Anticipation by Nancy Townshend-Vess – 1ST PLACE


Cell phones all over the county simultaneously shrilled that morning. Residents quickly scanned the emergency alert, and then raced to gather their family members, and prepare. Meanwhile, in the national forest, there was no cell phone access. The small family camping on the peaceful, meandering river had just put out their breakfast campfire and the children were laughing excitedly as they donned their hiking gear… 

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


Mags idly dried the last of the breakfast dishes. Thoughts, like bubbles silently bumping into each other, floated in her mind. “How beautiful it is here,” the bubbles showed their little cabin with handmade charm, children’s laughter, Tabor’s happy eyes. Another bubble produced forest, wild flowers, and fields. “Not a neighbor for miles. So peaceful.” Mags stared at the hummingbird feeder where two ruckus Rufous buzzed each in challenge to the sweet nectar.

The children had gone flower picking in the field. Mags could see their little heads bob up and down in the tall grasses as they bent to collect their treasures. Smells wafted through the window as the sun put together her sun-scorched recipe for the day; a pinch of sage, a pinch of Elderberry, bake for 10 hours and enjoy.

Tall pines stood guardian around the perimeter, mysterious in their dark interiors. The resident mamma moose was down by the pond with her baby, sloshing in her wake, chopping the green water’s edge richness. A blue heron perched upon the footbridge, watching intently to see if the moose stirred up any trout. Overhead, a hawk drifted on the wind seemingly with no purpose but it, too, assessed the meal situation. Chipmunks and red squirrels scuttered along the jack fence looking very busy going where? It was September. The family would have to pack up soon, and leave summer behind. Mags heard the sigh of the Aspen leaves and the dry rattle of the shriveling meadow.

Suddenly, a Sandhill Crane’s head rose above the grasses announcing his presence in a primeval screech. “Ahh, life is good,” Mags awoke, shelved the dish, opened wide the windows to welcome in life, and continued about her daily chores.

Tabor also was in dreamland as he loved the 1 ½ hour drive to town under the ever-changing Montana skies. The clouds were in top performance today and he basically had the road to himself with the summer crowd gone. The golden glow of the valley in autumn was exhilarating. Mountains on either side silently watched from their loges the spectacle of the live show below. Tabor had but a bit part – a walk-on – as is the case with all human beings.

In town, Tabor would get the week’s groceries, gas up the jeep, make a few business calls, and then he’d check the stock markets to reassure his accounts were where they should be. He wanted to get the civilization part over as soon as he could, and return to his piece of heaven, up the dirt mountain road, back to his nest.

Tabor punched on the radio to catch a few tunes, maybe a baseball score. The commentator said with stern voice, “…what would happen in this case is that miles around the super-volcano the earth would be coated with ashes three feet deep. There would be lava perhaps 20 miles out, perhaps a destructive earthquake, and, of course, uncontrolled forest fires devastating Montana and beyond. Roads would be impassable…” Tabor punched the radio off. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, “I’ve read all about Yellowstone blowing. Why do they scare people like that? The last eruption was 640,000 years ago! Cheez!” Tabor’s piece of heaven was only 15 miles from Yellowstone’s borders. “They ought to be warning people about a global depression for God’s sake!”

The store was fairly empty. Just a few locals greeting each other with squeaky-wheeled carts: “Hey, Phil, how’s your mom?” “Those boys of yours, Emma, they sure are shootin’ up. Bet you’re in here twice a day.” Har, Har. “Hey, Tabor, how’s the love nest?” Tabor smiled and filled his cart.

At check out the girl surveyed his selections, “You sure look like you’re gonna have some mighty fine fixins. Wanna a guest?” she winked.

The wink turned into a wide-eyed stare. Oranges rolled off the counter, contents of the store flew off shelves. The floor shifted and bucked the humans like young calves on a sheet of ice. Then the cell phones chimed in symphonic cacophony.

“It’s happenin’,” the check-out whispered with her cell phone to her ear.

Tabor gripped the counter, and skidded through the mess on the floor, vaulting himself out the door. There was only one thought exploding in his head, “I’m 1 ½ hours away!” He started the car, and rode the raging bull.

Mags was outside hanging the laundry when she felt a slight turn in serenity. Things got too quiet and then the wind stiffened. The children’s heads popped up at the same time in response to a silent call. Mamma and baby moose jumped the fence and were on their way, rabbits scurried, birds peppered the sky with their screams, and a coyote ran full tilt at the farthest end of the pasture.

The first earth shiver knocked Mags off her feet. “Mommy!” she heard the wind shriek. To the east, she saw sky, once azure, turn steel gray. The real world began to fade.

The show was over, or had it just begun? The bubbles silently popped, one by one.

Harold and Janet Go to Town by Colleen J. Karnas – 1ST PLACE


Even with the heater on high, and wearing her snow pants, parka, mittens and scarf, she was shaking from the cold. Her shoulders tensed as she she peered over the steering wheel, dodging black ice and snow banks. She knew she’d picked the wrong time of year to pull this off but it was too late to change her plans now. Her mind briefly wandered as she fantasized about her destination. And, that’s when she misjudged a curve…

As she quickly rounded a curve, she was instantly pulled out of her reverie. A tiny, shivering boy was sitting alone by the side of the road…

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






“Would you stop saying my name, Harold.”

“Yes. When you stop saying my name, Janet.”

“You are a stubborn old man, Harold. Just answer the question.”

“I am not a child, Janet. Stop treatin’ me like one.” The man folded his arms, stuck out his bottom lip, and stared out his window at the passing cars.

“Give me a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ so I don’t have to keep askin’ you, Harold!” Janet’s teeth clenched as tightly as she gripped the steering wheel.

“Yes, Janet. I took that nasty pink medicine and, yes, my stomach is feeling better, thank-you-very-much.” Harold pulled the brim of his newsboy hat lower. “I swear, woman, you’re gonna start inspecting my toilet wipes.”

