The judges said this was one of the best competitions so far, making their job difficult, but they were happy to read so many great stories. They wish they could have awarded many more prizes, but they finally agreed on the following stories.
The December winners in the Fiction in Five contest are:
First Place: First Christmas, by Jennifer Russell
Second Place: Cecile’s Christmas Miracle by Ruth Snyder
Third Place: The Last Gift by Camas Baugh
Honorable Mention: Solace by Judy Beglau
Scroll down and read the first three stories. All four will be published in the second annual Fiction in Five Anthology, due out this coming summer.
First Christmas, by Jennifer Russell
Jennifer Russell grew up in Rockville, MD, and studied entomology at Texas A&M University. Currently she works for the county mosquito control district in Savannah, GA, and is studying to get her Master’s in Entomology. Jennifer enjoys reading, bug hunting, vegetarian cooking, and badminton. Although she has been writing since childhood, she has only recently begun to write seriously again, and is honored to have won first place in the December Fiction in Five contest–only the second contest she has ever entered!
The icicles hung dangerously from the old house, sweating beads of moisture that plinked on the porch behind me as I fiddled with the lock. The noise was distracting, and worse, reminded me I was thirsty. I turned and opened my mouth under the slow drip. The water was cold and pure, and the invitation to impalement was invigorating.
“Hope you pick locks as good as you tempt death.” The voice at my side feigned detachment, but still trembled.
I shrugged my shoulders—I could play it cool, too—and eyed my companion while enjoying my drink. Pale-skinned girl, late teens, with that gangly all knees-and-elbows look. She wore a moth-eaten cap and an oversized olive coat that hung to her knees, where her stork legs stuck out, looking like aged candy canes in their dingy red and white striped tights. The coat’s zipper was broken. She hunkered inside it, shivering, even in the afternoon sun.
Guiltily, I returned to the lock. “Don’t worry. I’ve almost got it.”
We’d found each other that morning. I’d been combing through an old thrift store; she was shuffling through the garbage heap out back, her eyes scanning the debris like search beams for something to eat. I hadn’t seen a soul in days, and I was so startled by her that I almost yelled—but just then she’d turned those eye beams onto me, and my voice had been arrested right there in my throat. To be honest, I wasn’t much into partnership back then. Moved quicker on my own. But damn if those eyes didn’t just walk in to my heart and make themselves at home.
Well, the haul had been good—it’d been one of those out-of-the-way mom and pop shops, the kind that had avoided most of the looting in the beginning. I’d offered her a bit of old fruitcake, and she had joined me.
What’s your name, kid?
Theodora.
Seems old-fashioned, for a girl like you.
Well, it’s what I’ve got. Theo, if you like.
“Voilá!” I cried as the door cracked open, accompanied by a muted tinkling of bells from the house’s darkened interior. “You may enter, my lady.”
Theo looked unimpressed, but I still gave an exaggerated bow as she shuffled past me, banging the snow from her boots. She swiped her hat off, and I saw the ends of her flattened hair were faded copper orange, her dark brown roots spreading over the top of her head like a second cap.
“It’s nice to be inside again, huh?” she said absently, puffing on her red hands.
“You know it. Let’s camp here a while.”
We split to search for supplies. It was a big house, and—like the store I was in earlier—seemed to have been overlooked, untouched. There’d be blankets, medicine, toothpaste, maybe a cellar with preserves. Maybe we’d even strike gold and find a generator, one with enough juice to keep us warm for a night or two. Maybe. I noticed Theo avoided going upstairs, same as me—back in the beginning, lots of people had punched their own tickets by going to bed with a handful of pills. You got tired of finding the results, after a while. We’d only go up there if we were desperate.
A withered sprig of green caught my eye in the dining room. I felt an unwanted stirring of sentiment: it was mistletoe.
“Hey Theo,” I called out.
“What is it?” She wasn’t far away.
“How close do you think it is to Christmas?”
