Announcing 2008 Contest: Summertime Blues
The Summertime Blues Short Story Contest was a Big Success! Our judging team picked a winner and three honorary mentions.
This was fun. All kinds of interesting short stories (1,000 words max) were submitted. The judging team said it was really hard to pick the winner as so many merited it.
The winner: "This Bird Has Flown," BV Lawson, Arlington, Virginia
Honorable mention:
-- "Summertime Blues," Laura Drotar, Arvada, Colorado
-- "A Cruel and Unusual Summer," Sandra Woodruff, Gentry, Arkansas
-- "The Protector" Peg Brantley, Aurora, Colorado
(We had several entries from Colorado. Is there something awesome in the water there?)
Thanks to ALL who entered. We'll think of you all when we next hear someone sing "Kumbaya," one of the words they all used in their story.
Are you ready for another contest soon?
The Winner of $50 is:
BV Lawson of Arlington, Virginia
BV Lawson's short story honors include a Center Press Masters Literary Award, and contest honorable mentions for Deadly Ink (published in that anthology), Mysterical-E, Crime and Suspense, and the Press53 Awards. She was also a finalist for a 2008 Derringer short fiction award. Other credits include Great Mystery and Suspense, Cantaraville, ESC! Magazine, Mouth Full of Bullets, Northern Haunts: 100 Terrifying New England Tales, Static Movement, and Powder Burn Flash. In addition, She's written articles for Mystery Readers Journal, The Washington Times and other periodicals, and is currently working on a detective novel series. She operates the blog Inreferencetomurder.typepad.com.
This Bird Has Flown
By BV Lawson
Oh, the trees and lake were pretty enough, if you went in for that sort of thing. Me? It's too much like one of those postcards you get in the mail from Great Aunt What's-Her-Name-Mathilda, I think. The one with the glass eye who smells of peach schnapps and lavender water and kisses me on both cheeks. Man, I hate postcards. The name's Sammy, by the way. Sammy Spade. Got shipped off to this jungle-gym joint so the old man and his new moll could go fishing this summer, or so he said.
So here I am in the land of Mama's boys and the girlies who are ten-going-on thirty sitting around this campfire in the middle of fifty-foot-tall kindling trees. Enough to make cousin Bartholomew the pyro salivate all over his hoosegow pinstripes as we sing "Little Bunny Foo Foo" and "Kumbaya," for cryin' out loud. What's wrong with "Take Me Out to the Ball Game?" or "Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall?" You know, real songs, the kind a guy can hum in the alley behind the Rialto Picture Palace and not have Vinny and his goons beat the living daylights out of you. Vinny's OK, though. He's in high school. Lettered in track, although if you call him on it, you'll get a black eye for your troubles.
At least the grub's OK. Mostly of the bun-based food group. Hamburgers, hotdogs, peanut butter sandwiches, ice cream sandwiches. I caught Mitch Forelli trying to sneak seconds off my plate and almost gave him a knuckle sandwich but settled for a wedgie later, right before it was his turn at bat. Ever seen a kid trying to make first base waddling like a duck with diaper rash?
No one's tried to glom anything off my plate since.
They call the flophouses here "cabins," although I don't see no cabs lying around, so I guess it's just another one of those quirks of adult humor I'll never understand. Ten boys were assigned to each flophouse and I got stuck in lucky number thirteen, which was probably where everything started to go south. One of thirteen's other inmates, Marcus Zimmer, had this C-note he kept hidden in his locker, although everyone knew about it, 'cause Marcus talked in his sleep. Wet the bed, too.
One day that C-note went missing, and since Marcus was a friend of Mitch's, suspicion naturally fell onto me. I pled my innocence. After all, what would I do with a hundred smackeroos in the middle of nowhere? Wipe my nose with it? Nah, I sensed something hinky going on, and since it looked like I was being set up as the fall guy, I decided to do a little investigating.
Suspect number one was Mary Anne Worthington. She had nice gams for a doll with "skirt cooties," as another of the inmates said. She went to one of those fancy private schools in the northeast where they'd never heard of a spaldeen, kick-the-can, or skelsies. I swear she was already wearing fake eyelashes, which she liked to bat at Marcus. I noticed she also liked to sit next to Marcus and even laughed at his lame jokes. Even Mitch didn't laugh at those jokes. She didn't have an alibi for when that note went AWOL, although she said she was using the latrine.
Right.
