Tag: 1st place

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The thud was unmistakable. He slammed on the brakes, and jumped out. Nothing. Panning his eyes across a small field of corn, with red and orange leaves showering down from the nearby forest, he shivered in his thin jacket. He then turned back toward his truck, and starting blinking wildly…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…

---

It happened as Nolan drove his family home. He was lost in thought, plotting the novel he would someday find time to write. Miles and Cooper were whining for ice cream from the backseat, and Mia was asking him something about grocery lists or car maintenance or chores.

“Nolan, are you listening?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, you’re listening, or yeah, you remembered to buy cake mix?”

“Yeah.”

“Nolan,” she groaned. Then, yanking him from his thoughts, “Nolan!“

He slammed on the brakes, but it was too late; he never even saw whatever they hit, but there was a sickening thud as the car screeched to a halt and the kids began to cry.

“Jesus, Nolan,” said Mia.

He sighed and got out of the truck so he wouldn’t have to listen to the rest: You can’t even pay attention to the road when you’ve got the kids in the backseat.

“This wouldn’t have happened if everyone wasn’t making so much damned noise,” he muttered as he looked to see what had thrown itself under his tires.

Nothing. He panned his eyes across the field of corn. Red and orange leaves showered down from the nearby forest. He knew they’d hit something. But there was no dead thing under his tires, and no injured critter slinking off to die alone. He turned back to the truck, bracing himself for the kids’ noise and Mia’s nagging—then stopped cold.

There, in the front seat, was—himself. An imposter. A shiver ran down his spine. He banged on the window, but no one even looked up. The imposter started the truck.

Since no one could see or hear him, Nolan swung himself up into the truck bed. There was no way he was letting this imposter leave him out in the corn.

As his mind raced with possibilities about what could be going on, music started playing. The imposter was turning up the radio. Miles and Cooper had stopped crying and were singing along to “When I’m 64,” by the Beatles. Mia looked at the imposter and smiled, putting a hand on his leg. That was their song, his and Mia’s, though he couldn’t remember the last time they’d listened to it.

“Mia!” he shouted, banging on the back window, but she didn’t hear.

None of them could—not as they stopped for Baskin Robbins on the way home; not as the imposter dared the boys to see who could put their pajamas on first; not as Mia kissed the imposter in the kitchen while the boys watched Moana or whatever Pixar movie they were obsessed with. Nolan had to watch, helpless, as the imposter carried his sleeping boys to bed and tucked them in. He had to watch, impotent, as the imposter returned downstairs to carry his wife to bed. He had to step outside to avoid watching what happened next.

In the middle of the night, as Mia slept, the imposter opened his eyes. He looked directly at Nolan, sitting in the chair he’d thrown Nolan’s pants over.

“You can see me.”

“Yes. Let’s take a walk.”

***

“What are you?”

“I’m Nolan,” said the imposter.

“You can’t just steal my life.”

“It’s not like you were really doing anything with it,” said the imposter. “Ignoring your boys, shutting out Mia, endlessly plotting the Great American Novel without ever sitting down to write. You were so checked out, you made it easy for me to check in.”

“But you’re not really me!”

“Aren’t I?”

“No!”

“What do you think makes you you?”

It was a bigger question than he knew how to answer.

“I’ve been watching you a long time,” said the imposter. “Everything you want, I want—except I have the drive to make it happen. All the love you feel for your family, I feel—only stronger. I bought the boys ice cream, and made love to Mia. Tomorrow, I’ll sit down and write that novel you’ve been plotting for a decade.”

“They’ll notice.”

The imposter laughed. Nolan’s laugh. “Yep,” he said. “They’ll notice. The boys will notice when I coach little league and pick out their birthday gifts and take off work early so I can pick them up from school. Mia will notice when I do the dishes every night, when I take her out, when I tell her she’s beautiful. Your boss will notice when I show up on time.”

“They’ll know it’s not me. They’ll know you’re an imposter.”

“Oh, Nolan. I’m not the imposter. You were. You were an imposter of a father. An imposter of a husband. An imposter of a writer. Mia and the boys deserve better. Frankly, Nolan deserves better. I will be a better Nolan than you ever could have been.”

“But… what will I do?”

The other Nolan shrugged. “You could simply fade away. You could hang around and watch as I make your dreams come true; there could be some comfort in that. Or, you could get a life.”

“Steal one, you mean?”

“Is it stealing if you take something someone else abandoned?” The other Nolan shook his head. “But if you do manage to get a life of you own, promise me this,” he said. “Take better care of it next time around.”

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The fishing pier was long, and narrow. It was late and she had to hurry before someone saw her. She clutched it tight as tears streamed down her face. When she got to the end of the pier, she looked out over the water and, with all of her might, she threw it in.

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…

---

The last-minute decision to sail from Charlevoix to Beaver Island on Lake Michigan seemed perfect. Though never excited to leave dry land, I knew the four-hour trip would be good for us.

Our boat, The Dreamer, was a 35-foot Hunter, low-slung with a drop-down centerboard, dive deck, small galley, four berths and a spacious head. The cabin door stuck, but overall, she was seaworthy. He’d named it after me. Called me a dreamer. I guess I was. I dreamed of a good job. Faithful husband. Nice house. Family—though that never happened. We’d bought Dreamer several years into our marriage. I learned to love the gracious silence of being aboard.

“Come on!” His voice was sharp. Restless.