She came around the corner, eyebrows up. She spied the mistletoe, put the pieces together. “I don’t know. Probably not too long past.” She considered. “Guess it’s been almost a year since everything started. Though sometimes it feels longer.”
We mulled in silence for a few moments.
“Did you…uh,” I stammered, awkward. It had been a while since I’d held a real conversation. “Did you used to celebrate Christmas? Before?”
Her eyes softened momentarily, losing their piercing quality. “Yeah. Yeah I did.”
“Me too.”
We started moving through the house again, lost in our own thoughts. Rifling through the sideboard, I made a discovery that almost made me whoop with joy: a quarter-full bottle of brandy. The expensive stuff, too.
I found Theo in the laundry room, going through a pile of clothes. “Hey, guess what?” I made my face serious, and held up the bottle. “I found some eggnog.”
Very slowly, she smiled. It was like the sun cracking through a blanket of gray clouds.
We found an old roof antenna in the garage, and hung it with all the red and green socks and underwear we could find. We lit some short, drippy candles, and contributed our findings to a feast: the last of the fruitcake, the brandy, mint bubble gum, and some canned corn. I even added a handful of valuable dried fruit. “Cranberry sauce,” I said. She laughed.
We dined from fine china, the candles creating flickering shadows against the dying sunlight. The air grew colder. We hadn’t found a generator.
“I got you a present,” she said softly, putting something in my hand. It was black, plastic, full of liquid: an old scuffed up Mystery Ball. It looked like it had bashed in a skull or two in its time.
“Aw shucks, you shouldn’t have,” I said, grinning. I studied it in mock meditation. “Oh Ball, will we get another Christmas this wonderful?”
The answer floated up. VISION UNCLEAR, TRY LATER. Fair enough.
I detached a good, sharp fishhook from my lapel, and cautiously handed it to her. “Careful, now. These are real useful, for a lot of stuff.”
Her eyes were big. “Wow,” she whispered, staring at the hook in fascination. I smiled at her reaction. She was still so young.
“Well, Miss Theodora, Merry Christmas. I hope we survive the night.”
She smiled, but her eyes were lost in shadow. “Me too. And thank you.”
We sat in the dark, shivered, and waited.
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Second Place, Cecile’s Christmas Miracle, by Ruth Snyder
Ruth L. Snyder lives in scenic northeastern Alberta with her husband, Kendall, and their five young children. Ruth is a homemaker, piano teacher, school board trustee, writer, and editor. She has had articles published by Testimony Magazine and Chicken Soup for the Soul. She is a member of Inscribe Christian Writers’ Fellowship, the Christian PEN, and an associate member of The Word Guild. Contact Ruth at sun.beam3@yahoo.com or on Twitter @wwjdr .
Living in the desert at Christmas time is so depressing, twenty-two year old Cecile thought. She sat cross-legged in a Bushman hut made of mud and dung, with a smile pasted on her face. Her hostess, Naisa, chattered on, oblivious to Cecile’s inner turmoil. Flies buzzed a continual cacophony. Bugs Cecile had never seen in North America scurried across the dirt floor. What good am I doing here? Maybe I should just go home.
As she sipped her cup of Rooibos tea, Cecile allowed her thoughts to transport her to childhood memories of Christmas in rural Alberta. She could almost hear the melodious jingling of sleigh bells accompanied by carefree laughter and the snorts of the horses pulling her father’s sleigh. She saw cherubic faces tinted pink from the cold peeking out from a melee of toques and scarves. Voices combined in colorful harmony to scatter Christmas carols across the snow-blanketed prairies. After neighbors were gifted with the annual caroling, the whole community gathered in a local hall to share a turkey dinner complete with dressing, cranberry sauce, and a host of other tasty trimmings. Cecile always looked forward to the first luscious bite of her Grandma’s fruitcake. She smiled as she thought of the Christmas tree decorated with a combination of handmade ornaments and candy canes, and just about laughed out loud as she remembered her grade two teacher’s professed indignation as she was kissed under the mistletoe.
