The winning stories in the February, 2012 Fiction in Five contest are published below. The judges did an excellent job of combing through the entries and deciding who would win the top prizes this month.
First Place: Windows, by Camas Baugh, who has been teaching high school English and graphics 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 a freelance writer and editor and she is working on her first feature length screenplay.
Windows
City people feel safer behind hermetically sealed and securely locked windows. They can stand and gaze through the glass without being sullied by the outside world. Katie fancied herself a city girl. As she sat in her window seat, snuggled under her favorite red afghan, steam from her tea fogged up the cold pane, and she used her free hand to wipe it away. Droplets of water, leaving spider-webbed trails that looked like lace, trickled down to the sill. Katie’s eyes dropped to the bustling street eight floors below. She wondered how a city could be so full of life and yet so devoid of emotion. As she watched people scurry chaotically, her thoughts drifted back to a simpler time.
She grew up on a farm in rural Idaho, insulated, her parents would say, from the evils of the world. When Katie was young, she would lie on her bed and daydream of another life. Thumbing through the pages of magazines, she would picture herself wearing high heels and designer suits. She would walk briskly, with authority, stronger than the buildings that loomed over her. Inevitably, her reverie would be interrupted by her dad bellowing up the stairs about chores or some such thing, and she would tenderly set the magazine, and with it her dreams, under her bed for another day.
When finally Katie turned 18, she put her overfilled suitcase in the back of her Beetle and drove defiantly away from her parents. She had saved enough money from her summer jobs to start over in New York. When she arrived, the city was exactly as she’d imagined. She stood in downtown Manhattan, every sense alive for the first time. Horns and footsteps and sirens assaulted her ears; strangers brushed past her without realizing she was there; exhaust fumes and scented lotion wafted around her; she could taste the smoke from a nearby hot dog cart. Overwhelmed, she looked up at the skyscrapers encircling her, no longer imaginary. The clouds seemed farther away somehow as they drifted lazily along, completely unaffected by the madness swirling beneath them. Katie brought her gaze back down to street level and stepped easily into the rhythm of the city.
The phone rang and snapped her back to reality.
“Hello?”
“Hey.”
“Hi, Kit. What’s up?”
“Things aren’t going well with Dad. We need you home.”
Katie sighed. She had deadlines to meet. She couldn’t just up and leave.
“Listen, Kit, I can’t right now. Can I send some money?”
“Not this time. You need to come home.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”
Katie rested her head against the cool window. She knew she had to go. Her dad’s health had been declining for some time now, and her sister would call her periodically to ask for money to finance his stay in assisted living. She knew people thought she was taking the easy way out, and maybe she was, but she just wasn’t ready to deal with it. At least if she could support her dad, she didn’t have to live with the guilt of being away. She sighed, giving in, and shrugged the blanket from her shoulders.
She smirked to herself when the airport car rental agent pulled around with a brand new Volkswagen Jetta. As the agent put her weekender bag in the trunk, she mused at the humor life sometimes had. She’d come a long way since that day she left home. Despite her success, though, she sometimes thought her life was missing something. She had the dream – the high heels and power suits, the authoritative walk – but there was something else she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She shrugged it off, as always, and began the hour-long drive to her father’s cabin.
As urban sprawl gave way to pine trees and prairies, she started feeling uncomfortable. She shifted her shoulders against the seat and turned on the radio. Unable to find anything she liked, she switched it back off. She picked up her cell to check for messages, but there were none. Slowly, she began to realize that her discontent must be stemming from a sense of overexposure. Her skyscrapers weren’t there to protect her; she couldn’t lose herself in the crowd. She felt a little relief when she saw the mailbox at the end of the gravel drive. Maybe being home would give her some comfort.
Her heels crunched gravel and her heart sank as she gingerly stepped out of the car. The cabin she had eagerly left behind was now dilapidated and beyond repair. She stepped forward, no longer concerned about ruining her $800 shoes. The bare branches and blue sky reflected in the old window almost seemed like a faded painting. She looked up and noticed that the clouds seemed closer to the ground. Behind her, she heard a car approaching and instinctively knew it was her sister. She didn’t turn around. Instead, looking back down to the window, she used the heel of her hand to wipe the film obscuring her view. Her dad’s candy dish sat on the counter, a foil-wrapped chocolate heart sitting to the side. A mildewy towel rested on the stove burner. She realized now how difficult it must have been for Kit to be here dealing with everything. She felt bad for her distance.
Kit’s voice broke the silence. “I thought you might come here first.”
Without moving, Katie asked, “How do you live like this?”
“I moved across town.”
Turning around, Katie said, “That’s not what I mean. How do you live so exposed?” She touched the slightly opened window.
“It’s peaceful,” Kit said. “It’s safe.”
Katie looked around doubtfully. “How can you be safe with no one around?”
“Don’t you get it, Katie? The safety is in being able to leave your windows open.”
