This was our first genre writing contest, and we were not disappointed with the entries. Our writers stepped up to the plate and gave us some excellent stories, causing the judges to spend many hours scratching their heads and pulling on their chins, but they finally were able to come up with the following winning stories:
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First Place: Crossing Boredom, by Pauline Miller
Pauline Miller has a BEd degree and for six years took great pleasure in teaching middle school students to write while encouraging a love of literature. For the past six years, Pauline has been teaching kindergarten and grade one. The best part of her teaching day is pulling out a good storybook to share with her students. She sometimes shares her own writing with her students and finds them to be excellent, captive little critics. However, as most of her writing is faith based, she is unable to share very much with her public school students. Pauline is a member of Inscribe Christian Writer’s Fellowship.
God has given Pauline as passion to spread His word by writing stories. She believes that story telling is the greatest teaching tool and her heart’s desire is to use her writing to reach people who fear or disdain Jesus. Her perfect scenario would be using her stories to teach about Jesus and using profits from these stories to help children in some way.
Pauline gets most of her writing ideas while kayaking, fishing, driving through the mountains, and sometimes while walking through Walmart. She often attracts stares from strangers as she imagines a funny scene and bursts out laughing to herself. She lives with her husband and three children in
Calgary, Alberta.
Crossing Boredom
Staring into the mirror, Kathy fixated on the small, silver cross resting at her chest. Was it too obvious? Did she look like a nun? Would the other teachers assume she was some boring religious fanatic? She tucked part of the cross under her shirt and applied more mascara. As much as she feared an identity as a religious fanatic, she detested the idea of being boring even more. For Kathy, boredom was worse than death. In fact, tedious staff meetings nearly drove her to stab a pencil into her own eye. And what about the principal, who referred to the Christian families as “deluded do-gooders?” She began to remove the necklace, but almost choked on her own hypocrisy. “Okay God, I’ll wear it, but don’t expect me to act all churchy.”
By the time she lugged her school bag, purse, lunch and coffee into her old Jeep, Kathy was already running late. She didn’t notice her sunroof had been left open all night until she was peeling away. Jamming on her brakes, she was rewarded with a head full of wet leaves and morning dew. “Shit! Are you kidding me? I spent fifteen minutes straightening this hair!” With no time to go home, Kathy ran her hands through her gnarly mane and drove on. Perhaps her first graders would think she dressed like a tree on purpose; they were learning about autumn, after all.
Scritchaka, scritchaka. Kathy thought that was an odd sound to hear in one’s vehicle, but assumed it must be the leaves shuffling around as she sped up onto the busy highway. Reaching for her comforting brew, she breathed in the magic aroma of ripe autumn leaves mingled with fresh coffee. The fragrant spell was smashed as something clawed its way up her back! Flustered, Kathy wondered, at first, how her cat had escaped the house and gotten into the car. Suddenly, a black squirrel leapt onto the dash board. Kathy cut across three lanes of traffic as the crazed critter fought for traction on the slippery dash. She could hear the ballistic squirrel thrashing around the car, but there was nowhere to pull over. The dark rodent madly circled her feet again and again. Horrified, she hit the brakes and the evil furball climbed up her leg, crossed her torso, and took refuge on her head. It seemed the little devil’s instinct was to get as high as it could. In a blind panic, she slapped at her head for what seemed like five minutes of hell. Something moved in her shirt. She ripped it off. Leaves! Damn leaves!
Kathy wrenched her car door open and ran out into what was now a gridlock of angry commuters. The offending squirrel sprang from her Jeep and whirled across the stalled vehicles into the oncoming traffic. Splat! After a moment of almost mourning the squirrel, Kathy felt a frozen breeze scrape her bare abdomen. She looked down and realized she was clad only in a worn, whitish bra. With one arm across her chest, and the other attempting to cover the rat’s nest atop her head, Kathy began to wish someone would just run her over. Weakly, she waved at the drivers as they honked and hollered before escaping into her own vehicle.
As Kathy screeched into the staff parking lot, the usual transformation took place. She was no longer Kathy, the mother and wife. She was now Mrs. Sanford, Grade 1 teacher. Grabbing her bag, she whisked toward the front entrance and was greeted by several families waiting for school to start. They seemed a little surprised to see her. “Good morning,” she snapped. “Yes, even teachers are occasionally late.” She waved to the office staff as she whizzed by and hurried towards her classroom to prepare for the day.
Racing the bell and onslaught of boisterous students, Kathy rounded the corner and nearly bounced off Mr. Shard, the pudgy principal. “What happened to you?” His gray, wooly eyebrows met as he demanded an explanation.