Naisa’s gentle tap pulled Cecile from her reverie. “Come, go work!”
Cecile followed Naisa out the door, sweat dripping from her forehead. It was only eight in the morning, and already the sun was beating down. Cecile pulled her hat tighter onto her head to protect herself from the assault of the sun. Her long-sleeved cotton blouse and loose-fitting floor-length skirt also provided much needed protection. The temperatures in the Kalahari Desert often hovered between 40 and 50 degrees Celsius during the day and then plummeted to the freezing mark during the night. Cecile clambered into the driver’s seat of her rickety Land Rover and nodded to Naisa to sit in the passenger seat. The monster grumbled as Cecile shifted it into gear. Soon they were on their way to provide much needed medical service at the local clinic. Cecile still shuddered to think she was regarded as the medical expert in the area. She only had her nursing degree. The nearest hospital was hundreds of kilometers away, and the only ambulance service was provided by plane. Naisa was her translator. The local language was a fascinating combination of clicks that still left Cecile muddled.
A cloud of dust announced their arrival at the clinic – a bare mud brick structure with simple glass windows and a tin roof. The building would have been denounced as uninhabitable in Alberta. A long queue of people waited at the clinic door. Cecile sighed. It was going to be another long day.
One after another the patients filed in to see Cecile. She treated cuts and burns, set broken bones, gave advice on nutrition, and dispensed medication. Just after noon, Naisa shooed other patients out as she helped a very pregnant woman into the clinic. “It time for baby.”
The mother groaned in agreement.
Cecile guided the young woman onto the table. “Naisa, heat the water. I’ll get set up here.”
Cecile performed a quick physical examination. “Naisa, ask her how long she’s been having pains. This baby is breach.” Naisa looked puzzled. “We have to try to turn baby so the head is down.” Cecile punctuated her words with actions, trying to help Naisa and the mother understand. She gritted her teeth. Valuable time was being used up in communicating. She didn’t want to lose the baby, or the mother.
Cecile bowed her head. “Heavenly Father, you know this situation is beyond me. Guide my hands and help me deliver this baby, please!”
Late that night, Cecile limped into the hut. Her legs felt like jelly, her back ached, and her arms felt like they had been squeezed through a wringer. However, Cecile’s smile stretched from ear to ear and there was nothing fake about it. The birthing process had been a struggle for all of them. The baby had been almost impossible to turn, but after many grunts, tears, and screams, the head was in the proper position. After that it was a matter of minutes before the baby was born. The woman had delivered a healthy boy. Cecile knew she had witnessed a miracle.
The baby’s birth was not the only miracle. Cecile still missed her family, the snow, and childhood traditions, but she knew God was with her. Cecile decided she would create her own Bushman Christmas traditions. Christmas in the desert wasn’t going to be so depressing after all.
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Third Place: The Last Gift by Camas Baugh
Camas Baugh has been teaching high school English and graphic design for the last eight years. Prior to teaching, she worked as a graphics designer, writer, editor, and photographer. She earned her undergraduate degree in creative nonfiction writing and literature from The Evergreen State College and her Master’s Degree in Teaching from the University of Phoenix. She is passionate about food, international travel, music and surfing. Currently, Camas is taking a sabbatical from teaching to pursue writing full time; she is working on her first feature length screenplay and a travel blog.
The snow is falling and I can’t see two feet in front of me. My headlights illuminate large snowflakes against an obsidian wall, and crunching snow under my tires is the only sound I hear. I squint and try to see into the night. Leaning forward and gripping the steering wheel, I strain to find my way. My back muscles ache from the tension.
I’m only a mile away and wonder if I should turn back. I feel tightness in my chest, and I let my car roll to a stop. I haven’t seen another car in an hour. I must be crazy to be out here. I lean back and breathe in deeply.
“You can do this,” I tell myself. “It’s going to be fine.”