Suspect number two was the kid from overseas. One of those places in Europe with all the ruins and tourists. Yeah, I know. Blame it on the foreigner. But he knew all the words to "Kumbaya" by heart before he even set foot in this dump and he even liked broccoli. Very suspicious. He was assigned to flophouse number 12, which meant he wasn't privy to Marcus's nighttime soliloquies. But he was very cozy with Mary Anne, and I heard through the grapevine that this foreign kid had an addiction to grape Nehi and guzzled it every chance he got. They didn't serve it in the canteen, so it was a mystery who his dealer was. A C-note would buy a lot of Nehi.
I got my first break in the case when I started sneaking out during basketry class to this mulberry tree where I could sit hidden in the branches keeping an eye on number thirteen. I heard rattling from the back, the sound a screen would make, so I scrambled down and raced inside the cabin just in time to see a foot slipping through the window next to Marcus's bunk. I couldn't see the owner of that shoe, so I ran around back but was too late. Gone. Dang trees.
You'd never lose a mark like that chasing them down 23rd and Winston Avenue. But I'd seen the shoe. It had a funny pattern on the bottom, kind of a jagged "W." My next move was to somehow check out everyone's shoes without making a scene. Think, brain, think. Then, I had it.
I waited until two days later. Field Day. Everyone would be in one place. It was easy work to sneak into the director's lodge and find the right lever to push. Those tornado drill sirens sure make a loud racket when you get a little too close. When I made it back to the ball field, there were a hundred kids all lying on their bellies, shoe side up.
That night, after cornering Mitch Forelli and threatening to give him a Vinny-style thrashing that would make the wedgie pale by comparison, that C-note magically reappeared in Marcus's locker. Yeah, it was crude, but he had it coming.
Everyone believed I'd gotten religion and decided to come clean, so next time we gathered around that campfire, I decided to give 'em a show. Just as they started in on "Kumbaya," I began singing at the top of my voice the lyrics to Bessie Smith's "Preachin' the Blues." Sammy Spade was nobody's patsy and he was certainly no sap.
The honorary mention winners receive books in their choice of genre.
Honorary Mention #1 -- Laura Drotar, Arvada, Colorado
I am 37. This is the first writing contest I have ever entered, and I feel embarrassingly honored. I have yet to allow my husband to read my short story. When I was in pharmaceutical sales I traveled a lot. It never failed that I was short on paper, so I would borrow magazines from people in the seats around me attempting to find enough pages with open space to write on. I just had too much "stuff" in my head. Currently five to six novels remain there (did I say I'm looking for an agent?). I'm a mother of three, my eldest daughter has a serious syndrome, so the first book I'm working on is specific to mothers in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. It's kind of a "how to" book, because when you're there you have no idea that the thoughts in your head have been traveled by someone before you. So, I would like to sit right there with them and hold their hand.
Thank you to anyone and everyone who has allowed me the courage to continue.
I have always been an author, I've just never written.
Summertime Blues
By Laura Drotar
I sat waiting with the patience of a schoolgirl; he would arrive at any time. Was my hair in place? Did I line my lips? Had I brushed my teeth? As I peered around the lodge I could feel him everywhere. The hand carved railings were as brilliant as he was, and the stonewalls gave me a feeling of comfort and security. Looking up, I could only imagine the scenes the antique chandeliers had overseen, and the secrets they had heard. I had hoped to tell them more.
The feeling of the large rustic wood chair was soft and well touched. I wondered how many others had sat there as I was, waiting for the taste of something forbidden. Just as I noticed the church style arched doorways and I felt my skin begin to crawl, he appeared. A bit thinner than usual, certainly fit. He still carried that sly smile and recognizable air of confidence. I ran to him.
"Let's go for a hike," he said, "I want you to enjoy the view!" Typical, he was always driving me toward some challenge for which I was completely unprepared. I think he knew I would follow him to the ends of the earth. "It's Mount Hood you know, people die up there," I replied. "It's summer Elte, we'll take hotdogs and chips and we'll be just fine," he smiled. My heart was still pounding from his arrival, and now I was about to hike the back of Mount Hood.
I walked and hiked and hiked some more, placing one foot directly in front of the other just as he said to do. "That's how you get anywhere in life, you just keep going," he said as he was laughing at my struggle. He kept asking if I was "present, and in the moment."
"No," I said. "Right now I'm cussing you, and yet knowing I'll cry when you leave," I yelled. All I could hear in response was laughter flowing down over me.
Finally I reached him, high upon a rock. "Come, sit," he said.