Caution made me check the weather—again. Chauncey, our Black Lab, was already in the car. It was late when we loaded our supplies. I pushed off while Tim directed from the helm.

“Just the jib out of the harbor!” he barked. His voice harbored angst.

I knew the routine. Motor through the narrow channel. Jib at the ready to test the wind. Full sail once underway. Relax. I would, but I was always waiting for the next shoe to drop.

Lake Michigan frightened me. Unpredictable water. Ocean tides, known for sudden squalls. He grew up on the lake, knew the wind and water better than most. His confidence did nothing to squelch my fears, but I trusted him.

The late August afternoon was sweltering for Michigan—the water still icy cold. I stretched out on the bow, relishing sun on my skin. Glancing back, his bronze face and sandy blonde hair looked striking against his orange windbreaker. One tan leg extended, the other cocked beneath him, arm draped lazily over the tiller. I couldn’t help but love him. His crooked smile suggested innocence.

Two hours out, the boat suddenly tilted, almost tossing me from the bow. I’d dozed off. The sky to the West had darkened. I recognized water ripples cutting toward us meant trouble.

“Tim!” I shouted. “A storm!” Scrambling to my knees, I edged my way toward the cockpit. The boat keeled farther. The boom was tied in place, something Tim did to steady us as he chartered our course.

He was nowhere in sight. The wind pressed against the sail. The ever-changing angle of the boat made it difficult for me to navigate aft. I screamed again. No response. Jerking the taut line loose, the boom freed, jolting Dreamer upright. The released sail flapped angrily.

With little warning, the sky released its fury. Blasted me with coin-sized rain. A rush of cold air. The boat pitched left, then right. Tossed me like a salad.

Chauncey barked furiously from the hull, scratching the wood floor as though digging a grave. I tugged at the handle. It flew wide, sending me reeling. Chauncey raced past the helm before bailing overboard. Horrified, I understood. The sky glared like a canvas of purple and black bruises.

With barely time to react, I needed the engine. I fumbled to find the choke. Rain distorted my vision. I pulled—a weak tug worthy of no response. I pulled again. I knew every second counted. A soft purr and the smell of fuel rewarded me. Hand on the tiller, I steered Dreamer into a circle, doubling back in the direction I thought we’d come.

“Tim!” I screamed until my voice dissolved.

The rain relented, giving me slightly better visibility. A sharp bark on the starboard side caught my ear. Chauncey struggled to stay afloat. I maneuvered toward him. Cut the engine. Motioned him to the dive deck. Pulled him onboard. He collapsed in a heap.

Without notice, a rouge wave thrust the boom my way, knocking me unconscious. In my daze, the stars shone like a million crystals, brilliant and beautiful against a coal black sky. The lake’s anger rocked me in cradle fashion. Drifting in and out of darkness, I felt an irony in the peace.

My beloved husband was missing—most likely dead.

Tasting blood in my mouth, I realized no one knew where we were. How or if we’d be found.

Head throbbing, the light smell of fish caused my stomach to lurch. I swung my arm to my left. My hand struck what felt like glass. Tim’s iPhone. The screen lit up with my touch. I prayed for service to call for help.

Squinting, I struggled to focus on a message. Tell her this time. I won’t wait forever. Meet you Monday. My place. Love you.

The dizziness I felt had nothing to do with my injuries. Late nights and weekend work now made sense.

This wasn’t my dream.

Unexpectedly, Chauncey barked at the sea. I crawled to the boat’s edge. Peered into the blackness, my head spinning. Sixty feet away, Tim lurched with the violent waves. One arm flailed. A weak call for help. I checked my watch. He’d been in the icy water for an hour and a half. Death by hypothermia was imminent.

Struggling to my feet, I wrenched the main boom into place. Secured the sail until the boat lunged forward. Every second counted. Rain pelted my face. Rage tore through my heart.

Scanning the horizon, I heaved his phone into the sea. Watched it disappear.

Glancing back only once, I let his screams fade behind me.

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The cherry blossoms floated gently down, landing on their blanket. They had just started eating when a pigeon landed by their basket. They both stared wide-eyed as the bird walked closer, unafraid. That’s when they noticed a tiny scroll of paper attached to its right leg…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

I glower at the white void before me. It is supposed to be my masterpiece, but it sits there untouched. My motivation has shriveled to the size of a pea and rolls around in my head like a marble. I imagine shadowy characters dancing in the white void, happily giving me the finger.

“Ha-ha, Leon’s lost it,” they say repeatedly.

“Damn,” I shouted. “Everything is prepared but me. I can’t seem to get started.”

My muse, Lilly, is sitting in front of me. That’s my affectionate name for her because she has beautiful, pale, unsullied skin. She isn’t wearing any clothes right now, which is very distracting.

“You need to relax, Leon,” she says. “Do something to take your mind off work. Wait, I know what we can do! Let’s have a picnic out back under the cherry tree.”

“Okay, but please put something on,” I say. “You’re distracting me.”

Lilly flies off and returns in a few seconds, which is not enough time to fully dress. She’s wearing a sheer fabric dress with nothing underneath but a hint.

#

As I drink my sixth glass of Chianti, we sit on my not-so-clean blanket. Lilly smiles her magic smile and stands before me like a goddess. The sunlight behind her causes shadows to dance beneath her dress. She hands me a slice of blueberry pie. It’s my favorite, except when the cherry blossoms fall on it, as one did. The blossoms are full of little ants, you know.

Lilly moves behind me and kneads my trapezius muscles near my neck. The day’s tension has made them rock hard.