“I already do, Harold, every time I wash a load of your underwear.”

“You are mean old bitty, Janet.”

“You are a dirty, flea-infested, butt-scratchin’ dog, Harold.”

Harold looked at the passing cars again and sighed, his breath fogging up the cold window. “What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Lasagna,” Janet answered, leaning forward. She looked as if she was in a high-speed chase. In reality, every car flew by Harold and Janet’s Chevy Caprice as it puttered down the highway. Janet did not believe in moving to the right. Janet preferred the middle lane. And she preferred going 40-50 MPH, regardless of posted speed limits.

“I like lasagna,” Harold mumbled.

Winking, Janet replied, “That’s why I made it.”

“With sausage?” Harold scratched his stomach.

“Of course, puddin’.” She smiled, her pink lipstick carefully outlining her mouth with a little stuck on her teeth for good measure.

A passing car honked, the driver cursing at Janet.

“Go faster,” scolded Harold.

“Harold, I’m not getting a DWI,” Janet yelled back.

“Woman, you haven’t been drinkin’.”

“Of course not!” Janet dared to take one hand off the steering wheel to clutch at her faux fur collar. “Why, I would never place the devil’s drink upon my lips! How could you imply such a thing?”

“You brought up DWIs.” Harold rubbed his long silver eyebrows. “That’s what it means, darlin’. Driving While Intox—” Before Harold could finish, he pointed at the highway sign. “Here, take this exit.”

“I will not,” Janet flatly replied.

“Why not?”

“Because, I take the next one.”

“The next one is wrong, Janet.”

“Well, I disagree, Harold. I have this same hair appointment every week. I drive myself there every week. And I take the next exit every week,” Janet responded with growing volume.

“Well, then you take the wrong exit every week.” Harold had never been to Tina’s Boutique, but he was certain he was right. The first exit had the least traffic lights and the most right turns. It would probably shave a good two, maybe two-and-a-half, minutes off the trip.

“First, you call me a drunkard and now, you are tellin’ me how to drive to my beauty parlor. I should have left you home.”

As the highway signs counted down the miles to the exit, Harold began pointing more frantically until Janet gave in, turned on her blinker, and, with a sudden jerk of the wheel, crossed two lanes of traffic to her husband’s preferred exit.

Harold smacked his cap on the dashboard. “Sweet Jesus, Janet, you’re gonna get us killed.”

“Now I don’t know where I am!” Janet cried as she wrinkled her forehead.

“Just follow this road,” Harold insisted.

In front of Janet was an unfamiliar, solitary back road towards town littered with black ice and snow banks. Even with the heater on and her best Sunday coat, she began shaking. “Harold!” Janet’s shoulders tensed at all the strange twists and turns in the road. She wanted to be at the beauty parlor already. She wanted to sip Tina’s fancy European tea named after that earl. She wanted to—

As Janet rounded a curve, she caught sight of a poor, shivering young man sticking his thumb out.

“That poor boy!” she shouted.

“Woman, that man’s gonna rob us. I promise you.”

Janet, ignoring her husband’s warning, started braking and pulling the car to the side. “Act like a Christian, Harold. That boy needs help.”

Harold lunged and pushed the wheel towards the road. “He’ll rob us.”

“Harold!” Janet began yelling. “The Lord is calling to me!” She pushed against Harold’s arms, redirecting the car to the side. “And I shall listen to my Lord Almighty.”

“The Lord says old people shouldn’t pick up strangers. I know because on Sunday while you were tsk-tsking about fellow congregants’ hem lengths, I was listening to the preacher.” Harold pushed the wheel back towards the road.

Smacking Harold’s hands, Janet yelled back, “Well, they are entirely too short, Harold, and you know it. The Lord is not pleased with kneecaps. The Lord wants—”

Thwump. Bump.

The car slid to a stop on the snowy shoulder. Janet looked in the rearview mirror. “Harold?”

Harold looked out his window. “Janet?”

The hitchhiker was no longer standing by the road.



Janet smoothed down her faux fur collar, put on her blinker, and calmly accelerated to her preferred 40-50 MPH. “Harold, if anyone asks, we took the second exit, mmkay?”

“Janet, you might have to wash another load of underwear.”

Souling by Skip Dyer – 1ST PLACE


She wasn’t too comfortable letting the children go trick or treating by themselves but her son was almost 11 now. Surely he could keep an eye on his little sister, right? She heard them laughing as they stepped into the chilly night, with the crackling of orange and red leaves under their feet. Less than an hour later, she heard someone at the door once again, and expected to see ghosts and goblins from the neighborhood. However, it was her children. Back so soon? The children silently walked past, handing her their candy bags for inspection. She walked to the dining room table, and dumped the contents of her daughter’s bag on the table. And, that’s when she saw…

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


I washed down the last morsel of bread with a slug of ale and wiped the crumbs from my beard. “That does it,” I said to the Lord of the Manor. “I’ll take my pay and be off.”

“Just like that? My wife lies here dead and you want your pay?”

“Just like that,” I replied.

“You’re a cold man. I suppose that’s necessary for someone in your line of work.”

Someone in your line of work. As if I had chosen to do this. “My pay, if you please.”

“Very well, then.” He dropped sixpence into my waiting palm, being careful our hands didn’t touch.

I stepped outside where a groaning wind blew a sideways rain. A coldness settled inside me after every job, and this one was no different. A rain-soaked trek across the moor would only make it worse. Someone in your line of work. I flicked up the collar of my greatcoat and set off, unable to dispatch the memory of that night many years ago.