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Second Place: Through the Window, by Lori Quiller, of Prattville, Alabama, a graduate of The University of Alabama with a degree in journalism and criminal justice. Since graduating, she has worked in the fields of marketing and public relations in both the private and government sectors since 1991. This year, Ms. Quiller received her second consecutive APEX Award for Publication Excellence, an international competition for writing and graphic design. She carries with her a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson for motivation and inspiration: “Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm.” Ms. Quiller and her “Diva Doggie” Mazie reside in Prattville, Alabama.
Through the Window
I can still remember watching her as she stood at the old window washing dishes. Her red apron gently distorted by the glare of the sun shining through the glass. The faded pink lace hearts hand sewn on the bib hanging by pure love and thread dare not fall from their precious perch.
She would cast a watchful eye in my direction each afternoon, paying as much attention to my silly antics in the garden as the wilting bubbles in her sink. With a cheerful wave of her hand, I could see the thick lather ooze down her forearm and drip from her elbow.
At that moment, there were only two people in the world: my Granny and me.
We would often hold entire conversations through those old panes of glass, many times without saying a single word. We always understood what the other was trying to say. Ours was a special relationship and always had been.
But, watching my grandmother through the old window as she conducted the symphony that was her kitchen was a remarkable treat.
She would begin her symphony by gathering all the orchestra players together. Stockpots on the back burners, followed by a saucepan and fryer on the front burners. Each vessel had its own pitch and part in the chorus of my grandmother’s kitchen. The stockpot’s low base roll was accented by the hum of the fryer’s sizzle. The melodious zing of the whisk whirring the broken sauce into a frenzy and then a decadent gravy was the crescendo of Granny’s masterpiece.
And, I would watch the action from the window as my grandmother waived a wooden spoon and a damp dishrag over her players, keeping everything in tune. The maestro of the meal.
Even when afternoon clouds filled the dull luster of the window, I could still hear each spoon, each whisk, each lid, clanking in perfect harmony as she prepared a new opera for our dinnertime enjoyment.
The stove was old and plenty worn, and my grandfather incessantly offered to buy her a new one, but my grandmother always turned him down, even after the evil thing burned her chocolate heart brownies she baked one Sunday for the church afternoon social. Instead she took the ruined confection as a sign from above that she should bring a fruit dessert instead of a chocolate one. She reasoned that fruit was a healthier choice for the little ones who would be in attendance.
Before leaving her kitchen, after every pot was carefully put away, after all the counters were cleaned and dried, she would wash her hands one last time and pump her lotion bottle twice to dispense the most luscious rose scented balm I had ever smelled. It made me wonder whether a rose itself wasn’t stuffed inside the small jar. She would rub the ointment gently over her hands, remove her apron, and retire to the living room.
I spent so many lazy summer days watching my grandmother through the kitchen window that when I was old enough I joined her eager to learn all of her secrets. Those wonderful lyrics weren’t written on any music sheets, though. All her recipes were deeply ingrained in her memories, and she was happy to share them with me. Cobblers, preserves, dumplings, fried chicken, cakes, pies, lasagna, stews, soups…her entire repertoire was laid out for my benefit, and I was determined to soak up every moment of it. She was the master, and I her student. I gained more weight that summer learning all my grandmother’s secret recipes than I had planned to, but I didn’t care.
Years later and the weight from that summer long gone, my grandmother was gone as well. The house was cold and dark, even though it was in late spring. It was months before I could set foot in my grandmother’s kitchen again. I was terrified I wouldn’t feel her there. Instead, I stood outside and looked through the window wishing I could see her smiling face staring back at me. Waving. Creating such amazing music in her kitchen just a few feet from me.
Eventually I was drawn to the small space, to stand where she stood, to look out of the window over the sink. I saw what I know she saw all those years ago. My grandparent’s garden and my blackberry vines. I could see the plump blackberries shining in the late morning sun still wet with dew. I reached under the sink and fetched a bright yellow bowl. I suddenly had the urge to bake.
I was never very good at baking. My grandmother could bake a blue ribbon cobbler in her sleep, but mine never tasted quite right. When I returned from the garden, it was my turn to make music in my grandmother’s kitchen. Pots and pans, spoons and whisks. I remembered her recipe by heart, and I poured each ingredient with as much love as she did.
When I placed the pan in the stove to bake, I didn’t dare leave it. The stove had a habit of running a bit hot, but not today. Granny was in the kitchen with me, and we were going to finish this blackberry cobbler together. When the clock ticked down the final seconds, I reached in and pulled out my first successful cobbler, and I had to smile.
