The judges have read the stories, discussed them, read them again, and ranked them according to the criteria in the rules. The voting was intense, the competition fierce, and decisions hard. Following are the winners in the June, 2012 Fiction in Five contest. These stories, along with all the rest of the Fiction in Five winning entries for year two will all be published in the Second Annual C4WE Fiction Anthology. The Anthology will be available in July – watch for the announcement! In the meantime, you can read the stories right here:
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First Place: Cold Case
by Eleanor Thomas, who recently retired from Statistics Canada, where she worked as a research analyst. After a career devoted to researching and writing scientific papers on child development, family health, and other social and health topics, she finally has time to do the kind of writing that she really enjoys – writing stories. She also has time for outdoor activities, including hiking, running, and exploring rivers and lakes in her sea kayak. Eleanor lives inOttawa,Ontario, with her husband and her dog, a Pembroke Welsh corgi.
Cold Case
No case was too cold for the police when it involved the death of one of their own. They were still searching for her, even now. They came close a few times, but not since she moved to the precinct of the ancient monastery.
She could hear the chatter of a crowd of tourists just outside the monastery wall. The smells of sunscreen lotion and exhaust fumes from the tour bus drifted through the gate into the enclosure. It was late for a busload to arrive, but this would be the last group for the day – they would leave soon.
The afternoon sun threw long shadows across the bushes and weeds that grew in the monastery field. The tourists jostled to look through the gate at the ruins. It was locked, and none had ever tried to climb over, although it was easy to do. Some pressed against the grille, trying to see the entire enclosure. They could not see as far as her camp in the corner, but even if they could, her threadbare tent in the brush looked like a mound of trash that had been dumped over the wall, nothing more. There was little to see in here, and the visitors quickly lost interest, as they usually did.
The real attraction wasn’t the old building and grounds, but the exterior wall. Glorious pictures of spirits and saints had been painted on it by monks centuries ago. The ethereal images, with their tears and their smiles, their graceful robes and their flowing hair, were her protectors. As a tourist herself, she had brought her daughter here to see them when they visited the city. The paintings drew crowds of visitors to the place, but they diverted the dangerous eyes of the searchers, who might decide to examine the walled compound more carefully if the enchanting paintings and the throngs of tourists were not there to distract them.
She had killed the man when Amy told her what he had done. Amy was not even a teenager when it happened the first time, her father away on a fishing trawler, and she, her mother, working long hours at the general store in the village. The possibility of self-defense was inconceivable to the police. A fine officer like Matt O’Brien would not have molested a child or tried to kill the child’s mother when she confronted him. Their story was not believed.
Amy’s father, just home from the sea, could not tell them where to find her, because he did not know. Like the police, he would guess that she was hiding in the city, but he knew nothing more. Dear David. She dared not contact him, because they would be watching him.
The tour group departed, and activity on the street dwindled as night fell. She examined the food she had found the night before and started a small fire to boil water for tea, and to cook some rice. Cooking smells from her campsite blended with those from the nearby restaurants and outdoor cafes, and would not be noticed. After midnight she climbed the gate and dropped into the shadow of the walls. In the dark she would forage for tomorrow’s supplies and hunt for coins in machines and around the park benches. Begging for money would attract attention, and was out of the question.
Avoiding the other night people, she made her way to the alley behind the greengrocer’s shop. The bins were brimming with vegetables. The grocer would not miss a handful of runner beans or a few ears of corn. At the late-night convenience store she slipped some things into her pocket, a small bar of soap, some aspirin, matches. Her change purse held the few coins she had found, but not enough to pay for these items. She bought a small packet of licorice candy as a reason to be in the store. She could not risk having the shopkeeper spot her as a shoplifter.
Shuffling in a way that made her almost invisible to others, head bobbing, shoulders low, she headed back. At the last corner she froze, sensing that something was wrong. There was a light in the street and a car was idling there, by the precinct gate. She turned noiselessly and headed away, past blocks of flats and dark storefronts, circling through the streets to find a vantage point to inspect the gate.
She saw the car. Amy was standing beside it, almost invisible against the wall in her pale jeans and white and blue hoodie, looking like one of the spirits painted by the monks. David was in the car. They were waiting. What did this mean? How had they found her? Had they led the police to her by mistake?
She longed to go to them, feeling a pain that was almost physical. With all of her strength she turned and shuffled down the lane, leaving them there. She would wait under a porch near here that she had used before, or beneath the cement stairs that led down to the canal. Her refuge with the saints might never be safe again.
By first light they were gone. Was this a trap? She studied the monastery enclosure from some shadows far down the street. The saints stared back at her, but they had no message to give. Circling behind houses and trees, she checked all the nearby roads and alleys. Nothing moved, nothing seemed out of place. There were things she needed at the camp. She would take the chance, and go there just once more, now, before dawn.
She spotted the note before she reached the gate. It hung from one of the bars on the grille. “Amy remembers this place. She believes that you are near here,” it said. “Another girl has gone to the police. Amy was not the first. Come home.”