Just as I begin to relax, a yellow pigeon lands on the blanket and walks pigeon-toed toward us. It has a tiny bit of paper attached to its leg. Curious, I pick up the bird. Then, darkness engulfs me as Lilly shouts my name.

#

I awake in a strange place shrouded in darkness. I am lying on my side with my knees pressed against my chest-like an amorphous blob.

My eyes are open, and I can see, yet I am submerged in the darkness.

How can this be? It’s a mystery I cannot solve.

My mind, once sharp and quick, is now unfocused and muddled. I lay at the feet of Uninspired, the bane of all artists. He looks down at me without pity.

Scattered about are dozens-nay hundreds of crushed paper balls, all half-finished. They are witnesses to my ineptness.

Obscurity beckons, and in my despair, I yearn for it to consume me.

Then, without overture, a beacon of light pierces the darkness. It manifests on the horizon, resembling an orange sunrise.

A gentle voice beckons me.

“Turn around and look at me,” it says sensually.

I turn and cry out in joy as the beam of light penetrates my soul.

In that instant, my stagnation ends, and I can move again. I unfold my body and stand tall. A powerful gravitational pull draws me to the light like a moth to a flame. Enlightenment!

The same sultry voice whispers a single word, “Clarity.”

That word explodes in my consciousness like a bomb, and my thoughts, so long blocked, are unobstructed. A cacophony of inspirations hasten in to fill the void. Elation!

Softly like a Siren’s song, all the voices began calling me again.

“Come, play with us,” they say. “It will be easier this time, we promise.”

“Yes! Oh, yes,” I implore them. “Cavort with me. Inspire me. Arouse me.”

Loneliness, my companion in this place, departs, and another fiery light replaces it.

Immediately, the burden of impotence I carry is lifted from my shoulders. I feel as light as thistledown and as virile as a bull.

I sigh in gratefulness as the fiery light pierces my chest and touches my heart. Creativity, the lifeblood of my vocation, again flows through my body like hot lava.

The brainfire, long stifled by the disparaging words of cynics, is ignited again. It burns like a fever, kindling new thoughts and ideas.

I’m filled with purpose again, and my spirit soars on the wings of confidence. The magic carpet of imagination awaits me. I climb aboard it and am transported from the abyss into the realm of infinite possibilities.

No longer made mute by the darkness, music fills and soothes my entire being. Articulacy is mine once more.

With renewed determination, I turn and face the vast white void that once consumed me. It no longer intimidates me. Instead, it begs for transformation.

I smile as my thoughts come together. My arms reach out, and the white void trambles. I am once again its master. My vigor has returned!

“Turn around and look at me,” the voice says.

I turn and find myself back under the cherry tree.

My lover, Lilly, embraces me and kisses my lips passionately.

“My Leon is back,” she says.

Then she smiles that smile.

“Come, follow me. Let me relax you a bit more.”

Her voice holds a promise, and I hesitate for only a moment. Then I notice the shadows beneath her dress swaying. I am aroused, and in my passion, I call Lilly by her given name.

“Wait for me, Mona Lisa,” I say.

“Hurry, Leonardo,” she calls back, seductively.

Her dress falls away as we pass my studio, and I gasp. The sight inspires me.

“Lilly,” I say. “What if I paint a head and shoulder portrait instead?”

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

She opened the door quickly and her dearest friend rushed in, bringing part of the blizzard through the entryway, and leaving slush on the floor.

“Good Heavens! Why in the world are you out in this mess?!”

While removing her coat, her friend looked left, and then right, and whispered, “I simply HAD to tell you this in person! I couldn’t risk nosey old Mildred listening in on the phone!”

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

I looked through the window and sighed. April, and here we were in the middle of a blizzard.

Someone rapped their knuckles on my front door. I opened it and a gust of icy wind swept through the hallway. Joan fell through the door, her coat caked thick with snow even after the short walk from her house, and shrieked that she had some news. I didn’t react much. I was fond of her, but she could whip up the slightest tale into War and Peace. In truth, many of the locals found her weird, but I didn’t mind her quirks because I’d known her since we were children and deep down her heart was kind. I was possibly the only person in our little town who she looked on as a friend.

“You haven’t read the paper?”

“Not yet. That idiot of a paper boy left it on the front step and it’s soaked in snow. It’s drying out by the fire.”

“They found Mark Robertson dead. Said he’d blown his brains out. On that patch of wasteland by the school.”

“No.”

“Yes.” She leaned towards me. “I couldn’t tell you on the phone because you never know who’s listening. Because I know the truth. She killed him.”

“You mean Mildred? His wife?”

“There’s never been any love in that house, I can assure you.”

“Maybe not, but what makes you think she killed him?”

“I saw them. From my house.”

“Saw them?”

“I just happened to be looking out of the window and I saw them both getting into their car.”

“What’s so strange about that?”

“It was just before the paper said it happened. So he wasn’t alone, you see. He was with her.”

I still didn’t really react. We locals lived in our tiny world and we all got bored at times and longed for a bit of excitement, especially when the weather made you a prisoner in your own house.

“How do you know it was just before it happened? Did you check the time?”

She thought for a moment and nodded. “I wondered where they might be going at that time of day on a Sunday. Especially in this weather.”

I asked her if she wanted a cup of tea. I have no idea why I did it. Perhaps I was buying time to take everything in.

She ignored my offer. “What should I do, Elizabeth? Should I go to the police?”

