day after that, the day I officially started high school. It was a scorcher. My best friend Joe and I ran to the small pink tent with the words “Madame Zagorski — Palm Reader Extraordinaire” painted on the side.

Feeling tingly all over, I handed a wadded up five dollar bill to the fat woman with long fingernails and a jangly charm bracelet parked outside the tent.

After Joe paid, she smiled. “Eez your turn to find what your future holds.”

Joe parted the tent flap and we stepped inside.

“Please, come.” Her voice was as refreshing as a trickling stream.

A young woman motioned to us. My eyes latched onto her bodacious set of ta-tas. Her shirt fell off her shoulders and pushed everything up and sort of out there, if you know what I mean. It took a few minutes before I saw anything else.

I heard her reading Joe’s palm. “Look at this. This is your life line. You will live a long and healthy life. You will see the world and ah, ha…yes, you will wield great power. People will respect and listen to you. You are very fortunate, my friend. Such a good palm, I rarely see.”

Joe’s thick voice tickled my ear. “I think I love her,” he whispered.

“Next,” the palm reader murmured.

I forced my eyes upwards. This time they fastened on blood-red, bee-stung lips. Madame Zagorski’s touch was cool and gentle. As she leaned over my outstretched palm I thought of school, football games and raking leaves. “Smells like fall,” I said.

“You smell chrysanthemum.” Madame Zagorski removed a flower from behind her ear and passed it under my nose. “Some say it is a symbol of death, but it is a most attentive flower. It adapts well.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering what she was talking about.

“Merde,” she replied, dropping my hand.

“What is it?” I asked.

Her lips trembled. “I give your money back.”

“Huh?” Joe peered into my hand. “Why?”

Visions of Aunt Belinda danced in my head. “I told you so,” she’d tell me, once she found out what happened.

“I don’t want my money back. I want to know my fortune,” I said.

“You think?” Madame Zagorski chewed her lower lip.

“Yes.” Sweat dripped from my hairline down my sunscreen-coated forehead and into my left eye. It stung.

“Very well. I try. See this little line, here?” Madame Zagorski’s forefinger traced a harmless looking mark near the bottom of my thumb.

“Yeah.” I peeked through one eye.

“You are in danger.” Madame Zagorski’s voice was as solemn as a funeral.

Beside me, Joe swore.

“What kind of danger?” I used my other hand to wipe my eye.

“Mortal danger. How you react will affect the rest of your life.”

Joe swore again.

“When? What’s going to happen? Will I survive?”

“The details are so…hazy. Like everything just change.” She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. “I see…an umbrella. A grand yellow and blue stripe umbrella.”

“An umbrella!” Joe snorted and punched my shoulder.

“You’re kidding, right?” I stared at my hand, wondering what kind of game this broad was playing. I hated when Aunt Belinda was right.

Madame Zagorski sighed. “I wish I know more, but this line is not permanent. It will disappear once this thing happen. Soon, I think.”

Joe grabbed my hand and peered into it. “I predict…you will be caught in a rainstorm without an umbrella. You will get wet.” He laughed.

Madame Zagorski frowned. “This is no joke.”

“What a rip-off!” I surprised myself with the strength of my feelings. “All you had to do was tell me something nice like you told Joe. But you told me something that makes no sense. Thanks for nothing.” I pushed Joe out of the tent ahead of me.

Aunt Belinda was marching our way. I took off.

“Where are you going?” Joe yelled.

My feet seemed to have a mind of their own. I had no idea where they were going. I just knew that I couldn’t meet up with Aunt Belinda and her “I-told-you-so” right then. Joe kept pace with me.

I sped up. I wanted to run until I collapsed into an exhausted heap. But an ice-cream cart stopped me dead in my tracks. It was tucked under a huge blue and yellow striped umbrella.

Whir. Screech. Crash. Crunch. A battleground of noise shot from the Scorpion ride to my right. Screaming and crying rose over it all.

I stepped just beyond the umbrella. A jagged hunk of metal lay where I would have been. The ice cream vendor stood over the twisted missile and crossed himself. “It came flying from that ride. Anyone standing in its way would have been skewered.”

People struggled to get free of the broken Scorpion arm. “We apologize for the inconvenience,” the ride operator yelled. “Stay put. Paramedics are on their way.”

Somewhere from deep within myself, I became aware of Joe standing next to me. He swore for the third time that day. “That fortune teller saved your life.”

An eerie calm filled me and I smiled. I searched my palm for that little line that Madame Zagorski pointed to a few minutes ago. It was gone. I couldn’t wait to tell Aunt Belinda.

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The Third Place story won publication on the Website and in the Anthology.