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Third Place: The Cabin, by Judy Beglau, who lives half the year in Austin, Texas. The good half. And she spends the summers in the mountains of New Mexico, where she and her husband Bob enjoy the fabulous cool weather and gorgeous scenery. Judy started out writing children’s musicals, working with a partner and writing twelve in all and producing them at schools in Austin. After burning off most of her fingerprints hot gluing sets and costumes, she decided to see how it works to just write the words. She attended a Highlight’s For Children workshop at Chautauqua in 2009, and has been working on picture books, magazine stories, and a YA novel since then. She also does write for hire work for the Lutheran church through Augsburg Fortress Press, writing Sunday School materials and adult devotionals. A recent collaboration with a symphony composer got her back into the musical genre. A Halloween play called All Hallows Eve may soon be coming to a concert hall near you!
The Cabin
Susan didn’t see the giant pothole. The driver’s side front wheel jarred into it with such force that it ripped the steering wheel out of her hands. If she hadn’t slowed down to peer through the winter air to look for the road sign, it would have been much worse. The thought was little comfort as she climbed out of the car to survey the damage. The wheel sat a crazy angle, and the tire itself looked as if someone had taken a hacksaw to it. Susan groaned and dropped her head back, eyes closed.
This was not exactly high season for people to be heading to their lakeside cabins. Susan could not remember seeing another car in a long time. And to make things even more interesting, it was not that long until dark. She figured she had about an hour, tops. On the plus side, this was a low snowfall year, so at least there were only a couple of inches instead of the usual couple of feet. The thought made Susan smile. Her first in a while. Her inclination to list the plusses sometimes drove Matthew crazy over their thirty two years of marriage. But when it didn’t drive him crazy, it made him crazy about her. He said it did. And Matthew really didn’t say things he didn’t mean. She believed him when he said he loved her. He proved it all the time. And that was something she still missed so much, being loved like that, even though he had been gone three years now. Three years tomorrow. He died on Valentine’s Day. The irony still made her shake her head, even in the gathering dark in the forest of Northern Minnesota, even when there was trouble this very minute to contend with.
Susan forced herself to turn her attention back to the car. She put an emergency flasher in the back widow. Hopefully the battery really would last 12 hours like it promised on the box. What else? Raising the hood would be good. A driver could tell long before he came upon the car that it wasn’t moving. She knew there was no cell phone coverage out here, but she checked anyway. Yep. Zero bars. She’d have to call a tow truck from the cabin.
Susan grabbed her little bag, thankful she kept warm clothes at the cabin and had packed light. How much further? She had been on this road so many times, but never this time of year, and never alone. Matthew would have been tracking the mileage, and he would have known exactly how much farther to the cabin. He would know if she was still ten miles from their road, or ten blocks. Or ten feet. That would be heavenly! If only!
After thirty minutes her toes were starting to ache with cold. Then she saw the sign. The sign Matthew had carefully stenciled with reflective paint, the letters glowing softy in the fading light. Susan walked faster, turning onto the narrow forest track that dodged the trees and wound down to the cabin beside the lake where she had spent most every summer of her adult life. What made her come here this time of year was a little complicated. Susan had made herself a little promise to be out of town this year so that her daughter Amy and son-in-law Paul didn’t have to include her in their plans as they had every year since Matthew died. She knew they did it out of love and not obligation, but still. They needed a little romantic Valentine’s without good old Mom to consider. And it would be their last one as just the two of them. Their baby was due in April.
Just before their cabin came into view, Susan saw the tiny old cabin that sat a few feet off the road. At first, Susan had pushed for Matthew to tear it down. But the girls loved to play house in it, and so it stayed, year after year. Now the window frames were beginning to sag; the siding was weathered to a soft grey with only the slightest hint of the red paint it wore years ago. Something about the little abandoned cabin-turned-playhouse called to her. She stood still in the cold, noticing every detail. The way the sunset pink clouds were reflected in the glass of the windows, and the tired, tired look of the wood. Like all of the good was used up, and the only thing to do now was tear it down. A year ago it would have made her cry. Now it just left her feeling sad. She turned and walked down the hill.
Inside, the cabin was freezing. Susan rummaged through tiny bottles of sunscreen and lotion, bottle caps and the other flotsam of a family junk drawer, looking for the matches. She saw them finally, but as she reached for them, her fingers froze. Lying there next to the matches was a little silver shape. A familiar thing that made her breath catch in her throat and memories wash over her. A little chocolate heart like the ones Matthew gave her every Valentine’s Day. Susan held the heart in her hand and straightened up, gazing out the lace curtained kitchen window. Suddenly Matthew was there beside her. Strong, loving, funny and sometimes exasperating Matthew. She savored his presence a long time, grateful for the gift.
Later that night Susan sat in front of the fire, making her list. At the top: red paint. Matthew’s tools were all still in the basement but she would need a few new pieces of siding. She could measure tomorrow. It would be the perfect thing to do on Valentine’s Day…planning for a summer project. She would rebuild the playhouse where her grandchildren could play. Matthew’s grandchildren. New life. For the little house. For everyone.
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Honorable Mention: Going, Going, Gone. by Kellie Klocko.
All the stories will be available in the Second Annual Center for Writing Excellence Anthology, due out in July, 2012.
Center for Writing Excellence 