I imagined Fred at his counter, staring through his spectacles with his customary cynical gaze. Then I thought of what the locals might do if Fred made her accusation public. He wasn’t renowned for his discretion.

“Even if you saw them in their car, that doesn’t prove anything.”

“But if she found out it was me, who knows what she might do? The paper didn’t say they’d found the gun. Perhaps she still has it.”

And I suddenly felt sorry for her, as she sat there fingering the row of beads around her neck. I realised how lonely she must sometimes be, when everyone kept their distance from her because she had no social graces and she often said the wrong thing and played clumsy practical jokes. But deep down it was more than that, I think. She spooked them.

“Maybe you should sleep on it,” I said. “There’s no point stirring up a hornet’s nest unless you’re really sure.”

She looked doubtful. “But Mildred is so nasty,” she replied, scrunching up her eyes. “Her heart is cold and spiteful. I hate to think of her getting away scot free.”

She was right; Mildred was the worst type of gossip, motivated by malice more than boredom. But she was good at spreading her poison, and people were keen not to cross her so they wouldn’t be her next victim.

“Why not sleep on it?” I repeated, softly. And I patted her hand.

“Maybe you’re right.” She sighed. “Well, I’d better be getting back before it gets even deeper.”

And as she stepped out into a street where mountains of snow had obliterated all colour, I imagined I saw a sparkle in her eyes and a strange little smile on her lips.

Then she turned around and suddenly fell serious. “The snow can be like a cage sometimes,” she said, before fading into the flurry.

I poured myself that cup of tea and took the newspaper from the fireplace. It was dry enough to read now, although the pages had all crinkled up.

I looked at the front page. Nothing. Surely in our sleepy community, this would be front page news in the local rag. Slowly I scoured through the rest of the paper, page by page. Nothing.

I sat down for a moment and thought. Then I went over to the phone.

“Yes?” I was pretty sure I recognised the voice as Mark’s.

“Mark? Are you alright?”

“Of course I’m alright. Who is that?”

I slammed the phone down. I felt stupid and embarrassed. I hoped to God he hadn’t recognised my voice.

I picked up my cup of tea and glanced again at the front page. Then I noticed the date. April the First.

I let out an involuntary laugh. No wonder she spooked the whole town.

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The old hag had insisted her locked diary be buried with her in the casket. Her white hair created a halo around her head in the simple pine box. The townsfolk were afraid to miss her funeral, on All Hallow’s Eve of all days! After all she’d done in her living years, who knew what she had in store for them after her passing?

Nobody noticed when one tiny girl reached into the casket, grabbed the tattered, leatherbound tome, and hid it inside her coat.

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

EDITOR’S NOTE: While reading this story, notice the creative way the writer put separate elements of the topic into parts of his story.

Sometimes you just must be in the right place at the right time.

It was a cold and blustery day. Fog was dense, clinging to the edge of the ocean like a curtain between one world and another. I trudged along the slowly advancing edge of the swirling surf, just past low tide, the endless battle between ocean and land. It had been a rough couple of years. Lost some friends to cancer, an old buddy to agent orange, and just plain old age. I’m finding the alternative to dying is growing old and living in a worn-out body in a world I no longer understand or participate in. Sometimes I wonder why I’m even sticking around for what’s left of my life. The memory fades and the body declines.

I watched the fog warily as it seemed to close in around us. I reached down to give Jack a scratch on the ears, and he gave me a brief tail wag before stopping and giving a short warning bark. I almost tripped over an object that had just floated in and been deposited in the sand by the advancing surf. It was a small box and I bent down and grabbed it before it could wash back out to sea. It appeared to be tightly sealed with a firm brass latch on one side. I picked it up. It wasn’t heavy but appeared to have been in the water for a long time. There was nothing on the outside to indicate where it came from or what was inside, if anything.

I moved up on the beach away from the surf and kneeled in the damp sand, placing the box in front of me. Jack immediately sniffed it all over, gave a wag, then sat to watch me start to pry it open. The latch was corroded shut and the hinges creaked as I slowly pried the lid up with my knife. Jack barked twice and took a sniff of the box. He gave a wag and the lid popped loose and opened wide. The fog suddenly closed in around us blocking the view of both land and sea. The box was gone and before us stood a doorway. Jack suddenly lurched forward and vanished through the doorway. Without thinking, I plunged through behind him. After all, he’d do the same for me.

“Jack,” I called out and a voice responded.

“Over here,” the voice said. The fog was gone. So was the ocean and the surf. I was inside a large structure. I looked around frantically, and a small man appeared before me.

“Where’s my dog,” I demanded. The man laughed. There was something very familiar about him.

“Hello Ben”, he said. “You should know my name. After all, you did save me years ago when you brought me into your life. You rescued me then and now I can rescue you.

“You mean,” I stammered, unable to complete my sentence.

“That’s right, Ben'” he said, “I’m Jack, at your service. Same as always, actually.” He grinned, just as he always had. “I didn’t drag you out to the beach in the cold and wet for nothing. We had to get that box. They only send it on October 31st every year.

I was silent, trying to make sense of what was happening. This little man used to be my dog, Jack. I wasn’t sure who had rescued who. There was a buzz of sound all around me as I stared in awe at the little people working away at what appeared to be workstations, with small couches instead of office chairs. There was a bowl of water on each desk. “I must be dreaming, or hallucinating, or something,” I said.

“Nope,” said Jack, “this is reality. You haven’t been in reality for some time.”

“A world out of control is my reality,” I said.

