LSUA Flash Fiction Contest 2024 by lsualexandria

2023 LSUA Annual Flash Fiction Contest Table of Contents First Place

David J Holcombe “Mary’s Tears”

Second Place

Gary Thomson “The Steadfast Soldier”

Third Place

E J Delaney “Poles Apart”

First Place Winner

David J Holcombe

Biography of David J Holcombe, MD

David Holcombe was born in San Francisco, California in 1949. After an idyllic childhood in the Bay Area, he attended the U. of California at Davis where he took his first creative writing class with Mrs. Diane Johnson-Murray. He subsequently attended the U. of Florida at Gainesville and the Catholic U. of Louvain in Brussels, Belgium. There, he obtained his medical degree and returned to Baltimore to complete a residency in Internal Medicine. He and his Belgium wife, Nicole and three children then moved to Alexandria, Louisiana in 1986. After 20 years in private practice, he transitioned to public health in 2007 and currently served as the Regional Medical Director for Central Louisiana until July 2023. He has always continued to write, paint and folk dance. He published his 14th book, “The COVID Chronicles,” in 2023. While his books have been commercial flops, he has nonetheless documented life in Central Louisiana, the good, the bad and the ugly, for generations yet unborn. His non-fiction medical essays have appeared in CENLA Focus and Visible Horizon for many years. He has always tried to join both art and science in what can be a very uneasy relationship.

MARY’S TEARS David J Holcombe

Mary Mahoney turned the egg over in her hand and examined the intricate designs. She looked up at the vendor, dressed in her peasant blouse, embroidered bodice, white skirt and blue print apron. The woman talked in her foreign accent as she moved her hands around in controlled circles. “These are called pysanki. One is a pysanka. Each egg is like a talisman, blessed by the priest at Easter. Some eggs were buried with the dead; others were put in cradles and barns for good luck and fertility. Some were buried in de fields or put in beehives to increase production.” Mary marveled at the straight white lines and the brilliant colors, especially the intense red. “And what is this egg for?” The costumed woman leaned forward and looked at the designs on the egg. “You see the wavy lines? Those represent eternity. The white dots in those red triangles stand for Mary’s tears in the blood of Jesus. Those cross hatchings are fish nets because Christ told us to be fishers of men. And those red poppies and wheat symbolize prosperity.” “So, this egg will bring good luck?” Mary asked. The woman nodded. “It will bring peace and harmony to any house where it is placed.” Mary returned the egg to the basket, filled with dozens of beautiful eggs. She looked at the price. “Fifteen dollars each, tax included.” Fifteen dollars did not seem like a lot for the amount of work, but she and Frank had such a hard time making ends meet on his meager construction worker salary. She took her purse and pulled out her wallet. Fifteen dollars exactly. She was pretty sure Frank still had about eighty dollars, more than enough for lunch and gas to get back to Hornbeck. She looked at the egg, so beautiful, so intricate, so unique and full of promise. She wondered if it really could bring peace and harmony to their home. How she longed for that. She hated all the squabbling about electrical bills, children’s allowances, her numerous friends, and her intrusive family. The egg could do in their display case with all of her other treasures; the imitation silver icon, the enamel cross, and the holy card of St. Rita she got from their parish priest before he died. “Pysanka,” she muttered. So symmetrical. So perfect. So peaceful. All the other eggs seemed to spin around that one magical creation in the middle. “You just need to keep them out of the direct sun. Sunlight fades the dyes.” Mary felt her heart beat faster and the beads of sweat form on her forehead. Could she buy it? Should she dare to buy it? Could it really bring peace to their home? She reached down and picked up the egg and handed it to the vendor. “I’ll take it!” The costumed woman nodded. “Excellent choice. That’s a real beauty. It took me at least four hours to make. I’m glad it’s going to a good home.” The lady took the egg and placed it a little box on a bed of iridescent artificial straw. She gave it to Mary. “Enjoy.” Mary passed her the fifteen dollars. “I will.” She turned and scanned the crowd. Frank huddled over a table of handmade hunting knives a few tables away. She hurried over to him