The note trembled in her hand. She looked up at the spirits on the wall and found them smiling down at her.
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Second Place: Beautiful Mess
by Lindsey Bramson, who grew up in Benton City, Washington. After graduating high school, she went to Northwest Nazarene University in Nampa, Idaho, and majored in English with a minor in Spanish and was also a part of a fantastic creative writing group. During her sophomore year, she sent an historical fiction story called Guardian Soldier to a publishing company called Xlibris, and within three months, it was published! She said she had never felt so excited. This is her second win with the Center for Writing Excellence. She graduated from NNU in May, 2011 and now lives in Prosser, Washington where she is busy writing, working a Mary Kay business, and teaching middle schoolers at her church.
Beautiful Mess
Libby didn’t need her eyesight to know that the faces on the wall before her personified the emotions swirling within her. She had seen this wall many times in her dreams. She touched the cool stone, tracing her fingers over the paint that she knew must be faded. Sam stood next to her in silence. It hadn’t been easy convincing her brother to come here with her, and she wouldn’t have asked him if she hadn’t needed a guide.
She knew he had a hard time dealing with her blindness, especially since he blamed himself for how it happened. It had been over ten years since the attack, but every time they were together, Libby could sense his guilt as strongly as she could smell a newly opened package of licorice. Nothing she ever said made a difference to him, though. He carried his guilt as constantly as he carried his aspirin bottle.
The headaches hadn’t started until after the incident, and though Sam did pretty well at hiding it, Libby could always tell when the throbbing in his head became unbearable. He never once complained, though, and somehow that made it worse. Libby didn’t want a brother who whined about his problems, but she couldn’t bear how Sam suffered in silence.
That’s why it had been such a surprise when he’d told her about finding the wall. Sam hardly ever initiated conversations with her, especially ones that reminded him of her condition. But it had been such a discovery; the moment he had seen the picture of the wall on the internet, he knew that it was the same one that Libby was always dreaming about. She had described it to him in detail so many times.
Agreeing to go with her had been another issue. He’d made so many excuses when she’d first asked him, telling her that it would be better to have Mom and Dad take her. But eventually, his fascination for art had gotten the better of him, and now here they were.
All sorts of sounds and smells drifted around them, giving Libby clues as to where they were. From the seagulls overhead and the smell of fish in the air, she figured they were in a small fishing village. From the rough feel of the wall and the uneven sidewalk, she figured they were in a desolate part of the town.
From Sam’s silence, she figured there was something on his mind.
“So what do you think of it?” Libby asked him.
She heard him take a breath. “It’s just as you described. Faces staring back at you like they can see right into your soul, combined in a swirling mass of blues and pinks and corn-colored yellows. I don’t think there’s anything here that you haven’t already described to me. There’s even an abandoned gate in the middle, with an unkempt bush on the other side of it.”
Libby smiled. “Sounds like a mess.”
“It’s beautiful.”
Libby reached her hand out and grasped a hold of Sam’s.
“That’s true of life, too.”
Sam didn’t answer, but he didn’t take his hand away. They stood a few moments in silence before the wall.
“Libby, if I had obeyed Mom and Dad and stayed home that night, you wouldn’t have been alone when that man broke into our house.”
His outburst had been so sudden that even Libby hadn’t been prepared for it. She took a deep breath.
“Sam, if you had been home, he would have hurt you, too.”
“But he wouldn’t have attacked you if I had been there, and maybe you wouldn’t be blind right now.”
They had had this conversation only a few times before, but Libby had a slight inkling that this time Sam might actually listen to her.
“I’m thankful that my eyesight is the only thing he took from me.”
Sam was silent as they stood hand in hand before the wall. A group of tourists walked by, pausing in their chatting as they passed behind Libby and Sam. Libby caught the faint scent of lotion, and hoped the smell wouldn’t trigger another headache for Sam. His headaches were triggered so much more easily when he thought about that night. After the tourists had walked on, Sam took a shaky breath.
“Do you forgive me?”
The sorrow and shame in his voice brought tears to Libby’s eyes. Though she knew why he blamed himself, she had never once heard him ask for her forgiveness. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.
“Of course I do, Sam.”
His hand shook in hers as the tears that Libby was trying to hold back fell from Sam’s eyes. She leaned her head against his shoulder, comforting him in the best way she knew how. His tears were the release that he had needed for so long; the release that Libby had prayed he would someday have. She had always known that it was harder for Sam to live with her blindness than it had been for her; perhaps now they could finally be equals in their grief. Now they could walk side by side down the road to recovery.
They could move forward together.
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Third Place: My Fourteenth Summer
by Julie McCarty, who is the mother of five: four sons who are grown and a 13-year-old daughter who is home-schooled. She takes care of her grand kids, teaches Sunday School and a homeschool co-op class here and there. Julie loves to read, and belongs to a Christian ladie’s book club. When explaining why she entered the contest, she said, “I have taken a writing course and so far mostly write non-fiction, but thought I’d try my hand at fiction. I am honored to have placed in this contest.” Julie’s husband Tony and their daughter Kathleen live on a 17-acre ranch in Yakima, Washington with five horses, one llama, four dogs, three cats, and a few chickens. They call it the End of the Road Ranch.