Fingering her cross, Kathy said, “What do you mean?”
“Uh, your hair is full of leaves, your face is scratched, your shirt is on inside out, and you’re late.”
“Shit!” yelled Kathy as she tore to the bathroom.
After quickly fixing her shirt and washing her face, Kathy hustled to her classroom which was already inhabited by wild munchkins. With all of the screeching and cheering, she was relieved to see that only two students were involved in combat. The rest seemed caught up in a harmless game of “Shoe Wars.” Only Maddy and Lexi coloured quietly at their desks. Ducking a Nike hightop, Kathy started a Raffi CD and soon the whole class was singing and clapping to a song about wallabies. Kathy smiled and sighed as she melted into the rhythm of teaching and learning.
BBBZZZZZZ! Grabbing her orange safety vest, Kathy reluctantly followed the kids outside for recess. How she longed for a few quiet moments and a coffee. A bathroom break would have been a nice treat, as well. However, she convinced herself that the fresh air and exercise would revive her. Before she knew it, beautiful children were holding her hands and leading her around the school yard. Warm, autumn sunshine cloaked her back, and the little hands in hers reminded Kathy of how blessed she was.
“Mrs. Sanford, there’s a wasps’ nest in the tree over there,” reported Kyra. Kathy cringed as she thought about Maddy’s allergy, and tried not to act too concerned.
“Okay, don’t get too close to it.”
“Mrs. Sanford, look what I can do!” Samuel hung upside down from the blue climber. Dutifully, Kathy clapped and smiled.
Turning away, Kathy noticed the too–still form of a little girl lying on the brown grass. She was nearly knocked back by a powerful wave of nausea, but forced herself to run. It was Maddy. Her little grey face was mottled with pinkish spots and swollen. Maddy clawed at her throat and tried to breath as her lips swelled to four times their regular size. The child’s panicked, pleading blue eyes locked onto Kathy’s. The desperate teacher wanted to help Maddy more than she had ever wanted anything her entire life.
Grabbing the EpiPen from Maddy’s fanny pack, she silently prayed she would know what to do. With tremulous hands, Kathy pulled the lid off, flung Maddy’s dress up, and plunged the needle into the tiny thigh. No improvement. “Come on Maddy,” Kathy begged as she turned the pen around and jabbed Maddy again. She was struck by Maddy’s thighs, and how infantile and bony they were. They looked like they should be sticking out of a diaper.
“Oh, God, she’s just a baby. CALL 911!” the hysterical teacher screamed.
She grabbed that doll — girl up into her arms and dashed across the field and into the school. Kathy laid the unconscious child on the office carpet. Her silent prayers seemed insufficient as Kathy contemplated cutting a hole under Maddy’s larynx and breathing for her. The usual cacophony of the office stilled. Only Mr. Shard barked, “Maddy! Maddy!”
Kathy fell to her knees, collapsed over Maddy’s body, and wailed, “OH DEAR GOD! HEAVENLY FATHER. PLEASE, PLEASE, BREATHE LIFE INTO THIS PRECIOUS CHILD. I KNOW YOU CAN HEAL HER, PLEASE GOD, PLEASE HELP MADDY!”
And He did. Maddy was able to wheeze in enough oxygen to keep her going until the ambulance arrived. Then, like a drunken zombie, Kathy teetered into the principal’s empty office, collapsed, and cried. “Thank you, Jesus. Oh, thank you Jesus,” Kathy whispered as she rocked herself back to sanity.
The students were serenely cooperative for the rest of the day. After learning that Maddy would be okay, Kathy explained what happened to Maddy and the kids in the class decided to make cards for their fallen friend. Kathy played soft music while they worked and she tried not to cry again as she thought about how much she loved them. After clean up, line up, and hugs goodbye, Kathy sat and tried to decompress.
As she sat consoling herself with thoughts of red wine, Mr. Shard stumbled into her classroom. Kathy wasn’t sure what to expect. She wasn’t sure she had done the right thing – she had panicked, after all. And that prayer. Oh crap; that was over the top. She wasn’t sure if she should apologize or run.
“Um, are you okay?” he asked.
“I think so,” whispered Kathy. “Sorry about the way I reacted.”
“You were great. But about that praying stuff…”
Kathy winced, silently staring at the principal’s knees.
“Do you think you could pray for my wife? She’s pregnant and the baby isn’t doing very well.”
“What? I mean, yeah, yeah, of course.”