as she cradled the pysanka in her palms. When she reached his side, she noticed he held a large serrated Bowie knife with a polished deer antler handle. “Look at this beauty,” he said. She looked down at the wide, shiny blade and saw her own distorted image. “Yes, that’s real nice.” She looked up at his dark eyes that focused on the little box. “What you got there?” “An egg.” “What kind of egg?” “A pysanka.” He furrowed his dark brows. “What’s that?” She fumbled with the little box and pulled out the egg. “It’s an Easter egg, made by using a Ukrainian technique. All these little lines are drawn by hand and the eggs is colored in a bunch of different dyes. It’s supposed to bring good luck. Isn’t it beautiful?” “How much did it cost?” “Only fifteen dollars.” She could feel the weight of his eyes on her hers. She clutched the egg, hoping not to break it as she tried to minimize her own trembling. “Fifteen dollars for a useless egg!” “Frank, it’s supposed to bring peace and harmony to the home.” She looked down at his hand, still holding the knife. She could see his fist tighten around the handle. “So, we don’t have peace and harmony in our home?” “Sure, we do. I just thought. . . .” Frank banged the antler handle on the table. All the other knives jingled and Mary thought the sound echoed throughout the immense hall. “We can’t be buying useless crap when we can hardly pay the mortgage. Have you lost your mind?” She pulled back the egg, afraid that he might destroy it with a blow of his free hand. All the other sounds in the hall drifted away as she concentrated on the words that might come spilling out of his distorted mouth. “Take it back!” “But, Frank.” “Take it back.” She watched as he ran his free thumb over the blade until a drop of scarlet blood appeared, topped with a glistening white reflection. The color of his blood matched the red of the triangles on her beautiful egg, each one containing three tiny spots of white, Mary’s tears, as the vendor had explained. She looked up at Frank’s implacable dark eyes before slipping the egg back into the box and turning away. Each step toward the pysanki vendor seemed like a hundred yards. She lifted her feet, which felt like they were encased in metal, and moved them forward toward the lady in her costume. From a distance, Mary could see the smiling vendor, whose round face radiated

kindness and charity, speaking with another woman. When the customer left, Mary stepped forward and extended the box toward the lady. “I’m so sorry, Ma’am, but could your take this back.” “You would prefer another one?” “No, I would like to get my money back if you’d let me.” Mary could see the concerned look on the woman’s face. “But why?” Mary gazed into the woman’s brown eyes. There seemed no malice, no hostility, just concerned curiosity. “I didn’t ask my husband’s permission before I bought it. He says we need the money for other things. Could I please get my money back?” She held her breath. The woman smiled as she reached for the box. She removed the egg and placed it back into the basket with the others. “Of course. No problem.” She gave the money to Mary, who stuffed the bills back into her wallet. She looked back at the vendor, whose broad face and gentle smile conveyed only heart-felt sympathy. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just an egg. You just take care of yourself.” Mary felt overcome with an intense combination of relief and shame. She crossed the crowd and saw Frank advancing toward her. The antler handle of the great knife protruding from a plastic shopping bag. “Honey, you need to pick us up something to eat. I don’t have a single dime left.” Mary felt a wave of immense sorry and held back her tears, Mary’s tears. THE END

Second Place Winner

Gary Thomson

Biography of Gary Thomson The author is retired from a teaching career in Ontario, Canada. He enjoys reading widely, from Ancient Greek history and tragedy, medieval whodunnits, accounts of European voyages of discovery, to UFO conspiracy theories. He savors the company of select contemporary writers, including Hilary Mantel, Alice Munro, Cormac McCarthy, and Wm. Trevor, among others. He was drawn to writing flash fiction because of its immediate demand for context, concision and resonance. His work has appeared in various outlets, including fiftywordstories [7], Molecule, and FairfieldScribes. When his writing stalls, he riffs blues and the Beatles on his Hohner harmonica. If he is lucky, the music summons a potent image, a telling phrase, an interesting character. 'The Steadfast Soldier' is his first competition placement. email: thomng43@gmail.com

