SECOND ANNUAL SHORT SHORT STORY CONTEST WINNERS
THE CONTEST The challenge: write a story using 100 words on one of these topics, 1940s, ants, bowling, or water. We added a youth author prize this year for writers age 14 and younger. Writers from 25 states, Canada and Belize submitted stories.
THE CAUSE Proceeds from the Short Short Story Contest support Reading Works, an adult education center in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We provide free tutoring to teens and adults in reading, writing and speaking English. Our vision: a literate and equitable community.
CONTEST SPONSORS
BEST OF CONTEST Migration and Back by Deliah Lawrence In the 1940s, my family migrated from Alabama to Chicago for a better life - free from Jim Crow laws that kept African-Americans stifled, segregated and discriminated against.
I recalled my grandmother gently tracing her fingers across a photo of her brother who had been beaten by a throng of white men for fun. While she cried, she squeezed my hand. I was twelve. Today, I’m an FBI agent carrying a gun and badge. Today, I headed back to Alabama in search of a serial killer on the run preying on young black women. Today, I’m the face of justice. Best in Contest Prize is sponsored by RBC Wealth Management
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First Three Down by Molly Milroy “Here it comes,” Red grimaced, positioning herself real tall. “Yes, that’s it,” commands old-timer Scuff, “Stand as tall as you can. Get ready . . . it’s coming closer, and closer, and . . . hold your breath!” All ten gasp for air and hold it tightly in. “Kabam!” goes the eruption knocking out Skittle, Alley, and Stripe. “I’m sorry,” Skittle calls whimpering as she’s swept away with two others, pulled into the abyss. “They’re always the first to go,” Chip calls from the back smirking. “Those on the front lines always are,” Scuff reminds him, grieving the PBA Tournament of Champions loss of 1967.
People's Choice Prize is sponsored by Nusenda Credit Union.
BEST YOUTH AUTHOR PRIZE The Ant Colony by Addison Kurtin It was a scorching summer day, and the sun was beating down on Timmy impossibly hard, but he had to persist. He had to save the other ants. His colony was on the brink of starvation. They needed the feast he carried to survive. He felt like the sun was going to burn him to a crisp. His legs felt like jelly. He couldn’t go on... He had to. He was so close, he only had to take one . . . more . . . step. He collapsed into the ant hill. He and his family rejoiced! He had saved the colony, and himself. Best Youth Author Prize is sponsored by Nusenda Credit Union
BEST OF CATEGORY: WATER DAUPHIN ISLAND by Heather Cottom The water churns against the beach, creamy brown with white froth. Cappuccino-like, just as I remember. Farther out, oil rigs dot the horizon. I pretend they are ships instead.The wooden steps up to the deck haven’t changed. The glass door still sticks, as I slide it open. I toss my bag down and brew some coffee from the sample left on the counter by the rental company. All I want to do is look at the water and be still. I’m home. Back home. Even if my family is long gone. Even if it’s not mine, anymore. I pretend.
BEST IN CATEGORY: ANTS MURDER? YES OR NO? by Cecilia Elaine Davenport The detective sat facing the suspect. “Convince me you didn’t poison your wife.” “My secretary told you our affair ended last year.” “Yes.”
“The insurance agent verified that my wife was the one who wanted the large policy.” “Yes.” “My wife’s therapist states she was suicidal.” “Yes.” “You saw the ants in the kitchen. I needed ant poison.” “Yes and no.” “Huh?” “Yes, I saw the ants—red harvesters. No, you didn’t need the poison.” “Huh?” “Harvesters don’t invade homes. You planted them there. I have the sales invoice from the ant farm.” “The invoice?” The suspect groaned. “Yes.”
BEST IN CATEGORY: 1940S WORKSHEET
1945 by Heather Cottom She wouldn’t come to me. Why did this hurt more than anything I’d seen over there? Anything I’d done? Her hair was curled, just like the wrinkled picture I’d carried in my front pocket throughout the Pacific. She had on her best dress. Her mom said, “Go hug your daddy, Marie,” but she hid behind my wife’s legs instead. Through the window, I saw our dog, Nikki, out back, chained to the big tree. “It’s alright,” I said and excused myself to go smoke a cigarette. I drew in the warm tobacco like fresh air, and Nikki licked my leg.