I take another deep breath. I flex and unflex my hands, trying to relax. I put my hands back on the steering wheel and slowly accelerate. Soon, I see the lights ahead beckoning me home.
I imagine how things have changed. Mom’s hair will be shorter, maybe grey. Dad will have deeper lines around his eyes, and the spring in his step may be gone. I wonder if our dog, Timmy, is still alive. Will he still greet me with his full-body wiggle?
I pull into the driveway, I feel like I’ve stepped back seven years. The same Christmas lights from my childhood adorn the windows, and the same paper candy canes hang from the garage door.
Sitting behind the wheel, engine off, snowflakes gently land and melt on the hood of my car. I see the old tire-swing hanging motionless from the oak tree, snow untouched on its rim. The yard, warmed by a soft glow from a curtained window, is free from footprints. I feel like I am looking at a painting, perfectly still, as though someone tried to capture what a holiday should feel like from the outside looking in.
Again, I breathe deeply. This is harder than I anticipated. Ignoring the knot in my stomach, I open the car door. Cold air stings my cheeks and nostrils. Gently, I pick up the gift from the back seat and walk carefully through the snow to the front door. The wreath I made in seventh-grade with faux branches and mistletoe leaves and jingle bells covered in green and red glitter hides the door knocker. It’s unsightly, but my mom swore she loved it.
I smile, remembering how hopeful I was that Joey, the boy from across the street, would kiss me under that wreath. I remember how disappointed I was when I found out he had kissed Samantha instead. I didn’t understand what my parents meant when they told me I could never be with a boy like that. I can’t believe she still hangs that wreath.
I am feeling more comfortable now, but I am still unsure of how Mom and Dad will react. Just as I raise my hand, I hear someone fumbling with the lock. My hand is hanging mid-air, ready to knock, as the door opens.
“May I help you?” came the kind voice of a stranger.
My brow furrows in confusion and my voice fails me as I try to answer. I notice her slight southern drawl as she says, “You must be Missy. I’m right glad to meet you.” She opens the door wide now, sweeping her arm toward the living room. “Please, come in. Your parents will be so glad you’re here.”
She smooths the front of her red blouse. The bright color against her chocolate skin is festive.
“I’m Betsy, the caretaker. May I take your coat?”
The heat from the fireplace warms me. Nothing has changed. The Christmas tree stands in the space between the living room and kitchen. Eggnog-colored walls display pictures of family vacations. I shift the bundle from one arm to the other as she takes my coat. I look around, wondering where my parents are.
“Just let me run upstairs and let your mama know you’re here. Would you like some fruitcake while you wait? I made some real nice cranberry sauce to make it a little less dry,” she says with a wink, already on the inside of an old family joke.
“No, thanks,” I say, feeling uneasy. “I think I’ll just go on up.”
Concern crosses her face. “Well, there’s something you should know.”
I cut her off. “I’m fine, Betsy. Thank you.”
Holding the bundle close to my chest, I ascend the stairs to my parent’s room. They both look stunned to see me standing there.
“Hi.”
My mom’s voice cracks. “Missy.”
She sits in a chair next to the bed. She looks small, almost wilted. My eyes move from her to my father, propped up by pillows, an oxygen tube across his face. My eyes well with tears.
“Mom, I didn’t know…”
“It’s okay, honey. I’m glad you’ve come. We said some awful things back then, your father and I. We didn’t know… We didn’t know it would end up like this. He is so sorry. We both are.”
I walk forward, a tear slips down my cheek. “I have something to show you, dad.”
His eyes smile at me, but his breathing is labored. He pats the bed next to him. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I gingerly set my bundle in his frail arms.
“I thought you should meet your granddaughter, dad. Merry Christmas.”
His eyes well with tears and he hiccups a sob. His finger looks old and his skin looks pale and translucent as he touches her soft, mocha colored cheek. I feel my mom’s hand clasp mine, and I know that my father has accepted his last gift.
Center for Writing Excellence 