THE STEADFAST SOLDIER GARY THOMSON

Sitting on a green painted bench under the shade of a beech tree, two aged men gazed over a motionless river. “Jocko’s gonna be late, Coop,” said one. “Steady as Big Ben,” said the other. “Always.” They shifted into the back rest. Their thinning hair and crumpled, ill-fitting clothes bound them in likeness. They spoke little, relying on a lifetime of companionship for messaging. Cooper was watching two laughing young women sashaying past the harbour canteen. A subtle change of light brightened his eyes. “Your trouble, Huggins, is you’re still a slave to the clock.” Clarence Huggins glanced peevishly toward the half parabola of the railway bridge. Two lighthearted lads were idling against the stone buttress, sipping from beer cans. They shifted into the back rest. Their thinning hair and crumpled clothes bound them in likeness. Huggins grumbled. “He’ll arrive kitted out for business, thinkin’ we need tending. We kin manage.” A passenger train thundered across the bridge. Their friend Jocko approached the two companions along the cinder path. He too was elderly, but his face was ruddy with the summer sun. His pinstripe jacket shone at the elbows. He waved his walking stick with a gesture resembling a dueling thrust. ‘Hey, Cooper. Waiting long, Clarence, my boy?” Huggins mumbled a reply. Cooper presented a trembling salute. “Present and accounted for. Sir.” Tossing his white mane, Jocko rumbled his laughter. Huggins scrutinized Jocko’s walking stick, its shiny finish. Thought, He’ll be flashing that thing like those musketeers, impressing us. Jocko stopped in front of the bench. His friends shifted and made room for him. Cooper adjusted the knot of his marmalade tie. “Clarence thought you wasn’t coming.” “Been polishing,” Jocko exclaimed. “A good soldier breathes spit ‘n polish.” Huggins glanced at Jocko’s scuffed shoes. He muttered, “Hot days, a man gets thirsty.” “Got just the ticket.” Jocko withdrew from his jacket pocket a paper bag that wrapped a stubby bottle. “Special Select. Smooth as honey.” He passed the bag to Huggins. Huggins cackled, the closest he ever came to an expression of joy. The three men sipped lightly, reflecting on the warmth and purity of the day. Huggins and Cooper waited for Jocko to lapse into reminiscence. They hung on like children eager for a bedtime story, since Jocko was to them a god-protected adventurer. Their world extended from this park to Calloway’s pub to their rooming house. They were imprisoned by ignorance and prejudice because they would not read. Jocko devoured newscasts, online newspapers and journals. He informed them of drug cartels, wars in the

Middle East, archeology digs in Egypt. He understood the chicanery of politicians, and explained to them the agonies of futile love affairs. They listened to him with awe and unshakeable trust. Many times he lied to them unabashedly. They never knew. By the bridge the beer boys were punishing a rugby song. The shadow of the beech tree edged toward their feet. Huggins nodded toward Jocko’s walking stick. “Fancy equipment, amigo. How’d you manage it?” With a juggler’s skill Jocko gripped the gleaming ebony shaft at midsection. Its marvel was the ornate silver head, in the likeness of a snarling mythical beast. Huggins and Cooper drew forward. The monster’s drawn lip and fierce teeth roused in them a hint of alarm. “Go shopping, sometimes you find a treasure.” Jocko glanced cautiously toward the yodellers. Cooper and Huggins hung on Jocko’s narrative of discovery, this marvellous artefact at Joe Kastein’s Bargain Barn, leaning against a child’s wagon. Of two days of muscle power and Brasso to clean it. He held his prize higher. Then took a gentle pull from the bag. “Reckon it’s been around,” Cooper replied. He felt anxiety growing in him for another of Jocko’s tales of intrigue and exotic locales. “It’s called a penang lawyer. A gentleman’s stick. Sherlock Holmes encountered one in a dangerous case involving a missing race horse.” Cooper looked at Huggins, who appeared mystified. “Explain it for our friend here,” Cooper urged. Jocko kept an ominous silence. He was looking toward the two approaching bassos, giggling and swaying. “Victorian gents walking London streets at night carried them. Protection against rampsmen and palmers – bullies and thieves.” Huggins and Cooper nodded, each urging his imagination to lope back, to foggy streets and clattering horse drawn cabs. But an abrupt fear held them in. The intruders teetered in front of them. Their flushed faces twisted in mockery. “Hey, you scrubby winos,” the blond lad taunted. “Waitin’ for your girlfriends?” He laughed and slapped his friend. “Tough sleepin’ on that mattress under the bridge,” said his mate. “I hadda take a piss on it.” Instinctively Huggins eased a hand over the paper bag. An icy fist knotted his stomach. Cooper heard a ringing in his ears like plunging cathedral bells. Jocko’s face kept a steady calm.