"Should I push you off?" I replied, "I think I've ruined my shoes." As I lowered my aching back toward the rock, my eyes rose up. It was the first time I had ever sat above the clouds. The various shades of blue and violet were amazing. It was almost as if I could reach out my hand and swipe a piece of the clouds for my pocket. I expected God to walk by at any given moment. It was so still and there was a quietness I had never heard. It almost seemed like there was a silent song playing just for me. I forgot everything below and wished to stay in the moment forever. I had never before had the feeling of not wanting to leave. That day I did.
"Are you in the moment now?" he asked. I didn't reply.
When we returned to the lodge and entered our room there were fabulous woven rugs and hand stitched quilts. They had such character I wanted to study and to savor them for hours. I thought not just about the work that the artists and crafters had painstakenly endured to create these masterpieces, but also of all
the people they had kept warm throughout the years.
John reached for me. It was our first embrace that we had been longing for all day. It was like that last chocolate you sometimes save for a moment when you're alone, even though you've been craving it for days. It was wonderful, timeless, and worth the wait. He did as he always did. He nuzzled his face through my long hair and down to my neck. "I love you Elte," he whispered as if it were a sigh of relief. "And I, you," I whispered back as I grabbed the stolen moment that did not belong to me.
We spent about an hour or so before heading downstairs to the Cascade Dining room for dinner. I knew my time with him was ticking.
Salmon. Deep-crusted wild salmon was mine. He again invited a steak, and insisted on explaining the various levels of quality meats to me as he had done over the last few years. He knows I'm not a real meat eater, excluding fish of course. I think he enjoys watching my eyes roll. "Sangiovese," I requested although I don't remember the winery or year.
"Your wife has great taste," the waiter told John.
"My wife drinks white," John replied with a smirk. Not to be overshadowed by my competition, I sharply ordered an additional bottle of a nice Cakebread for John to take home to her. We then sat, living in the moment, laughing silently as our waiter's eyes rolled. My Sangiovese never tasted better.
After dinner we joined several guests of the lodge for a beautiful campfire outdoors. It was a nice relaxing moment of my ticking clock. Did they know I was a home wrecker? I was the whore singing Kumbaya in their presence. He never denied his love for her. I never asked him to. I wondered if there were any others attempting to live in the present, and wanting to steal more time, just as I was....
The next morning I awoke to a note:
Meet me on the rock. -JJ.
I cussed him as I put on my shoes. Even as I began to climb I felt his words, "One foot after the other, you know to 'get somewhere in life'." As my feet slipped up the steep incline and my blisters grew, I couldn't help but be excited for the approaching clouds. When I finally reached the rock, instead of him, I discovered another note:
I didn't want you to count the minutes. I've gone. See you in
September at Salishan. I love you Elte. Enjoy your hue of blues,
and live-just in the moment. -JJ.
Honary Mention #2 is Sandra Woodruff, whose favorite genre is mystery.
A Cruel And Unusual Summer
By Sandra Woodruff
"It's been a cruel and unusual summer, Little Geri Pink," Jill muttered to the geranium, on the windowsill. She fixed a bleak stare out into the rain. It didn't matter about the zero visibility. Her focus wasn't this material world.
Timeless minutes ticked by. There she stood with frozen heart, numbed spirit and weary soul, until the phone rang her back with a jolt.
Without turning her head or taking a step to the phone, she extended her willowy arm and absently lifted the receiver. A hollow "hello" seeped from her throat and escaped her unmoving lips.
"Hello, hello, hello," came the cheery voice of her sister. "Anyone there? Jillie? You won't believe the cute short set I found..."
Jill tuned back in to hear "...pink and orange, with the sweetest little flowers. It matches exactly a pair of sandals I have from a garage sale and my pink and orange crystal dangle earrings."
"Oh, that's nice Junie. Listen, you've caught me at a bad time. I'm going to let you go."
"Seems like it's a good time. You actually answered the phone instead of letting the machine get it.
Now Jillie, don't hang up. I want to talk to you." Jill inhaled and silently cursed having absentmindedly answered the phone.
"Don't go sucking in air. This is me, your big sister here. I'm not going to let you put me off any longer. I'm worried kid. Ever since Tom's accident you've been the dead one."
"That's not nice! Why do you say such insensitive things? For crying out loud, Tom was killed!
What do you expect from me? Just because you and everyone else in this blasted family are glad Tom died doesn't mean that I am. I know you hated him!" Jill gasped for air. What in the world was happening to her? She never lost control like this.