“That reality isn’t yours,” he said. “We each have our own reality and you have control over yours only. You can’t change the world, just yourself.

He led me over to a desk where a little white haired old lady was opening a leather-bound book.

“Hello, Ben,” she said, smiling, “I just found your page in the ledger. I remember when they brought you home from the hospital. A cute little baby boy, but you sure were loud.”

She seemed so familiar, and then it hit me. “Gussie?” I stammered.

“Bingo,” said Jack. “Your first dog. She’s an elder here now.”

“You’ve had a long relationship with many of us over the years,” she said, “years filled with love and caring. That’s your reality, not the chaos of the world. You can’t carry the problems of the entire planet on your shoulders, only your own. Dogs are here to facilitate that. You rescued us and we rescue you. That’s the way the world goes round.”

“Time to go back,” said Jack. “It’s dinner time here, and yes, we still eat kibble.”

Suddenly, I was back on the beach. The fog was lifting, and sunbeams were dancing on the sand. I looked around, and there was Jack, wagging and grinning.

“Yes Ben. We still have work to do together before we move on,” he said.

We headed home with the sun shining brightly, man and dog. Jack never spoke again, but his wags and grin do the talking.

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

It was noon and every booth was full. Nobody was in a hurry to leave the air-conditioned diner. The rise and fall of buzzing cicadas outside signaled it was the high season. Residents in the small town earned enough money during the summer months to support their families all year.

Every conversation suddenly silenced when a thundering “Thud…BOOM!” sounded in the distance. Every eye turned toward the chalk painted windows. “Thud…BOOM!” It came again. There was no smoke in the distance and there were no highways or railroads for at least fifty miles. Several men started walking quickly towards the door. “Thud…BOOM!!”

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

The menfolk ran outside, hungry for their own tale of glory. They lined up, at least ten of them, each eager to play the role of the victorious, rugged, lone ranger of the wild frontier. After all, they had come here to be heroes.

Another thud.

A sleek, feathered arrow stuck in the saloon’s wooden porch pillar. The men crouched for cover and drew their pistols. A high-pitched war cry rang out and a war horse kicked up a swirl of dust as it galloped down the main street. The native warrior riding it looked no older than a schoolboy, but even so, he cut a savage figure.

The pioneers opened fire and the native slumped off his horse, rolling to a dead stop in the street. The thundering hoofbeats faded into the distance, and a nervous silence fell as the townsfolk eyeballed the body in the street.

“Injun’s dead!” Someone declared, and the street erupted in cheers and celebrations.

***

Before all of this, this land was sacred. From the mighty rivers, past the ridges and canyons, over the plains and to the Sacred Mountains, this was our home. Our elders taught us children to respect it. They showed us how the land provided us with everything we needed. Grandma showed us different grasses; the best for weaving, the best for rope. She showed us where and when the land offered black oak acorns, seeds, herbs and berries.

We learned from her to read the wind and the river banks, and move with the changing seasons. We listened and when the land yearned for respite, we moved on. When we returned next, it had regenerated and nourished us again.

At night we gathered around the flickering fire and watched the flames dance as Grandma told us stories of the bear and the wolf and the buffalo. We came to understand that every living thing has a place on this land, we are all connected. We walked these plains with harmony and gratitude in our steps, and in return it provided for us in abundance.

Then they came.

With their fences, diseases and bullets. First, they took the men as slaves and worked them to death. That’s how I lost my father and uncles. They went out to cross the land, and never returned. Next, they took the babies. Ripped them from their screaming mothers’ arms.

Then they claimed the land as their own, setting out make-believe boundary lines. We could no longer move freely to follow the flow of the earth. Caught in their invisible net, we began to starve.

In a few short summers, they had harvested more than their community could use in a lifetime. They took and took until they stripped the plains bare, and then they danced on her mutilated body, celebrating their wealth and fortune. She begged for respite but they could not hear her.

Were they so disconnected that they could not feel the drought and famine that was to come?

Grandma grew too weak to walk. My sister, Aiyani, would creep to the river in the cover of darkness, trying for an eel or a handful of acorns, always promising to return before the breaking dawn. But one morning, she didn’t return. By sun up, I knew she was gone. Grandma knew too. It was just me and her left. In her last breaths she reminded me not to mourn. Mourning would tie her here, and stop her spirit from being granted entry to the gates of Estom Yanim, the Sacred Mountains. I promised her I wouldn’t cry one tear and she would soar straight in.

Then it was just me. Lalook, the last of the Nisenan Maidu. I would not allow myself to cry for my beloved grandmother.

Ceremoniously, I set her spirit free and wiped ash across my face, arms and chest. I whispered my sorrow to the burnt earth, sharing my hope that it will find a way to heal and rejuvenate.

Across the dry, barren plains, the sound carried from their town. Music, laughter, the boom of the machines as they continued to decimate the crops. Rage boiled inside me. I whispered my last wish, that Grandma will meet me at the gates to Estom Yanim, and bring me to my family once again.

I put on my father’s grand, feathered headdress, took my hunting bow and our four remaining arrows, mounted my cherished spotted buckskin appaloosa, and rode out of our camp. Together, we galloped across the plains as one. The noon sun burned my bare back, the wind whipped our long plaited hair, and the smell of the dry summer air reminded me of a home that was no more.

I let out all of my pain in a cry of freedom and we soared right through the center of their dusty town and straight on to the Sacred Mountains.

THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

The farmer had never told anyone his secret. For decades, people came from miles around to admire his farm, and purchase his harvests from the shack by the road…the ones they could carry anyway. His blueberries were the size of apples, his apples the size of pumpkins, and his pumpkins the size of automobiles. The 150-foot tree in the meadow struggled to hold onto pecans the size of watermelons.

As he lay in bed, a spring breeze gently blew the curtains near his head. His only son was kneeling by his side, praying. The old man slowly lifted his hand, crooked his gnarled index finger, and started to whisper…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

My grandfather died in spring, after the corn was planted. My father told me how he crooked his finger, knuckle bending so the wrinkles stretched flat, temporarily reversing time and age. I was not yet born, but I know what he said. It’s the same thing my father said to me as he clutched his chest in the sugaring shack and curled his own finger like a fiddlehead.

A seedling’s life starts beneath the surface. The pod splits and the roots broach the dark earth. Every farmer knows this. Every farmer has brushed the topsoil to see the coil of two early leaves, twisting around the split seed, reaching skyward.

That, my grandfather said, was when you had to do it. That was when the magic had to happen. When you did it right, the seedling popped upright like a catapult through the earth and never stopped growing. My father performed the motion for me one of his last. His finger shot up to the ceiling where the boiling sap left a veneer of smog and sugar on the beams.

That’s when you do it, he whispered, and then his heart gave that final tick.

I was eight at the time.

That first summer my uncle stayed with me and the crops were bad. The tourists who usually crawled our fields come harvest season rolled up their van windows and carried on. I began to make sense of my father’s spring walks those mornings when he woke before the cows needed milking, when he broke the misty dusk between rows of tilled soil in the predawn light, speaking softly to the coiled spouts beneath the surface.

I did the same, come May, and that year our pumpkins won a gold ribbon at the Barton Fair. My uncle said it was in my blood. I filled my bladder with two-buck lemonade and said nothing.

These are memories I look back on fondly, though I’ve lost the romance for the work. I shovel shit into troths in the winter. I dig pitchforks into hay bails in the summer. When the sap lines start to run I cut kindling for the boiler. My hands have weathered into those of an old man, which I recognize, but not as my own.

The tourists still come, but I like them less and less. Their suburbanism encroaches more each year. When their electric SUVs pull ruts in my drive, their oddly shaped trunks weighed down with the apples and squash they’ve blogged so much about, their imprints last longer. Their voices echo out open windows, wondering at the price of land around these parts, and asking God, or whoever was listening, whether they’d look good in a straw-brimmed hat.

I spoke to one the other day as I sipped cider on my porch. His car ideled as he leaned on my steps in his polyester athleisure wear.

Must be hard work, keeping up with all this at your age, he commented, looking out at the spring fields of unblemished dirt.

He thought the blueberries were in season. They were stocked in the corner market where he lived. Shipped in from Columbia, no doubt.

He had heard about the magic, like all of them. Adults clinging hopefully to the fairy tales of their youth. A zucchini the size of a hammock. Radishes you could play softball with. He asked about it, as they all do, scraping the marshmallow heel of his running shoes on my steps. He asked about the magic.

“It feels more urgent these days,” I said, rubbing my old knees.

“What’s the secret, then?” He wanted to know, and I disliked him so much I was tempted to tell him.

“You’ve got to share yourself with the land,” I said and sipped my cider quietly.

“That’s it?” he asked, and five minutes later he let himself be carried away in a self-driving car, waving, disappointed, and blueberry-less.

I walked alone then, out into the fields. It was still light, but there was no one to see. As I rounded a marker in the soil, I brushed the earth to see the seedlings coiled perfectly at the crust.

The sun folded into hues of raspberry gold, and my bladder groaned.

Urgent, I’d told the man. Each day a little more so. Did my father feel the same, towards the end? I suppose every man does at my age, in his own way. The magic bursting from him, sometimes trickling, a little less, a little more.

Cars passed on the main road, called back by the city lights. They’ll return in a few months, fists full of dollars, mouths agape at the produce stacked like giant boulders along these very fields.

Unphased, I unzipped my fly and did as my father told me. A stream of yellow and the patter of magic hitting airated earth. Like my father in the pre-dawn light. And my grandfather before him.

The seedlings tightened, buckling inward as they said goodbye to all below, and then, like a finger unfurled, burst freely from the earth.

TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

She’d moved to the mountain to escape humanity so she was surprised one day to see large, bare footprints in the snow by the frozen pond. Curious, she took a plate of food, and left it there, complete with a fork. When she returned the next day, the plate and fork, completely clean, were where she’d left them. She kept leaving food, and retrieving the dishes, every day…until she’s spiked that high fever and her stomach revolted against her. On her third day in bed, she startled when she heard heavy footsteps on the front stoop… .

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

Sit beside me, young Randolph. Bring your parchment and quill. Those who sent us will want a record of what has transpired here. I have yet strength enough to tell this tale, but make haste! Death holds my ankle even now.

During winter climes most captains take their vessels southward in search of spermaceti along the known migration routes, but I much prefer solitude. I know those waters and those captains and I’ve long had my fill of both. It is for this reason that we are journeyed as far away from that rabble as earth can provide. And indeed, there are pods of whales here that have enjoyed generations of peace. Breeching as they do amongst the frozen mountains of ice. There is protection for them here, but not from me. Courage and skill and that is enough. Eighty barrels in the hold already. But I will not again see Nantucket. Now I come to that.