The blond youth snarled at him. “Get that bloody cane outta my face, you lushbag, or I’ll bust it over your kneecap.” He lunged for the stick. Jocko flicked the tip close to the youth’s neck. His thumb pressed imperceptibly along the nose of the beast head. A thin gleaming blade leaped forward and nudged against the skin beneath his left ear. The lad stiffened. A dark damp spot grew in the front of his jeans. His friend pleaded with Jocko to ease back. Jocko lifted his stick. “Away, boys. Party’s over.” The youths disappeared beyond the bridge. Huggins and Cooper kept silence. They were lost in meditation, as though they were coming to understand at last the vulnerability of life, the quality of Jocko’s courage and the depth of his loyalty. Cooper addressed Jocko’s stick as if it were a divine instrument. “Like a snake’s tongue. Take the starch clean out.” Huggins murmured, “Good thing you turned up, Jocko. Like always, you was here.” The three comrades eased against the bench rest. Jocko accepted the paper bag. They smiled knowingly. The sun moved over the beech tree, and held them in warmth.

Third Place Winner

E J Delaney Biography of E J Delaney E J Delaney hails from Brisbane, Australia’s River City. E J’s short stories have appeared in Curiouser Magazine, Sonder and the podcasts Cast of Wonders and Escape Pod, as well as in limited edition print collections from Air & Nothingness Press. E J also writes for younger readers, contributing to the Australian school magazines Countdown, Blast Off and Touchdown, the American school magazine Spider, and the French periodical Short Circuit, which is dispensed worldwide by way of freestanding tickertape machines. E J’s poetry features in the Irish teen and young adult literary journal Paper Lanterns.

POLES APART E J Delaney

Johnny didn’t think much of his new class. The teacher was all right—Mr Carter, who used to be in the army—but there were lots of new kids who looked and spoke funny. Colton’s dad said it was because of the rezoning: Brown Bear Elementary and some other school were too close together, so they’d closed them both down and opened a new, bigger school midway between. Which meant, firstly, that Johnny and Colton had to ride their bikes further each day; and secondly, that half his classmates had names he couldn’t say, let alone spell. Two-tongues, he and Colton called them. Kids who spoke two languages. Not that Johnny cared all that much. (Colton’s grandparents were two-tongues and they were okay.) Still, it was weird having so many of them in class. Plus, they didn’t always understand, you know? Basic stuff, like Gettysburg and Thanksgiving, and Little League Baseball. But whatever. Johnny stared at the new blend of faces. He still had Colton to talk to, and Jake Lopez and maybe a few others. The rest he’d just have to put up with. And hey, maybe he’d have a chance at this year’s spelling bee... # “Listen up!” Mr Carter hollered. “‘ten-shun!” The bell had just gone, and had set off a flurry of packing-up activity. Mr Carter stood, arms crossed, until the class settled down again. “Homework,” he declared. “Due Monday. Your mission: draw up plans for the new school courtyard. Make sure it’s to scale and put in some effort, do you hear? There’ll be a prize for best design.” “Um, what sort of things...?” someone asked. “Use your imaginations! Flower beds; murals. Whatever you like, so long as you’ve got the Stars and Stripes.” The girl next to Johnny—Anneke de-Something-or-Other—raised her hand. She sat straight and had long blonde hair. “De wat?” she frowned. “De starzen stripes?” Mr Carter smiled faintly. “The flag,” he said. And Johnny added in a loud mutter: “Duh.” #