By M.F. Vogel,  originally from St. Paul, Minnesota. Mary has lived for the last fourteen years in Athens, Greece with her husband and three children. She recently has begun a career as a short story writer and is currently working on a book of illustrated poetry.

Inescapable Fate

Aunt Belinda warned me not to go to the palm reader at the fair last summer. But of course I wouldn’t listen. She said our future is best left unknown and we should live our lives to the fullest without worrying about what may or may not happen. She didn’t believe in fortune telling. But I did …..

The palm reader didn’t just read my palm, she also told my future. She said I had a short life line but not to take it seriously. She predicted a significant relationship with a man who had the letters S and D in his name. She saw I was fun-loving and overly trusting. She was adamant I stay away from boats. She told me several other things but they’re not important now.

My friend Patti and I met Dennis at a beach bar yesterday on Key West. He sat alone at the bar and no matter how hard I tried not to look at him, my eyes were drawn to his lean body and aristocratic good looks. I felt daring in my new hot-pink bikini, eager to claim a victim with my feminine wiles. He noticed me watching him and soon enough asked us if he could share our umbrella.

I hung on every word he said, especially about the secluded coves he’d discovered around the islands. He offered to take us out on his boat the next day and show us. He said he would bring a picnic, and all we had to bring was our lovely selves. He really knew how to charm women. We passed the rest of the afternoon together and I really liked how comfortable I felt being with him. Patti wasn’t impressed, but I was smitten.

The next morning, we met Dennis at the boat launch as planned. He was waiting for us wearing a charming smile and black Speedo bikini that left nothing to the imagination. He welcomed us onto his cabin cruiser and I couldn’t believe my luck in landing a rich one. Dennis was getting ready to cast off when Patti noticed she’d left her sunscreen in the car and asked Dennis to wait while she ran to get it. Dennis seemed agitated by the delay, but said he would wait. But he lied. My first warning that something was wrong with Mr. Perfect. He watched Patti jog to the car, then quickly cast off and fired up the motor.

“What are you doing?’ I shouted over the roar of the motor. “Wait for Patti!”

“I want to be alone with just you, she’ll get the message,” he shouted back over the noise.

“You could have just told us, you didn’t have to ditch her like that. Take me back,” I insisted.

“Oh, come on Sweetie, I thought you liked me,” he said, continuing towards the open ocean.

“My name is Sarah, not Sweetie, and I want you to turn around NOW!” I demanded.

“Calm down, Sarah. I packed us a romantic lunch with wine and flowers and I brought blankets to spread out on a really cool beach I found. It’s private, if you get my drift,” he said, raising his eyebrows and flashing a perverted smile.

Now he made my skin crawl. Okay, I admit I gave him signals that I liked him, but these stunts he was pulling didn’t sit well with me. I thought about jumping overboard and swimming back, but several minutes had passed and he had put too much distance between us and the shore.

“Come here,” he said, “take the steering wheel for just a minute. I need to get something.”

Reluctantly, I held the steering wheel while he dug in his duffle bag and then returned with a camera.

“Try to relax, Sarah, and give me that sexy smile of yours. You’re my July calendar girl,” he said, like it was supposed to be an honor.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked, thinking maybe he changed girlfriends every month.

“Smile, Sweetie!” He curled his lips into a smile, but his eyes remained cold and calculating.

I faked a smile and he snapped the picture. Nodding his head in satisfaction, he put the camera back into his duffle bag. He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me forcing his hands over mine, trapping me between him and the steering wheel. I felt his lips on my neck, and in disgust, I shoved him with such force that the steering wheel reeled sharply to the right jarring the cruiser and killing the motor. We both slammed onto the deck and he hit his head on a tool box, stunning him momentarily. With a scream of rage, he rose and then tossed me overboard like a rag doll.

“This isn’t how I planned it, but maybe it’s better this way!” he laughed as he dumped the food from the picnic basket into the water. “I hope you like the picnic. Oh, and your flowers.” A bouquet of red chrysanthemums hit me square in the face.

“And don’t forget the wine.” He hurled the bottle at my head. The pain of the impact blinded me and I cried out, gulping and choking in the water while struggling to remain conscious.

The last sound I heard was his diabolical laugh over the roar of the motor as the cruiser sped away. I tried screaming, but no sound came from my mouth. My arms and legs went numb and I felt myself sinking slowly beneath the surface as darkness engulfed me.

As I sank, I remembered what Aunt Belinda had said about our future being best left unknown. Knowing my future didn’t change the fact that I still had a short life line. My fate as Dennis’s July calendar girl was inescapable.

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There was a tie for Honorable Mention this time, and both of these stories will be published in the Anthology:

Playing the Part, by Kellie Haze Klocko, of Lisle, Illinois
Hearts and Minds, by Terry Murtha, of Aurora, Colorado