My Fourteenth Summer
“Knee high by the Fourth of July!” Uncle Dave said with a big grin as he strode across the sunny farmhouse kitchen. He pulled up a chair, pulled my ponytail and drawled, “Whatcha doin’ today, Tex?”
My name is actually Claire. Then he leaned toward my cousin and said in a loud stage whisper: “As if we didn’t already know!”
I had been in North Dakota only three days, an early-summer vacation with my mom and sister, just the three of us. Weird. I loved the big house, the big kitchen where my aunt and my mom made big breakfasts – everything here seemed big. Big and wide-open and flat.
It should have been a dream come true, because I was horse crazy and Uncle Dave had given me a horse to ride while we were there. My own horse! And every morning after breakfast, Beauty and I explored farm country. It could have been the perfect summer.
This morning, as usual, I climbed up on Beauty’s broad back and off we went. We hadn’t seen anyone, and rarely did a car pass on the dusty roads. So we were surprised when the dirt road we were on came out unexpectedly onto a small lake well-hidden by a cornfield, and even more surprised to see a human being!
An old bicycle leaned against a tree. A rickety dock perched on the edge of the water, and an old woman with a long gray braid and a floppy hat sat with her feet hanging off the edge, holding a fishing pole.
She had her back to us as we stopped in the shade of a spreading tree. I thought she didn’t hear us, but in a few minutes a clear voice said, “Licorice?”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Would you like some licorice?” she asked, turning. Her face was brown and weathered, but kind. “I shouldn’t have it, it’s hard on the few teeth I have left. But it’s my favorite.”
“I . . . I guess so,” I said, sliding off Beauty and tying her to the tree. I sat down on the edge of the dock, dangling my feet.
“Fishing?” I asked.
“Nope. Drowning worms,” she replied. Then she laughed, a tinkling laugh, and I had to smile at the joke.
“What are you doing out here all by yourself?” the woman asked.
“Exploring,” I answered.
“Nice day for exploring,” she said. “Lucy’s my name. What’s yours?”
“Claire.”
“Nice to meet you, Claire.” We sat in companionable silence for awhile, then suddenly she said, “Lotion?”
“Excuse me?” I said again.
Lucy took a tube of lotion out of a small rucksack and rubbed it into dry, chapped hands.
“Summer’s rough on the skin,” she said. “And,” she continued, rubbing her lotioned hands down the fishing line and throwing it out again, “the fish like the smell!” She gave me a knowing wink.
All I could think of to say was, “Hmm.”
It was the first of many conversations on the little dock, Beauty dozing in the shade. I asked her what my uncle meant when he said ‘knee high by the Fourth of July.’
She explained it meant the crops looked good, and the farmers had hopes for a good year. She paused, then said, “Tell your uncle it will be that kind of a year. Then added with a chuckle, “And as high as an elephant’s eye come harvest!”
I loved her laugh. I learned that Lucy lived in a small village nearby, (old-fashioned word, I thought), that she took an aspirin each day for her heart, that she had a cat named Kitty and that she used to grow prize-winning orchids.
And she learned that I was fourteen, that I was saving every penny to buy my own horse, that I had a dog named Muffin, and she learned my secret. The reason that this otherwise perfect summer wasn’t so perfect. I told her what I hadn’t talked about to anyone else – that two months ago my dad had committed suicide. That he shot himself in bed in the morning and my mom found him. That he’d tried it before, and tried to get help, that he was an alcoholic, that he scared us, that my mom somehow thought it was her fault. And the worse thing of all – the relief. The relief that the tension and the drama and the fear was gone – but the guilt about feeling that relief!
And I cried. I cried because I hadn’t cried when he died.
Lucy listened. She listened and hugged me and told me I wasn’t a bad person. She talked about life and death and God and love. And I started to heal.
Three weeks went by too fast. I rode for the last time to our dock, but Lucy wasn’t there. I waited, but after awhile I had to go. And there, on the tree was a small rucksack, with a note – ‘for the trip.’ Inside – licorice and lotion! I thought I could hear Lucy’s tinkling laugh as I rode back, smiling.
I asked my uncle to check on Lucy. “She’s pretty old, wears a floppy hat, and rides her bike to the lake to fish almost every day.”
Uncle Dave looked strange. “You say her name’s Lucy? Where does she live?”
“She told me she lives in a small village near there,” I replied.
“Village? Odd word. She couldn’t mean the old Mandan village! No one lives there! And there hasn’t been any fish in that lake for ten years!”
“Well, Lucy fishes there a lot. Oh, and I almost forgot, she said to tell you that the corn will be knee high by the Fourth of July, and as high as an elephant’s eye come harvest.”
“Now how could she possibly know that?” Uncle Dave asked. “She got an ‘in’ with the farm bureau?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, smiling. But I think she might just mean it’s going to be a better year.”
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Center for Writing Excellence 