Ten years old I was, and my sister Shaylee two years younger. Mother didn’t want us out souling that All Hallows Eve. She worried about us all the time. But we were poor and hungry, especially after the plague took father. For the promise of a few prayers, my sister and I could gather soul cakes from those living in and around our village. “We’ll have food, and you’ll help people get to heaven,” mother told us with a smile. Those cakes meant meals for two or three days, even if Shaylee and I gobbled down a couple before we got home.

“Don’t go far,” mother admonished, as I grabbed Shaylee’s hand and pulled her through the doorway. She swatted my backside and grinned as I scurried past. “Bring at least some of the cakes home. And don’t eat any food set out for the departed! Do you hear me, Haylen?” Her voice faded as my sister and I raced toward the village.

Dodging the costumed drunks reveling around their bonfires, we went house to house, offering prayers for the departed, and collecting biscuits in return. Everyone had their own recipe for soul cakes. Some were sweet, and fresh from the hearth. Those wouldn’t make it home. Most were dry, as hard and white as the bones of the dead we promised to pray for. Those we collected in a burlap poke to take back with us.

It seemed we scoured the entire town that night. With our sack and bellies bulging, we turned for home, and passed a small house along the way. The door stood open. Inside, the flickering glow of candles illuminated a half-dozen people comforting a grieving widow. Outside by the street, a coffin sat on a trestle. On top, a plate of soul cakes and a mug of ale.

“Come on,” I said.

Shaylee’s brow furrowed and she yanked my sleeve. “Mama said don’t eat the food set out for the departed. That’s how they keep the demons away.”

“We’ll just take one. Nobody will know.” Shaylee backed away, eyes downcast, picking her fingernails. “You’re such a baby,” I mocked as I crossed the street.

“Bring me one,” she whispered.

Crouching, I snuck up to the coffin. The aroma of the fresh bread reached me along with a sickly-sweet waft from the decaying body inside the pall. Peering over the top of that morbid table, I grabbed a biscuit and the cup. The bread felt soft and warm in my hand and my gluttonous impulses overpowered my revulsion at the smell of putrifying body. I chewed, slowly at first, then crammed the remainder into my maw, washing it down with the ale. I looked back at Shaylee, a satisfied smile on my face. She waved for me to come back, her eyes darting, her little feet dancing like she needed to use the privy. I nodded, replaced the mug, and snatched another cake to split with her.

“You there! What are you doing?” The cry came from the doorway of the house.

I tore off, hoping to escape before being caught or recognized. Boots slapped the cobblestones behind me and my pursuer snatched me by my collar.

“Dear God, boy. Do you know what you’ve done?”


Shaylee and I sat at the table in our house. By the fireplace, the man and my mother whispered. Tear trails glistened down mother’s cheeks. When the man left, she came over, knelt, and enfolded me in her arms. Her body heaved and through the sobs all she could say was, “You helped him get to heaven.”

That’s how I came to this line of work. I’m a sin-eater. Ale and bread placed on the casket to draw out the dead man’s sins. That night I ate, unknowing, accidentally inviting his unforgiven sins onto myself. Now I eat for a price. Some cakes are sweet, and fresh from the hearth. But most are dry, as hard and white as the bones of the dead. I’ve saved their souls, and forfeited my own.

Lost Soul by Jim Driesen – 1ST PLACE!


It was supposed to be the summer job of a lifetime, working as a chef at an upscale “summer camp” for adults. But, the air conditioner was broken again. After closing, the stale outdoor air brought little relief. The path to the cabins housing seasonal employees was dark but short. She stopped in her tracks when she came across one of the windows. With her pupils dilating, she couldn’t look away… 

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

When you have a dream so vivid you wake up in a cold sweat, your heart thumping, your eyes wild and large with terror, you should take it seriously. You could shake it off, take a shot of the Bushmills you left on the nightstand the night before, make believe that everyone has bad dreams. “It don’t mean nothing” they use to say in the platoon. This one was the latest installment in an alternate life, one only lived in the darkness of the night and the depths of the subconscious. You know what I mean, whether you admit it or not. It eventually gets impossible to tell which is the real world, the dark terror of the night, or the so-called normal life of day. Night versus day. Day versus night. Which is real, which is imaginary, or are they both real? Or imaginary?

Mine started the night we razed a village in the mountains of Afghanistan. It could have been anywhere: southeast Asia, Europe, a thousand years ago in a desert or jungle. It is a turning point from ‘normal’ into the unreal and then the terror of the new reality. The new world I had entered that night was where I traded my humanity for what I rationalized at the time was basic survival. I didn’t need to empty the clip and reload, I just turned my soul over because it was easier. Yes, ‘easier’ is the word. Simple as that. Who was the bad guy, the target? We didn’t know. We took them all down. When the dust settled they were just bloodied bodies strewn through the houses and streets. Kids, women, old men. They never had a chance, but that’s the funny thing about war.

If given a chance, we might have been the bodies. That’s what we told ourselves. Didn’t matter that most of them, if not all, were just innocent bystanders. They were there. We took them down. Then we moved on, not realizing that from now on, our world was different from the rest. We’d crossed a path, opened a door, and stepped through into a life that we would never return from. Not with drugs, not with booze. Not with support groups, counselors, not with yellow ribbons and people saying, “Thanks for your service.” We were on a one-way trip into Hell and there was no coming back. No glossing over by the politicians, sending guys into a cauldron of evil they themselves never had to face. Easy for them. The saddest part, that differentiates the truly lost souls from the rest, is that, looking back, I’d do the same thing. Like I said, the loss of our basic humanity. We just go on living, walking among the normal, as though we’re just like everyone else. But we aren’t.

It was a scorching summer in the daytime world I lived in. I worked as a cook at a military camp in the southwest. Not a real military camp, but a make-believe one for people that wanted to live a week or two of vacation playing at a make-believe war. It’s what the world had come to. Alternate reality for entertainment. There was a president who claimed his exclusive private high school academy qualified him as a veteran. It didn’t. He also accepted a Purple Heart from a real veteran as though he’d earned it. He didn’t. I didn’t care. I wasn’t a real cook either. We had a chef that dreamed up the gourmet meals and I followed orders in the preparation.