“Oh, and Kathy, I have a substitute teacher booked for you tomorrow. After a day of wild squirrels and near death, you deserve a day off,” he chuckled as he ambled away.
Kathy rested her head on her desk and saw the cross swinging from her chest. “Hmuh,” she chortled. “Definitely not boring.”
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Second Place: Simone’s Prize, by Pauline Miller (yes the same writer who won first place!)
Ten year old Simone was a plain, quiet girl. She was the fourth daughter of a fisherman. But not just any fisherman. Her father was the best fisherman in the village. Admired by everyone, this towering man could usually be found amongst a cloud of devoted children. Sometimes, a lucky tot or two would ride upon his shoulders with their little fingers clinging to his shaggy black mane. In the evening, her father’s booming laughter and the squeals of delighted, fish – toting children announced that he was home with his catch. Wistfully, Simone would watch from the trees and remember a time when she and her father would carry the fish home together. That was long ago, before she had disappointed him.
Their little village was surrounded by mountains, fir trees, and a vast lake with water the same deep blue as her Siamese cat’s eyes. Every year the village had a fishing derby, a contest where the person who catches the biggest fish wins a prize. That year, the prize was five hundred dollars! That was a LOT of money. Why, with that much money Simone could buy a real mountain bike with gears and hand brakes, and still have money left over to buy a fancy MP3 player. But more importantly, her father would be very proud of her.
Before the sun was up, even while it was still a bit dark out, Simone shot out of bed like a rainbow trout. She grabbed her father’s favourite fishing rod and skipped to the lake. When she got there, she noticed the old man who never smiled, Mr. Onesimus. He sat scowling on a boulder. Patches of wild hair stuck out above his ears like an old grey nest. The top of his bald head dipped as if a large bird had once lived there. His feathery eyebrows flapped as he glared at her. But Simone wasn’t worried about Mr. Onesimus. She was there to catch the biggest fish, so she went woosh-woosh with her father’s fishing rod and cast her hook out as far as she could.
Finally, after nearly a whole sweaty day in the hot sun, Simone felt something on her line. Something solid. Something huge. She could hardly reel in fast enough. When she finally saw the end of her line she froze! For on her hook was the biggest, greenest umbrella she had ever seen. She managed not to cry, but then Mr. Onesimus was pointing at her and laughing like a happy monkey.
She stormed home and stomped straight to her room. The poor girl flopped down on her bed and cried. Her little sister asked, “Are you okay, Mone?”
Simone hollered, “GET OUT OF HERE!” Suddenly, as if an angel were whispering in her ear, Simone remembered what her father said to do when she was angry. Slowly, Simone reached for her pink Bubblegum Bible and let it fall open on her pillow. Ephesians. …and don’t stay angry. Don’t give the devil that kind of foothold in your life. Then a cloud of peace surrounded Simone and she slept. She never even stirred when her father came in and covered her with her favourite blanket and a kiss on her head.
When the sun lapped at her window the next morning, Simone popped out of bed like a flying fish. She grabbed her father’s fishing rod and scooted straight down to the lake. All the way to the lake she prayed that grumpy Mr. Onesimus would not be there. But when she came around the corner she saw him sitting on the boulder. He was glaring at her. He wasn’t smiling. Simone just took a deep breath – she was there to catch the biggest fish. She went woosh-woosh with her fishing rod and cast her hook out as far as she could. She waited. Hours went by and nothing happened. She said the whole alphabet and still nothing happened. She said the whole alphabet backwards and WUMP. There was something on her line. Something solid . Something huge. Simone tried to reel it in as fast as she could, but it was so massive that her arms shook and she was afraid her line would snap. Finally, at the end of her line, she saw the biggest, blackest bird cage she had ever seen!
“ HAR HAR HAR!” Mr. Onesimus was laughing so hard that he fell off the rock and into the water. Frustrated and humiliated, Simone rushed home and hurled herself straight onto her comforting bed where she kicked her legs and screamed into her pillow. But then came another whisper, and this precious child remembered her father teaching her about how Jesus prayed for His enemies. So although she did not feel like it, Simone prayed for Mr. Onesimus. She prayed he would discover the love of Jesus and learn to be a kind and happy man. Before she even opened her eyes, Simone felt a great sense of relief, as if all of her anger was being carried away. She did not even notice her father smiling at her from her doorway.