"Jillie I'm sorry I sounded uncaring. But I'm glad you're finally reacting... ."
"Reacting? I don't know what you mean... ."
"I'm talking about experiencing the pain and working through it. I'm not happy Tom's dead... ."
No! Don't you dare! You don't care!"
"I care about you."
"Junie, really, I'm sorry but I do have to go."
Jill gently pressed the talk button and silently broke the connection. "Funny," she said to Little Gery Pink, "talk means disconnect."
She went to her scrapbook and opened it to reveal newspaper clippings with headlines like "Tom Payne, Prominent Businessman Killed." Unable to linger on the clippings showing the crumpled Prius, the rain-soaked highway, and the scarred tree, she turned the pages back to where she had placed pictures of Tom in life.
Still unbearable. She picked out a CD, Red Hot Chili Pepper's remake of "Where Can My Baby Be. "
I know you'd prefer birdsong, Geri Pink, but the rain just won't stop."
The appearance of things always swayed Jill. She'd trusted Tom's beautiful smile, sophisticated glamour and take-charge attitude. He'd created a beautiful life for her. Or was it, like Junie often said, a "gilded cage?" Now she must trust her own senses and make her own choices. She felt winded, as if she had been punched in the stomach. She knew it had been easy to get things wrong. She had gone along to get along. Deep down, she missed her family. Especially Junie.
She sighed and squinted toward her drenched garden. She thought she saw an apparition through the curtain of rain that drummed slantward onto the patio. She blinked but didn't move to open the door.
"Tom?"
But it was Junie who stepped in. "Get me a towel before I drip all over."
Jill retrieved a towel, wrapped it around Junie and took the plastic grocery bags from her sister's hands. "What's this?"
"Can you believe all this rain? It's rained every day since... ." Junie paused as the open scrapbook caught her eye.
Jill slapped the book closed. "I know he meant nothing to you. But he was my husband. He's gone and I'm so alone."
"Only because you choose to be. I'm here. I'm sorry you're hurt. I wish I could change it, but I can't.
Something good always comes about if you'll let it. Perhaps now we can be close again. How could we like Tom? He didn't like anyone who might take up any of your time or attention."
"That's not true. That's unfair. Tom was... ."
"He was controlling and domineering. And if it isn't true why are you so isolated and alone, with only your flowers for friends? Why haven't you been to any family functions for five years?
"Tom felt un...."
"Exactly. Tom was uncomfortable. And you had to pay the price. Jillie, I don't want to harp at you. I miss you and I love you. Do you remember when we used to talk Mommie and Daddy into letting us sleep in a tent outside? Daddy would build us a campfire in his brick fire place and set up our tent at the edge of the patio and he and Mom slept close by in the living room. We'd make s'mores and hot dogs and sing songs late into the night. Look, I know it's raining and we can't use the patio. But there's a chill. You could build a fire, even though it's august. Strange, unusual weather."
Junie grinned. "I brought all the goodies. Let's spend the evening together... ."
The CD stopped. Jill said, "I'm not sure I remember any of the old songs we loved to sing together."
She moved toward the fireplace. "I'll get the fire going. You go and get some dry clothes on."
Junie started down the hall singing "Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya... ."
"I woke up singing the blues, but it looks like I'll end the day singing Kumbaya," Jill called down the hall. "You know, Little Geri Pink, perhaps I don't have to trust my own senses or Tom's charm. Perhaps I can learn to trust in God."
Honorary Mention #3
Peg wrote: I'm thrilled to have received an honorable mention for a short story. In 2004, having been writing seriously for only a few months, I placed second for my women's fiction novel. It felt pretty darn good. In short stories, the difficulty in achieving a character arc and empathy in a few short words is a skill I'm still learning, and I salute those who do it with ease. Check out Peg's blog: http://www.SuspenseNovelist.blogspot.com
The Protector
By Peg Brantley
She pulled her jacket tight and shuddered. From this vantage point she could see embers from the campfire stitching the night sky. Intense focus on the task ahead numbed all of her emotions.
Probably a good thing.
Three days ago seemed like three lifetimes ago....
Ten friends gathered on a Southern California beach to say good-bye to summer. Volleyball, watermelon and hotdogs. They built a huge bonfire. Paul Costello pulled out his battered old guitar and after a riff or two, settled into some awesome-bad Muddy Waters. A real "Kumbaya" moment, blues-style.