Following orders was something I had experience in. Good food in the military, not so much. If we offered real army cooking, no one would be there. Might as well let them have real bullets, too. Of course, we didn’t. I loaded the blanks myself each day before breakfast. By day I worked a twelve-hour shift feeding the ‘troops’ fancy food on fine china in an air-conditioned restaurant. It could hit well over 100 degrees out there. Probably the first times those guys had to sweat. For me, the longer the shift the better, as it meant a shorter night. Less time in the other reality. They also used guys like me to help make the experience more authentic. Real vets. They didn’t realize how close to the edge I was. Maybe they should have.

Late in August I had a particularly bad stretch of nights, waking wide-eyed and sweating. I’d been given orders. The dark side wanted to seep its evil into the normal side. Like I said, I knew how to take orders. It would no longer be just my personal agony. I would bring the shadows into the light of day. The bullets I loaded that morning were the real deal. So were the bloody bodies.

I sleep better now. I live in only one world, the dark one. My windowless cell in solitary is ten by seven. Should have been here all along, but I was just taking orders.

Woman’s Work by Annette Rey – 1ST PLACE!


The wind suddenly picked up as she looked out from the porch. A wall of dark clouds was pushing across the horizon and a light chop had developed on the lake, gently rocking the tiny rowboat tied to the dock. The changing seasons always brought unpredictable weather. Just as she was about to turn toward the door, movement in the water caught her attention. She squinted and then her eyes opened wide. Rushing down the stairs, she kicked off her shoes, and raced to untie the boat…

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

The exhausting night was almost over. Her past sank out of sight, swallowed in the darkness. Challenged and battle-weary, she looked forward to rest as she walked the cliff’s edge, soothed by the rhythmic song of the waves caressing the tawny shoreline. The red glow of sunrise peeked above the never-sleeping ocean, how many miles in the distance? Nature enthralled her, was always medicinal, and she needed that connection this morning.

Here was the peace that always should have been, the haven that shields. She took comfort from this place of beauty, unmarred by hateful human hearts. This realm stilled thoughts and calmed breathing and brought promises of a hope-filled future. Here the Earth ruled.

Her eyes passed one more time over the idyllic scene before turning her tired back on the water far below. Wait. Something caught the eye, something glinting red, reflecting the gauzy, morning sun. The object tumbled in with each wave as it tried to beach itself. Its rhythm mesmerized as she watched it rolling in, rolling out, rolling in.

Casting thoughts into the past, memories surfaced of childhood word puzzles in schoolbooks. Sometimes the puzzles listed a series of drawings. The questions posed: what word does not belong in the group, what image does not fit with the other pictures? The puzzles were meaningless at the time because her conclusion was always the same: herself. Different from other children, she did not fit and was relegated to the outside, and forced to play superficial roles. And now this glowing, damned thing did not fit in the picture. It did not belong. The meaning finally rose to the top. In utter defeat, she watched as the orb changed colors with the hue of the sun’s rays, now golden reflections, as if it radiated SOS signals and demanded: notice me!

With the tourist season passed, who was left to pay attention now? Who ever cared to notice before? But now, as if in a final, dominating roar, attention was being pleaded in place of stealthily keeping secrets, instead of hiding outrageous acts. Prolonged cries of shocked outrage, revenge, hatred, and bitter complaint joined the now sinister breezes. Each pulsating ocean wave pressed, thrust, throbbed, callous cruelty into the sand and high upward to her.

She collapsed on a jagged rock, a sharp spike of it jabbed into her tailbone, but she did not readjust herself. The spike jarred vivid nightmares to life, of other times, of horrendous times, of times over and past…but not quite yet.

She spent a long while contemplating what this new threat could mean – the rising of this detested phoenix. She had to take action, but the night’s work left her physically and emotionally satiated.

Reluctantly, she dragged herself down from the cliffs, along the lonely, tree-lined path, back to the cove, and retrieved the empty boat. The engine vibrated and drowned the painful, pulsing heartbeat in her temples. Robot-like, she manned the vessel and powered its way to the beach below the towering cliffs. Mental subtext reverberated from one side of her skull to the other, repeating: never profanely fractured again, never transferred to the ceiling again. Never.

Insensitive now to the warming sun, deep cold filled her being; icy, rigid fingers gripped the boat wheel like bloody talons. Feeling more animal than human, she pursued passionless prey.

The target loomed closer.

The golden orb bobbed furiously at the beach edge as she approached. Familiar hate filled her heart. She coveted the cast iron meat tenderizer so many times wielded in the performance of subservient tasks and, then again, in one more personally crucial act. But, she had hurled that away, deep out at sea, for shelled sea animals to cover and disguise in its grave.

With powerful, clenching claws, she barehanded the putrefying piece of filth that did not fit. Empowered again, unafraid now, with resolve, she glowered at it with insane eyes and spoke aloud.

“This time you will sink!”

Unseeing eyes of the severed head of her abuser stared back at her.

From Scratch by Christine DeRenzis – 1ST PLACE!


Holding tightly to her valise, she glanced over her shoulder before stepping onto the platform. Dark blue clouds stretched from the prairie to the heavens. The blizzard was coming fast and the conductor was urgently pleading for everyone to get on board so they could depart before the storm arrived. As she placed her foot on the first step, anxiety prickled the back of her neck. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d forgotten something… 

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

I gripped my bag tightly as I stepped onto the platform, chewing on a piece of homemade jerky. The salty taste calmed my nerves, much like cigarettes did for others. Dark blue clouds stretched from the tops of the skyscrapers to the sun, which was quickly disappearing. The blizzard was coming fast.

“On board now!” the conductor yelled.