We have a stowaway on board, Master Randolph! Can you believe it? This life is hard and we are headed towards neither sand nor sun. Yet the fact remains! His presence was not discovered until we were many weeks underway. I believe it was a fortnight or thereabouts when I first made his acquaintance. While making my rounds and tallying our barrels I noticed peculiar footprints in the spermaceti oil pooling on the deck below. That of child by the looks of it, and the left foot was minus its great toe. Missing limbs are hardly exotic in this profession, but children certainly are. And they are most unwelcome! But where was the child hiding? Why was he here? I was incensed! To my mind this creature was no different from the bilge rats infesting our food stuffs! And I would deal with this new vermin accordingly.

You might think, Randolph, that finding a stowaway in such close quarters would be a thing solved in several minutes. Not so! There are many places to hide if one is small and also clever. This is was the case, of course. Else he would have been discovered weeks before. But one thing common to all mankind is hunger. Whatever scraps a stowaway might collect would be meager and putrid at best. I would serve him from the bounty of my own private mess! And I would see to it that such delicacies were garnished with something special prepared from the bottles of my own surgeon! The matter would be closed soon enough.

I called for our Dr. Gregory Hampstead to come to my quarters. Bah! He is no better at poisoning food than he is at arresting gangrene! Oh, he concocted a preparation, true enough. And he showed me its potency by injecting one of his captured rats with it. Dead in minutes, it was. However, said he, a person, even a child, would take longer to succumb to the poison’s effects. I would need to be patient, said he. I am not good at that: patience. Not when my anger is at full froth.

My cook prepared a rack of mutton. Who could resist? Word spread among the crew that to touch this meal meant flogging, and so even the leanest of deckhands left it undisturbed. But before I plated the mutton I massaged in all of Dr. Hampstead’s preparation. There would be no waiting. The entire meal was dusted white with his toxic powder. Enough coating to have laced a dozen such racks. But it appears the Good Doctor neglected to school me on protocols for handling his toxin. Cuts on both hands from the work we do became the conduit to my impending doom. I am down to hours now, curse him! And if that weren’t enough, I am still no closer to capturing and killing our stowaway! The mutton lays there still!

The door, Randolph! Speak of the devil! Here stands my physician upon my threshold! Let him in; I have more curses in store for him!

“Good evening, Captain. How is your level of comfort?”

“My comfort! You know well enough! The inept doctor visits while the Reaper waits! Your fault! I would see you hanged!”

“Yes, I am daresay you would! That’s the sort of captain you are. I know your mortal state as well as I know the condition of your immortal soul. And I know the real reason why you were not keen on meeting up with the rest of the fleet at the southern pole. Your past is what haunts you, Sir. In the offing comes a reckoning. That is why I brought those mannequin’s legs on board with me. The proprietor of the dress shoppe would not part with anything but a broken set of child’s limbs. I knew they would do. The sort of man that would poison a child is poisoned already. Today your master welcomes you home, Captain. Master Randolph?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Did you rouse a confession?”

“No, Sir. He’ll never face who he is.”

“Oh, I believe he will. And shortly. No matter. You are Captain now, Randolph. A grateful crew awaits your orders.”

“Treachery abounds! I’ll see you both in Hell!”

“Do keep my seat warm, Captain. I hear they serve mutton today.”

TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

She had an ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach as she gazed attentively at the wearied old woman. Red and yellow leaves fell gently around them…silent witnesses to the occasion.

“It’s yours now,” the elder said as she handed over the thick stick, its knots and bumps matching her gnarled, arthritic knuckles. “But be warned,” the old woman added, “It can be used for good AND for evil.” The forest seemed to darken a bit as the ancient lady shuffled off.

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

“Why can’t you draw anything nice? Something beautiful?” For the past fifteen years I’ve heard the same criticism: my art is too dark. My explanation is simple. You can only draw what is inside you and what is inside me is darkness.

You’ve only just met me so let me be the first to tell you, I am a bad person. This isn’t modest self-deprecation; I truly am bad. Not the type of bad that, like, kicks puppies, but the type of bad that people instinctively avoid. If it wasn’t part of their jobs, the guards here would stay away from me, too.

It took nearly two decades to get what I call my ëcrayon privileges.’

Maybe I earned them through good behavior or maybe I’m just too old to concern anyone. Either way, for the past fifteen years I’ve been trying to draw something “nice,” whatever that means. Still, everything comes out dark and scribbled, evidence of exorcisms performed through paper and wax. But today I’ll try again.

It’s autumn outside. I remember autumn not the glimpses of it that I get passing a tiny window, but actually living it, breathing in the warmth of the reds, the earthiness of the browns, the liveliness of the yellows. I close my eyes and she is there: Dolly. Our last day together was in autumn. What were we doing? A picnic? Yes, we wanted to see the leaves changing colors and so we went on a picnic. She was wearing a blue dress? Green? Maybe a green top with jeans. It was probably jeans; women don’t wear dresses much, except in my imagination. I line up the red, orange, yellow, brown, green, blue, and peach crayons. I push away the dark purple, the black, the navy blue. Today I’ll make something pretty.

Staring at the blank page I try to picture Dolly, but can’t see her clearly. I can see everything in detail the woods, her blanket, my car, but Dolly is blurry. I don’t read into this much; everyone’s faces are blurry, even my parents’. The only faces I can see clearly are the guards’. Time does that, I suppose.