Johnny worked hard on his courtyard design. He drew a cherry tree and a statue of Lincoln, and above it all a giant flagpole with the Stars and Stripes blowing proud in the wind. The lettering gave him some trouble but he kept at it. By Monday morning he was finished. “Come on,” Colton urged. “We’re gonna be late!” “Yeah, okay.” Johnny slid the rolled-up cardboard into his bag. They got to school just as second bell rang, and were last into the classroom. “Hup, hup!” Mr Carter was sticky-tacking plans to the wall. “Look sharp, boys. Do you have your projects?” “Yes, sir!” Johnny pulled his from his bag. He was just flattening it out when a voice behind him asked: “De vlag, yah? De starzen stripes?” Johnny turned. Anneke de-Whatshername was peering at his design. “It’s goot. I like it. But... wat does it do?” Johnny just stared at her. What did she mean, ‘What does it do?’ Hadn’t she seen a flag before? Crazy two-tongues! # Mr Carter gave the class ten minutes at the start of lesson to check out the designs. Johnny was excited at first. He thought his plan for the new courtyard was pretty good. You know? Patriotic. Then he looked at some of the others. Gardens and murals, yes. But— His heart sank. In one plan there was a flagpole made of wood and hollowed out in places so that birds could live in it. Another had the flagpole as a giant sundial. In a third it was painted in candy stripes with a fairground bell at the top. A fourth turned it into a solar-powered internet server with built-in data storage. It’s good, she’d said, but what does it do? Now Johnny understood. Hardly any of the flagpoles were just flagpoles. One doubled as a recorder. It had a foot pump for pushing air through it, and pedals to open and shut the finger holes. There was a flagpole sprinkler, and a maypole for swinging around on, and a model of the solar system. Someone—Bidziil Begay, Johnny guessed—had even drawn a totem pole with headdress feathers instead of a flag. The best of all the designs had a wind turbine with blades of red, white and blue. It was simple. Beautiful. Johnny squinted forward to read the name in the corner. Of course, he sighed. Who else? Anneke De Jong. “Do you like it?” She was standing beside him. She sounded kind of hopeful, kind of worried. “De vlag is... in de wind? You see?” Johnny shrugged, embarrassed. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s all right.”

# For much of that day, he found himself staring at the classroom wall. All those cool ideas! When the bell rang to go home, he stayed back. “Uh, Mr Carter?” “Yes, Johnny?” “Do you think I could take my project and work on it some more? I mean, I know I wouldn’t be able to win the prize or anything, but... there’s something I want to add, you know?” Mr Carter looked at him like he’d just found Johnny out in the desert, grooming a camel with his sister’s hairbrush. Then he shrugged. “Sure, Johnny. Go for it.” # Johnny kept the cherry tree, and the statue of Lincoln. In his new plan, though, he tilted the flagpole off-centre and ran it through a large globe of the Earth. This could be spun around, and each country was a puzzle piece that lit up a different colour when you pressed it down. India. Vietnam. Jamaica. El Salvador. Mexico. China. The Netherlands. “Mooi zo!” Anneke smiled when he showed her. “Yah, dis I like very much. De starzen stripes but de people as well who come here, under dis vlag.” The more Johnny listened to her, the more musical her voice sounded. “Darnk,” she said, nodding. Johnny closed his eyes. In his mind the globe lit up like a disco ball, spinning slowly. He said: “You’re welcome.” ###

Graphic Designer: Mechelle W