As I placed my foot on the first step, anxiety prickled the back of my neck. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was forgetting something.

“Crap!” I shouted, spinning around. I grabbed the conductor’s arm as he hurried by. “How much time do I have?”

“An hour,” he replied. “Maybe less.”


“I wouldn’t leave–” the conductor’s words were cut off as the cold wind whipped against my face. I ran from the station to my car. How could I be so stupid? There was no way I could survive a weekend at my parents’ house without—

A car jumped out in front of me and I slammed on my breaks. My wheels started sliding and my heart thumped wildly in my chest before I finally caught my breath and regained control of the car.

“Pay attention,” I muttered.

Jon’s car was still sitting in the driveway when I pulled up, half buried in snow. He’d been asleep when I’d left. I wished he was coming. It wasn’t safe staying here alone this weekend.

My mom’s ringtone blasted from my purse as I slid my key into the lock.

“Hi, Mom,” I said, stepping into the house. My face began defrosting as I headed for the kitchen.

“Mary, are you on the train?”

“Yes,” I lied. “I just got on.”

“Oh, thank God. They say this is going to be the worst storm in a century.”

I peered out the kitchen window as I filled a glass with water and took a sip. My throat was dry. This cold weather had a way of drying out everything it touched. The dark blue clouds were turning to black. I didn’t have much time.

“MARY!” my mom shouted, interrupting my thoughts. “Did you hear me? I asked if Jon was with you.”

“Oh. No,” I said, pausing as I headed for the stairs. I turned back to the kitchen and grabbed some more of my homemade jerky for the train ride.

“Call him. Make him come. It’s not too late.”

That’s when I heard him. Jon’s voice rang out loudly from the basement. He was scared. “Mary? Is that you? Oh, thank God you came back!” A loud sob echoed through the house.

“Mom, I have to go. I’ll see you soon.”

She began to protest but I hung up.

“Jon?” I called out, opening the basement door. “Jon? Are you okay?”

“Mary! Hurry!”

I walked slowly down the stairs. At the bottom landing, it took me a full minute to comprehend what I was seeing.

Jon sat chained to the basement wall. His wrists were in cuffs and a small ocean of water swirled around his feet. Near him lay an overturned water jug. An open box of Pop Tarts and a bag of my jerky sat close by.

“What the hell is this?” I cried. I ran to him, my feet kicking the empty jug. I reached behind his head and stroked his hair as the collar around his neck choked him.

“I thought you’d gone,” Jon said, his voice thick. He’d been crying.

I pulled hard on his hair, yanking his head back. “Did you spill ALL the water I left for you?

His silence only made me mad.

“It was supposed to last you the whole weekend. Do you want to die from thirst?”

Jon started sobbing again. “Please,” he begged. “Let me go.”

I shook my head as I walked to the sink and refilled the jug. “This time, don’t spill it.”

“Mary, please, I’m sorry. I swear, I’ll never cheat on you again.”

I rolled my eyes, saying nothing.

“Mary,” Jon gulped, licking his dried-out lips. “Wh-where’s Lydia? You haven’t–”

I laughed. “Lydia fine. I have to go. The train’s leaving in a half hour. I’ll be lucky if I make it back in time.”

“Mary! Don’t leave me here!”

I was halfway up the stairs when I snapped my fingers, spinning back around. “I almost forgot.” I went to the bin I’d left for Jon. It was filled with extra jerky and Pop Tarts. On top sat my copy of Pride and Prejudice. I grasped it firmly. “I almost forgot this,” I told Jon, laughing. “I’m halfway through and can’t put it down.”

I kissed his head before leaving. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Back on board the train, I was snacking on my jerky when the conductor passed by.

“You made it,” he said smiling. “I thought for sure you’d get stuck in town.”

I returned his smile. “I don’t live far. The streets were empty.”

“That smells delicious,” he said, eying my bag.

“Homemade jerky. Would you like to try some?”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“Oh go on. It’s good. Here.” I pushed the bag towards him and he took a strip. His face lit up when he tasted it.

“That’s delicious,” he said. “What do you call it?”


“Excuse me?” he asked.

“I mean, Lydia’s Special Blend.”

He shrugged. “Well, whatever it is, it’s great.”

“Thanks,” I replied, settling back with my book. I pulled another hunk of meat from my bag and began to chomp it as the train pulled away.

The Package by Samantha G. – 1ST PLACE!


The dark water racing under the bridge contrasted sharply with the yellow and orange leaves riding atop the ripples. Balding maple trees shadowed the riverbank while the remains of a cornfield rustled violently in the cold wind. Standing on the cobblestones by his trusty wooden cart, he shivered. It was going to be a bad winter but they were well prepared. Suddenly, a strong gust brought the sound of maniacal laughter. He stepped quickly to the back of the cart, and threw back the burlap cover…

(Entries must touch on the topic in some way to qualify.)

Their black suburban sped through traffic, weaving between cars as they drove toward the bridge. Going over the speed limit, the wheels of the car screeched against the road every time Payne braked.

In the passenger seat, Joy’s right leg hadn’t stopped bouncing after learning the last package they were after was ten miles away.

It was the evening before Halloween and night had fallen at the tender hour of 6 p.m.

Payne glanced over at his wife with knitted brows and asked, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she lied, her eyes peering through the window at the dark water racing under the bridge they crossed. The moving body resembled a bed of snakes, contrasting sharply with the yellow and orange leaves riding atop the ripples.

“I’m just concerned about Hope,” Joy added.

“Don’t worry about her, she’s fine.”

“But it’s getting late. And your mother…”

“She doesn’t mind,” he interjected. “You just focus on us getting this done. We don’t want a repeat of last year.”

“I already promised you I wouldn’t mess up this time.”