She and Connor wandered away from the group, the sound of surf keeping them company as they climbed dunes. The two had met at the police academy and fallen in love, long since passing the stage where they needed to talk in order to connect with each other.
After about half a mile of languidly strolling the beach, she leaned back into his arms as they both gazed at the ocean. His chin fit over the top of her head and she felt both loved and protected.
Automatic weapon fire drilled the night and the young lovers hit the sand. "That's coming from back by the bonfire," Conner hissed the words and fell into a low crouch as he ran back toward their friends. "Stay here."
"Like hell." She fell in behind him as they beelined down the beach, sticking close to high weeds along the ridge.
One last dune stood between them and gunfire. Connor motioned for her to wait. He crawled around the edge and slid into the shadows. She scuttled down and stretched flat, peeking over sand and weeds.
Horror filled her vision. Life bled out with her as silent witness. Friends who had joined in song and volleyball lay lifeless. All except one.
A man pointed his weapon at the singer. "Where is it?"
Paul stood next to the bonfire, his guitar hanging limply from his hand.
"Who are you?"
"The question is not who I am. The question is, do you want to live?"
"I had an agreement." Even from her distance, she saw Paul's head angle toward his battered guitar case. Held together with a prayer-and duct tape-the case had seen better days.
The gunman snorted. "You've got to be kidding." He gestured and two other men opened the case.
"It's here."
The pair opened a large, foam-lined, metal container and transferred something from the scarred instrument carrier.
"You kept anthrax in that thing? You're more of a lunatic than I thought."
"What about my agreement?"
"Oh, that." The gunman reached behind his back and pulled out a weapon. "We're
square." He fired and her friend crumpled.
Connor roared from the shadows. Before he had a chance to make a tackle, gunshot rang out from another source, cutting him down.
***
Since last Sunday, she'd been following the trail through her own tears. Sticking close to that metal case had led her to this frigid Rocky Mountain night. Hungry, exhausted and cold, she knew she needed to make a move tonight.
Activity had increased in the last hour-something was about to happen.
She'd called her sergeant to fill him in and explain why she couldn't stay on scene. He started yelling something about a cop being killed, her rookie status and Homeland Security. She didn't care. She'd gone from being protected to the need to protect. Connor would understand.
She'd clicked her cell phone shut. Determination, rather than anger, consumed her.
When the armed group of five men had settled into their campsite, she had backtracked to the little town of Ouray to pick up a few items.
She pulled her jacket tighter. And waited.
The campfire died down. She could see a few coals still glowing. Silence crawled up the hillside.
Now.
She knew the location of the metal case-in a small tent staked uphill. The man who'd shot Paul had gone into that tent alone twenty minutes ago.
Carrying her supplies, she skirted the camp. When she reached a point directly opposite the target tent, she went to work, grateful the wind flowed uphill. One gas can sat open and ready. The second she used to douse the T-shirts proclaiming Ouray, Colorado as Little Switzerland. The rope of shirts stretched almost fifteen feet. It would have to do. She opened a pack of cigarettes, sticking the cellophane in her pocket. Digging for the matches, she lit the cigarette and made sure there was a good solid glow on the end. She placed it on some rocks, intersecting the soaked cloth.
Creeping back to her original vantage point, she prayed her idea would work. She sidled down the slope and hunched behind the tent containing the canister. She pulled her gun and released the safety.
And waited.
Breathe. Focus.
Why was it taking so long? Did the cigarette go out? She began thinking about slipping back up the slope and checking.
Blam! The night exploded into day. Flames erupted and rolled with the wind, fanning higher and higher.
Men crawled from tents and sleeping bags and stood around, gesturing toward the fire on the hillside.
She waited for the man to emerge from his tent.
There. She fought the urge to take her shot.
He barked for the others to check out the explosion. "Look for the girl," he shouted. "She's responsible for this." As he marched toward the men, he left the entrance to his own tent unguarded.
Adrenaline propelled her to the tent, and she slipped inside. She scanned every inch and saw nothing. No metal case.
About to turn tail and come up with another plan, she saw a pile of fresh dirt in the corner nearest the entrance. She dropped to her knees and clawed the earth away.
Metal case in her hands, she hurled herself out of the tent and up the slope just as three jeeps pulled into the camp.
Safe. Soon she would allow herself to feel.
Andrea and Connie again want to thank everyone who entered. We read each story before we submitted it for judging. The writing was very good and such a wide range of most interesting stories.