After a peaceful sleep, when the sunbeams were tickling her eyelids, Simone wiggled out of bed like a playful dolphin. She grabbed her father’s fishing rod and raced straight to the lake. She ran so swiftly that she smashed right into Mr. Onesimus! He did not smile. But Simone did. She told Mr. Onesimus about how she prayed for him. He did not smile. He scowled, at first, like an angry teacher. And then, smoothing out his face, he asked Simone what she prayed for. When Mr. Onesimus heard her sweet, simple prayer he stood silent for a few seconds. Then he wept. Taking Simone’s small hands in his own large ones, he asked her to tell him about Jesus. She told him. And then Mr. Onesimus’ face broke into a brilliant, toothy smile. Never far from Simone, her father stood watching in the nearby trees. He was also smiling as he wiped the tears from his dark eyes.
Still smiling, Mr. Onesimus took something red and shiny out of his pocket. Simone thought he was giving her a candy. He surprised her by tying it to the end of her fishing line. Then she went woosh-woosh and cast her line out as far as she could. Simone looked up at the sky, and as she thanked God for such a glorious day, she felt a tugging. It felt like something was trying to yank the rod right out of her hands!
“WOOHOO! Reel it in, girlie!” whooped Mr. Onesimus. Simone yanked back, holding on tightly as she cranked the fishing reel. Her fingers ached and she feared she would lose her father’s best fishing rod. Finally, the watery battle was over and Simone sat gaping at a perfect, green speckled trout. “What a beauty! What a whopper!” hollered Mr. Onesimus as he waved his boney arms.
Simone’s fish was big. It wasn’t the biggest, though, and she did not win the fishing derby. She did not get the five hundred dollars. But that did not matter. When her father heard about how Simone helped Mr. Onesimus, he lifted her up as high as he could and pronounced her a ‘Fisher of Men.’
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Third Place: Green Beans . . . and a Fork
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.
Green Beans…and a Fork
There I was. Standing behind the same oak podium in the same room looking out over the same faces of those who were there just a few years before. I don’t think much had changed…except maybe me.
I practiced my speech for a couple of days, and I knew exactly what I was going to say. But, just to be sure, and because public speaking is not my specialty – especially under the circumstances – I had my notes placed gently under the soft light of the holder in front of me.
The last time I stood in this spot was at my grandfather’s request, and his words were all that would command my presence here for a second time.
Looking into the audience, I realized there was not one thing that I could tell these people that they didn’t already know about my grandfather. It had been more than 20 years since my parents and I moved from the rural farming community to a city about 200 miles away. I was a very young girl then, and I came back every summer to my grandparents’ small farm.
Needless to say, I had a lot of material to choose from because there were a lot of “Samuel-and-Lori” stories that I had preferred to keep to myself. As I looked down on my notes on the podium, there they were all neatly written out and ready for me to share with the rest of the mourners.
I could feel tears burning my eyes, so I looked across at my mother, my father, and my grandfather’s baby brother. They couldn’t look at me. I could feel their overwhelming sadness steeping from so far away. There was a rustling behind me that was the pastor beginning to stand up from his chair, but I put my hand in the small of my back as a slight signal to give me just one more minute.
When I finally opened my mouth, nothing but a squeak came out. Granddaddy would have loved that. A room filled with people, with him at the center of attention, and I squeak. He had no idea how difficult his request would be for me to fulfill when he asked me to speak about my grandmother three years prior or about him on that day.
Children never expect to see their parents or grandparents grow old or sick. They are our parents. They are invincible. They never cry, always laugh, have superhuman strength, have answers to every question, know how to fix every broken item on the planet, and never need rest. They are the perfect specimens of humanity.
And, then one day…they aren’t.
Granddaddy had been fighting what we first thought was the flu or pneumonia earlier in the year. It wasn’t. He had two heart bypass surgeries the last of which was more than 10 years prior. He was healthier than anyone else in the family. He had never known the ache of arthritis or a bad back, but the pain of two heart surgeries was plenty. This flu or pneumonia, or whatever it had become, was now the final stages of congestive heart failure.
It made for a very long summer.
My father moved in with Granddaddy, and I would leave work every Friday evening taking the long drive to the small farm to cook and clean for the two men in my life, spending as much time as I could with both of them. During the week my father would call with updates, none of them very good. My mother would drive down with our pups to visit and bring as much joy as she could to what would prove to be a short life.
It was August 25, my 40th birthday, when my father and I got the news from his doctor who sat us down on the couch on the opposite side of the room from his hospital bed. Granddaddy’s kidneys were shutting down. At his advanced age and given his heart failure, it was a question of quantity and quality of life, and now it would be up to my father and me to explain the facts and carry out my grandfather’s wishes.