The woman’s voice on Joy’s phone instructed them to exit the bridge and continue going until they reached the highway alongside a riverbank. As their suburban rolled on the road, Joy’s eyes bulged, her pulse raced, and she tried to steady her hands on her lap. It was darker now. So dark, balding maple trees cast shadows along the riverbank to their right. On their left, the remains of what looked to be a cornfield shivered like a pack of zombies in the cold wind.

Joy looked down at the directions, then back at the road ahead of them.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Payne queried.

Joy glanced at the directions again, and nodded.

Moments later, Payne released a sigh of relief when he saw lights glowing from their destination.

“There it is,” he pointed.

Joy and Payne parked in the lot closest to the building’s entrance. As Joy tried to release her seatbelt, Payne grabbed her wrist.

“Are you sure you want to go in there? I can go alone.”

“Wow, Payne. You really don’t trust me with this, huh?” She shook her head, pulled her wrist free from his gentle grip, then exited the car.

As they walked toward the building’s entrance, Joy noticed an old man standing on cobblestones beside a wooden cart. His shoulders were hunched, his clothes tapered and two shades darker than their normal color, and he shivered under the brisk fall air. When the old man realized he had her attention, he motioned for her to come.

“I’ve got what you want,” he yelled with confidence.

Payne looked over at Joy, and shook his head.

“But, it’s probably in there.”

“Joy, no. Let’s just stick with the plan.”

The old man threw back the burlap cover on his wooden cart. Joy, curious, moved in his direction.

“Joy!” Payne whispered through clenched teeth. He glared at her and this made her turn to the old man and smile politely, declining his offer with the shake of her head.

A strong gust from the sliding doors opening brought the sound of automated maniacal laughter. People were moving quick along the glossy floors. Foreheads wrinkled and adults grasped little hands tight, pulling them along. It resembled a lawless town.

With her eyes still on the chaos, Joy leaned in, and asked, ” Should we split up?”

“Can you handle this alone, Joy?”

She shrugged.

But when she spotted a child throwing themselves on the floor, tears streaming down their face, with total signs of defeat in their eyes, this was all Joy needed to run in the first direction she saw.

Payne shouted for her. She was deaf to his voice. Joy ran between tall steel boxes. The flat length of iron serving as dividers were barren with just pieces of paper to prove something was once there.

Joy faced frozen faces with bared teeth, eyes that would never blink, and shed hairs scattered on the floor like dead leaves.

She turned the corner, and saw the package…and another woman standing feet away from it.

Joy gasped and became motionless. This was what made her fail the last time, hesitation. Exactly why Payne was cautious about bringing her along tonight.

Joy surveyed the woman’s size. She was taller, her hair already pulled back for battle. The woman narrowed her eyes and Joy swallowed hard.

Suddenly, a familiar cry distracted the woman long enough for Joy to slip in, grab, then disappear with the package around a corner.

Joy held the package tight, only releasing to confirm it was the right one. There was no time to celebrate, she needed to find Payne. She thought about screaming his name, but decided against it. Everyone was searching for this one package, and would pick it up the moment she wasn’t looking.

She took a step toward the entrance when a hand grabbed her shoulder. She turned fast, balling her free hand into a fist.

“Joy, it’s me,” Payne surrendered.

Joy sighed, “I’m sorry, baby. I thought you were someone else.”

“Did you get it?” Payne quizzed.

Joy smiled. “Yeah.”

“Really?!” he confirmed.

She held the package up, and bragged, “The last Dory costume!”

Payne gave her a high-five, relieved they wouldn’t have to see their baby girl Hope sob about not being her favorite character for Halloween again.

“Thank God. Now we can pick Hope up from my mother’s house.”

As they walked to the register, Payne said, “Use Siri again to map us out of this town. It’s crazy in this Party City.”

Seeking Redemption by Faye E. Arcand – 1ST PLACE!


Her shoes clip-clopped along the concrete like a sticky metronome. Approaching a hot dog vendor, she said, “What types of mustard do you have today?”

He responded, “I had a pure-bred Schnauzer but now he only has three legs.” He then handed her a sweating bottle of water before turning away.

A few feet away, a metal newspaper dispenser reflected the harsh sunlight. She stepped closer, blinking at the headline…

(Entries must touch on the topic in some way to qualify.)


New York City, 1945.

Gabriela slipped into her too-big clogs and closed the door behind her.

The outside halls always smelled like vomit and pee but at this moment it seemed very fresh and ripe as it clung to the stagnant air.

She wrinkled her nose and quickened her step.

Clipityclop… Clipityclop… Clipityclop…

The flapping laundry, already out for the day, hung between the buildings. Every square inch was filled to capacity.  Soot had already begun to settle on some of the clothes.

Mama usually had hers out by now, too. But not today.

Gabriela had noticed her mama’s belly was getting big again. That meant a baby. It made mama miss work at the sewing factory and stopped her from doing the laundry. Tonight, the watery cabbage soup would have to stretch even further.

Clipity Clop… Clipity Clop.

She slowed.

Sunlight was forbidden entry by way of the towering buildings surrounding the tenement.  Gabriela loved the way her wooden shoes echoed between the brick walls. They made music in the dark, ugly place.

She’d knicked the shoes off a stoop on the Westside. Gabriela kept them close lest they be used as firewood. Neither did she want to go back to wearing the worn pair of shoes passed down from her older brother. The cardboard inside always slipped sideways allowing tiny pebbles to embed themselves into her feet.  These were the best shoes she’d ever had.

Clipity Clop… Clipity Clop.

Gabriella didn’t like the shadows that lurked around the barrels and crates that littered the alley.   She had to stay alert.

She could see a cat nursing her latest litter of kittens. That will be mama soon, though little Roberto was still at the breast. And, lately, second from bottom, Maria, was snuggling in for a nip, too.

Gabriela had considered it. Last night as she took her place on the mat in front of the stove, she thought about wedging herself into the already full bed to get close enough to mama to suckle until she was full.  The idea was soon nixed though as her mother had discovered lice in her thick, matted mop of hair. Within minutes, it was shorn completely off and she was banned from the bed.