I grip the peach crayon in my hand and notice how different my gnarled knuckles look after sitting in this building, breathing recycled air, living under fluorescent lights, for over three decades. Dolly would be aging, too, I suppose. I decide to go back to that picnic in my mind, not as I was, but as I am now an old man. I do the same for Dolly. A wrinkly old man courting a wrinkly old woman.

“Come have a seat,” Dolly smiles as she pats the ground, red and yellow leaves falling around her. This is the moment I’ll draw. My fingers fly up and down as streaks of color fill the page. Grand tree trunks reach for the sky as their colorful leaves tumble down, making the ground indistinguishable from the patchwork quilt Dolly sits upon. A little pile of apples sits to the right of her some creative license as I’m not sure what food was there. I almost draw her ponytail, but decide to create a more mature-looking, shoulder-length haircut. As the white page transforms into something more, my mind whispers, “God, it’s beautiful,” and the world is once again mine to behold.

I almost put a sandwich in Dolly’s hand, but instead give her a stick a little line of bare white paper. It is a scene of absurdity: Dolly’s now old, arthritic hands giving me a little white stick as she says, “It’s yours.” I laugh at the mashup modern Granny Dolly announcing our baby by handing me that pregnancy stick from decades ago. She shakes the stick at me, warning me that if we go through with this, it will be tough, but this baby can also be good, something really good for the both of us.

I blink my way out of the daydream and cover my mouth, embarrassed by my goofy smile. Glancing at the blank cinder block wall, my breath catches as I think: a little boy! If this picture can be all decades all at once old people living their youthful moments, why can’t the little boy be there? A circle for his head, a little blob for his body, and lines caught in motion for his legs. The little crayon boy runs towards his mother with a…I scan the crayons and grab brown…football in his hand. Maybe there is a pile of leaves in his way. Yes, he would love it if I gave him a pile of leaves to jump into.

I drop the crayon and look at the picture. My heart is thumping as my eyes well up with tears. “My God, it’s beautiful,” I whisper, knowing the spell is about to be broken and I will be sent back to a world of walls.

The guard notices I finished and walks over to my table. “Damnit, oldtimer, why can’t you ever draw something nice? Something beautiful?”

I wipe away the tears with the hem of my shirt and look at my picture again. The red leaves falling from the trees merge with the scribbled red blood that pools around Dolly’s body.

You can only draw what is inside you and, as I told you, I am a bad person.

TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:

All the townsfolk said she’d not survive out here alone. Yet, here she was, working the soil for the second Spring. After a frigid winter, she could finally dig her fingers into the warming Earth. She patiently sifted clumps, making way for the tiny roots her carrots would put down as they sought ancient nutrients left there by their rotted brethren.

One clump did not feel like dirt at all. Puzzled, she grabbed hold of it, pulled, and…

(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify.)

---

The winter had felt longer than the previous one I had experienced. There were a couple of times here or there where I thought it would subside, but then it would swing back with a vengeance, forcing us to remain deep within the earth. We were all protected there, all warm enough and had enough to survive, so we would wait further until we knew it was safe enough to go to the surface.

The summer harvest had been good to us the previous year, so the colony was able to grow much more than expected. If it hadn’t been for the severity of the cold, we could’ve prospered again this summer, but the numbers we had gained were short lived and expected to drop before we could finally leave the tunnels. Taking out our fallen comrades would be our first task come summer.

After another bit of time in the home base, it was deemed safe for us to return to the surface. We rushed out through the intricate network of tunnels we had created a few years ago and breached the surface for the first time in what felt like years. The sun, oh how we have longed for the sun. Its warmth on our bodies and on the earth itself felt like a miracle and was praised by all. We took it in, but only briefly as we knew that with every passing moment, the cold from this coming winter was right around the corner. We needed to prepare and there was little to no time to dilly dally.

Even the removal of our comrades had a sense of hurry to it. No ceremony was performed, no condolences said, it was a job and it wasn’t worth the energy to do anything further than move them out and continue onto the next task. Time could not be wasted.

After all were removed, we were assigned to go out and scavenge the earth, looking for whatever food we could find and bring it back to replenish the empty stores. The tunnels were bustling with activity, a constant flow in and out of our home, to make it home again for the next freeze.

Everyone seemed to be pulling their weight, even the newest members. We were a well oiled machine and it seemed like, even at this early point in the year, that we would be fine.

As the days went on and the sun kept rising higher in the sky, we became more and more confident we would have enough. That was before the event, before forces out of our control came to the colony and wreaked havoc.

I had heard stories of it happening to others, saw the nomads from fallen colonies wandering the earth aimlessly. The stories were horrific, but there was nothing we could do but hope it would not happen to us, that luck would spare us.

It started a few suns ago, we heard the rumbling. It felt distant, but as time went on, it only intensified. No one discussed it, we were all still too focused on our mission, on resupply. Then, on the warmest day after the cold, it happened.

The rumbling caught up to us and the tunnels turned to chaos. I was directed to go deep and protect our most vulnerable while others were rushing to the entrance for defense. Brave as they were, we tried to do what we could but nothing could stop what was coming.

The moment I went deeper, the rumble felt inches away. We waited mere seconds before our home was suddenly ripped from its roots and exposed to the sun, the most unfortunate and devastating event to any colony. With our queen exposed and our network of tunnels destroyed forever, it would be near impossible to recover….

* * * * * *

“Ah, what do we have here?” Her hand sifted through the clumps of dirt at the end of her shovel. This clump didn’t feel like the rest and the scurrying of ants, scrambling to protect their queen was the reason why.