I think I was in shock when the doctor left the room. Daddy asked if I would be okay for a little while so he could go outside and make some phone calls. I remember nodding. When the nutritionist came in with the lunch tray, I walked over and gently woke up my sleeping giant and asked him if he was ready for something to eat.
“Depends on what’s for lunch.” Granddaddy was never a picky eater when my grandmother was alive. I never remember seeing him push back from a plate of food in my entire life, even a bad one like hospital food.
“Well, let’s see.” I said. I took the cover off the tray. We both laughed because each compartment had a small cup or plastic wrapped morsel nestled in it. He tried to unwrap the small glass of tea, but his hands were shaking so badly it spilled on the blanket covering his lap.
“They don’t make it easy for you, do they, Granddaddy? Let’s get everything unwrapped, and we’ll see what we have.”
It didn’t look that appetizing, and I was tempted to call Daddy to run across the street to get something else. I unwrapped the green beans, mashed potatoes, baked chicken and roll that was so hard it could have been used as a weapon. He fumbled around with the plasticware until he rescued the fork. He never said a word about the meal – just stabbed the green beans dead center with the fork and sat back.
I didn’t know whether he was angry at what the doctor said about the prognosis, angry at the horrible meal, or just angry. I looked up at my grandfather, and he was smiling.
“Green beans are only good for one thing. To hold up your fork.”
That was all it took. A pile of over-cooked, mushy green beans and a plastic fork set off a bomb of laughter between an ailing grandfather and his heartbroken granddaughter. We laughed so hard that the nurse came rushing in holding her stethoscope around her neck with my father hot on her heels thinking something had gone tragically wrong. It had…in the hospital’s kitchen…but we were just fine in the room at that moment.
That was the story that I told from the podium that afternoon. That was the one thing I knew about my grandfather than no one else knew. Everyone knew that my grandfather loved his community enough to fight with county commissioners and other local government representatives to protect the farmers. Everyone knew that he fought for decades for better roads and bridges for the safety of the residents of his county. Everyone also knew that a large part of his heart died three years ago when his bride of more than 60 years passed away in the house he built for them on the farm they lived on since the 1950s.
A couple of weeks after the funeral, I went to lunch with a friend to a Southern-style restaurant that specialized in “meat-and-three” lunches. I was in a fried chicken, peas, corn and green beans mood. We sat down near the window, and she was telling me a story about something that had happened in her office when I realized I was no longer listening.
I was staring at the green beans. I don’t like green beans, and I wasn’t sure why I chose them…especially when there was mac-and-cheese on the table. I stabbed the green beans with my fork, and I watch amazed when the fork stood up perfectly straight. Even before the first tear hit the table I realized what my grandfather was really trying to tell me that day in the hospital.
I told my friend the story of my grandfather’s green beans and his fork, and we had a good giggle. I also told her the meaning of the story he had tried to tell me that day, but I wasn’t ready to hear it then knowing I had precious few moments left with him.
He and my grandmother spent a lifetime together. They were married more than 60 years when she passed away. They survived some rocky times, some good times, some great times, but all the while, she had been his foundation.
She had been the one thing that always held him up when he stumbled. She had been the foundation of the family they created together, the foundation of the little farm they built together, the foundation of their life together. Without that foundation, everything crumbles.
I didn’t have my Prince Charming, but I had my foundation with my friends and family. It would be up to me to keep that foundation and nurture it with everything that I had. That was his final lesson to me. He tried to teach me that lesson that day in the hospital over a plate of mushy beans, but the only thing I wanted to hear then was that he was going to get better, walk out of the hospital that next morning, and everything would be just fine.
It wasn’t fine, but it was better. It took a lot of time for me to accept, as we Southerners like to say, that he was in a better place with my grandmother and no longer in pain. My pain would eventually subside as I came to realize my lesson and understand that it was something just for me, even though I shared the story with all those people in the chapel. It was mine, and mine alone.
My foundation grows stronger every day. I’ve learned that relationships with my friends and family are much like the cotton and peanuts my grandparents grew on their farm. They must be cultivated, nurtured, loved…or they wither and crumble away into the dirt below. Some of my relationships already have through the adversity I’ve faced following my grandfather’s passing. But, those whose roots were already strong have weathered the storm with me and continue to grow stronger as new relationships come into the mix.
All because of a plate of green beans and a fork.
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Honorable Mention: Last Bus Out, by Judy Beglau. You will be able to read this story in the Second Annual C4WE Fiction Anthology, due out in August, 2012.
Center for Writing Excellence 