Clipity Clop… Clipity Clop.

She stayed her course when out of the shadows came a three-legged mongrel dog.  In its mouth it held an enormous rat.  Gabriela stopped and watched as he hop-walked to the corner to tear away at his prize.  Rumor had it that the neighbors from two floors down had chopped off the dog’s leg, boiled it with potatoes and served it with sour bread. The dog survived and didn’t seem to hold a grudge, but Gabriel had to wonder about those neighbors now.

Clipity Clop… Clipity Clop.

She felt the waft of fresh air funnel into the dank alley. It amazed her how the alley would suck in  all that fresh air from the street only to stop it before it got far enough to do anything.

Gabriela emerged from the darkness and smiled.  She blinked several times but still had to squint against the brightness as she continued on her journey.

Clipity Clop… Clipity Clop.

She stopped and stared at him in all his glory.  He was so big and fat that his greasy, stained apron couldn’t cover up his hairy belly. She could see it jiggle every time he moved.

She shivered.

Clipity Clop… Clipity Clop.

Gabriela stood at her journey’s end. The end of her rainbow. It smelled like heaven and reminded her that life would soon return to normal.

“I’ll take two. With mustard.  Extra on the second.” she said.

“Get lost you little sewer rat,” he said. “I don’t want your kind around here.


She moved a few steps away.

Customers came and went.

She watched as he blew his nose into his fingers and wiped it on the side of his apron. The stringy pieces of snot clung there with the relish he served. His hair was wispy over his billiard ball head. Sweat gathered at his yellowed collar and puddled into the folds of his neck.


She again stood in front of him.

“I said get lost. You’re bad for business.”

“But Uncle,” she said, “I need a sausage for the soup. There’s many mouths to feed and mama said you’d help.”

“Me? I’ll not help. I’ve got my own brood. Now away with you.”


She moved closer.

“This came in the post,” Gabriela held up a letter. “Papa’s coming home.


She watched his face melt into his chest. He looked like one big piece of quivering blubber now.

“He’s alive?”

“Oh, yes,” Gabriela said. “We received word about three weeks ago. Do you know how mama got with the last two babies?”

His upper lip quivered and she heard him fart. She craned her neck to see if he’d wet himself.

“You were supposed to take care of mama.  I’m not sure he’ll approve of your methods but perhaps with some sausage you may find redemption. I heard the priest say that at mass last week. I don’t know if he was speaking of sausage, though.”


She stood on her tippy toes looking into his food cart.

Slowly he wrapped two sausages in dark waxed paper and handed them to her.

Clipity…clop. Clipity…clop.

She sat on the sidewalk and slowly bit into one of the sausages. Boiled fat and mustard ran down her chin.  Gabriela wiped at all the drippings with her filthy hand in fear of wasting any.

In the distance she could hear the newsie shout, “Allies Secure Peace. They’re coming  home.”

Married To The Sea by Leif Gregersen – 1ST PLACE!


A brisk breeze pushed through the hatchway, cooling her sunburned cheeks. Saltwater lapped at the hull. A mariner’s lullaby. She smiled, pondering her perfect life. No people. No stress. Just the occasional storm, and sojourns to the mainland for provisions. Just as her tired eyes closed, violent knocking and shouting erupted on her starboard side…

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

The 60-year-old Dellarae had been to nearly every port in the world, and she loved her sailors, perhaps even a little more than she should have. Dellarae had a fondness for those that had bedded down with her, experiencing her warmth and comforts in her cabins while storms and rough seas raged outside. Of all the men that had tasted of her comforts, there was one above them: Warren. Captain Warren Milley. He was so incredibly handsome, always looking the professional in his uniform, his commander’s hat and dark blue turtleneck sweater. She loved the smell of his pipe, how his dark hair was tinged just slightly with grey. She loved how he put his hands on her, guided her through dark times. Yes, there was no denying it, there had been many hard times too.

Once in the South China Sea, when pirates had decided they deserved what she had to offer without paying for it, she had to teach them some respect. Another time, violent storms off the coast of South America nearly had put an abrupt end to her useful life of service, along with the 43 souls that were on board. This time, the old girl, adorned in her best, her once brilliant white and red, seemed to be just drifting through life. She had served long and hard and her end was at hand. She knew this to be true and had prepared herself for it. But inside of Dellarae’s heart was a strong desire to keep going, to make it home one last time, to lay everything to rest.

Dellarae was alone this time, perhaps for the first time since her creator had launched her into the world in another century, another place. At that time it seemed so many were celebrating the great victory over the impossible that her creation was, using only the finest of champagne. Those early years were so wonderful, so full of glory and adventure. Now, as she travelled, a brisk breeze pushed through her hatchway, cooling her red flaky skin. She could almost feel the water lapping at the hull, a perfect mariner’s lullaby.

Despite that there were no sailors to man her, no Captain to steer her, Dellarae felt drawn Westward. Halifax harbour, that place where she had been made, was not more than a day’s sail from where she was, and she knew she could make it. She longed for Warren’s touch, but it was most important that someone, anyone took her back. It didn’t seem the same without the teeming life on her deck, without the loud throb of her twin diesel engines, but she was moving. She may not have control of what moved her, she may not even be moving under her own power, but Halifax was close, and she was going to be home soon, going to rest after so many exhausting adventures.

It was just a small flash of light off in the distance. At first, it didn’t seem as though it actually happened. Before she heard the sound of the gun firing, a huge explosion and 100-foot splash of water appeared 50 yards in front of her bow. “I need to get home; I want to get home.” Dellarae thought to herself, almost in a state of panic, and fought with all she had to change direction. There had been a time like this in the South Pacific once when a young sailor returned from liberty with a local woman and they brought out half of their ancient navy to bring her back. Dellarae had outwitted them; she would outwit these marauders, whoever they may be.

Another shot flashed out from far away. “What did I do? Why are they trying to keep me from my home?” Now she felt the explosion go off right beside her, and it felt like it tore out a part of her, like it disemboweled her. The smell of her own body torn open reminded her of a fire that had claimed the life of her beloved Captain Milley. No one saw the tears that ran down the side of her hull after they buried him at sea.

Now she was taking on water and the ships from far away were moving closer. She realized now what this assault meant. These were Canadian waters; she had become too old and too useless to anyone to be used for anything but as a towed target for Navy ships. Realizing this, the “Old Red Lady” as her men used to call her, stopped trying to struggle.

More flashes came, more explosions, Dellarae started to sink and, in a final act of defiance, she stopped still, making herself an easy target for a naval gun that tore her superstructure apart. Deep down through hundreds of feet she went, but still her soul lived, still her spirit went on.

“I’ll never let them raise me up again.” Dellarae thought to herself. “I’ll never for a thousand years let anyone learn the secret.” The secret was why she stopped struggling, it was why she wanted to be blown to bits to conceal her last hope at being wanted, being needed. Deep in her hull, many years ago, Captain Milley had carefully moulded and welded over $14 million dollars in gold to an inner wall of her hull, and now it was Dellarae who would choose when it could be retrieved and who she would bless with the luck to find it.

Death Wish by LeAnne Burgess – 1ST PLACE!


A heavy blanket of snow illuminated the night while cold flakes pecked at her chapped cheeks. As she took another deep breath, her ears winced at the broken silence. Shivering continuously now, she trudged through the drifts, avoiding obscure stumps and black, low-hanging branches. The item she dragged behind her left a noticeable trail but she knew it would be deeply buried by the storm come morning…

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

It was getting harder to walk. The wind was a bully, shoving her backwards. The snow, a white whirlwind of a magician, tried to trick her. The mesh bag grew heavier as she dragged it across the hummocks. Her goal was just ahead. Alyssa didn’t have to see it to know that the dying tree was there. She glanced behind her and saw the trail of red; sparkling, in the moon light. She knew it would be covered over by morning. A part of her wanted a few sprinkles to remain, but that wasn’t part of “The Plan.” She had to stick to the rules. She had given her word. She had to keep it. A memory tugged at her, but she tucked it away.

She closed her eyes…step…pull…step…pull…step—

So cold. So tired. So sleepy.

“It’s okay. Let go. Just for a minute.” Fatigue whispered.

She obeyed. The heavy bag dropped. She followed, pillowing her head on it.

She felt herself drifting in that half-awake, half-asleep state.

A scream pierced the air.


She bolted upright. Within seconds her mother’s instinct kicked in, leaving her wide awake and terrified.

She ripped the heavy ski mask off, cupped her hands to her mouth, and screamed back.

“Scotty!” She listened.

The wind wailed.

Her son’s voice was silent.

She waited, hands cupping her ears, straining to hear. If only the wind would calm down.

And then, it did. Suddenly, the world around her was eerily silent. The kind of silence that only comes in winter, when the blanket of snow muffles earthly sounds.

She pursed her lips, released what her son called her “mile high” whistle. It was their security signal. A pre-arranged trilogy of notes.  She whistled, he responded with his own trilogy. No matter what. She had taught him the same way parents on the mainland might teach their children a password to protect them from stranger danger.


What next?

She turned in a circle, paused, and then turned again.

“Reality check.” She whispered. “It wasn’t Scotty.”

She slipped the ski mask over her face, tucked her fingers into her mittens, and then bent down to pick up the rope. The burden was heavier than ever. She stared ahead. Her goal was in sight. She forced herself to quick-step the rest of the way.

Her destination was their used Christmas tree, “planted” in the ice that covered Lake Michigan between Mackinac Island and St. Ignace. It was one of many trees that functioned as markers along the ice bridge.

Upon hearing about it, the first question most people asked was, “Do you have a death wish?”

It was a valid concern. People had died out here. The ice bridge, like life, held surprises but no guarantees.

Today, the ice was solid underfoot. There were no cracks, no slushy areas, and no holes. The Christmas tree stump was dark, the limbs turning brown. Like all living things, it was dying. Memories flooded her mind.

“Mommy, what is Make-a-Wish?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“At the hospital. Some of the other kids were talking about it.”

Her little boy—one of the kids—a terminally ill eight year old, who would never see his ninth birthday.

“Make-a-Wish is a special group that helps give terminally ill children a last wish.”

“Children like me, right?” His chocolate brown eyes were wide and serious. She brushed her hand over the stubble of blond hair that remained.

“Yes. Is there something you want?”

“There is.”

He told her his wish and together they set up “The Plan.”

Kneeling by the tree she began to fulfill her son’s last wish. The mesh bag had been filled with three items: the first, a mixture of white sand, mixed with red Christmas sugar. It was this combination that had left a trail behind in the snow.

“Not too much sugar, Mommy. We don’t want fat fish.” His eyes sparkled with the idea of fat fish and she could only laugh with him.

“Right. No fat fish.”

Next, a heavy Ziploc bag. She opened it, and scattered the contents under the tree, as instructed.

“I want to be a like a present, under the tree, not a memory buried in the ground.”

She reached into the bag for the final item—a bottle of bubbles.

“No balloons, Mommy. We don’t want to hurt the birds or other animals that might find them.”

She blew bubbles into the cold air. They froze and hovered, then settled on the snow.

It was time for the last rule; the hardest.

Tears built up; a huge iceberg lodged in her throat. She stood up, tucked the empty mesh bag in her pocket.

One last thing to do.

She blew a kiss into the air. “Good-bye baby boy. Mommy loves you.”

A whisper of wind caressed her cheek—a butterfly kiss?