BEST IN CATEGORY: BOWLING Bowled Over by Heidi Wells Crack! Explosions echoed. Enemy cheers resounded as regiments fell. The general stood firm with trusted lieutenants on each side and his platoon behind. The weapon came ruthlessly, curving and decimating his left flank. “Reset!” he yelled. The second volley was straight and true. He knew it would take out the remainder of them. There was comfort knowing he would rise again and that some respite would come at dark. The enemy would pack up its most prized WMD’s in emblazoned bags. Dozens of others would be stored on weapon’s racks, promising tomorrow’s battle cruel psychological warfare. Crack! He fell.
THE WRITERS
Deliah Lawrence is a Maryland-based attorney r o th u a g in n in -w rd a w a and of two romantic suspense d n a o G It t e L a tt o (G ls e nov Gotta Get It Back) set in Baltimore. She's also a blogger and romance workshop facilitator who writes poetry and short e v ti c a n a is h a li e D . s e ri sto member of Maryland Writers' Association, Sisters in Crime, Black d, n la ry a M f o d il u G ' rs te ri W and Greater Baltimore Cultural Alliance.
Cecelia Elaine Davenport is a retired R.N. who lives in Alpine, Texas. She began to write in her middle age after taking creative writing courses at the local university. Cecelia is a member of the Texas Mountain Trail Writers and has had both fiction and nonfiction pieces published in this organization's anthologies.
S R E T I R W E TH
Addison Kurtin is a twelve year old girl who lives in south eastern Michigan. She enjoys playing guitar and reading books in her spare time. She also plays cello, ukulele, and the drums. Addison lives with her mom, her dad, her little sister, and her dog, Jack.
Heidi Wells has been an English teacher for 30 years and she has always tried to pass her love of words along to her students. She enjoys writing short stories and poems as well as volunteering at a local animal shelter. She currently lives in Logan, Utah with her husband and three dogs.
S R E T I R W E TH
Heather Cottom received her MFA in Creative Studies from the University of Central Oklahoma and taught English, Literature, and Creative Writing courses at Mid-America Christian University for a decade. She is currently a full-time writer, embracing George Eliot’s quote, “It’s never too late to be what you might have been.” Her most recent publications have appeared in Desert Sun and Write Well Sell Well. Heather lives with her husband and three children in Oklahoma City.
Molly Milroy is a writer and explorer, both of the outside world and the world within. When she's not writing, she enjoys spending time with her seventeen nieces and nephews (as long as it doesn't involve the use of glitter). Molly and her husband live on the shore of Lake Superior.
HONORABLE MENTIONS
OPA'S ORDEAL
by Erin Bauer
His journey to warriorhood began today. Like all Mawé boys, thirteen-year old Opa had prepared. Dozens of bullet ants collected from the Brazilian rainforest were sedated and woven into gloves he’d wear for this rite of passage. With body and face painted, he bravely watched as tribal elders slipped the ceremonial gloves full of twisting, incensed ants onto his waiting hands. Opa felt the venom’s paralyzing effects as ants pierced his flesh relentlessly. He danced, enduring intense, excruciating pain. Ten minutes later it was over, his hands numb, swollen, and shaking. This ritual 20 times, and he’d be a man.
The Mausoleum
by Melissa Kemper Westbrook
Nine years ago, a pillar of our childhood, Brady's Bowl-A-Rama, went under. "Not enough people in Louden who can still lift a bowling ball?" I joked to my older brother, who'd managed what was left of the league. He hung up on me. Last month, my brother died, leaving me his estate: • A formidable stack of bills he was never going to pay. • Our childhood home, in an embarrassing state of disrepair. • A padlocked semi-trailer, parked on the back acre behind Daddy's workshop, packed and musty with scuffed bowling pins, chipped balls, and piles of familiar rental shoes.
ANTARCHY
by Cindy Austin
Like an obsessive game of cat and mouse, the little black insects appear out of nowhere wiggling their antennae hello at me, and then scurrying safely into a crack. They climb out of the drain while I shower, like peeping Toms. They invade my body through my nostrils while I sleep, trying to drive me mad so they can take over the house. I can just see it, one day I will arrive home and my house will be desecrated, replaced with a giant ant hill, atop of which a little black flag waves in the breeze declaring “We won!”
cursed
by Laura Boldin-Fournier
The psychic I consulted had a 1940’s hairdo, a bowling pin figure, and butterfly earrings. “Can you help me?” I asked. “Every car I buy is cursed. Fire ants hide under the seats and sting me. So do spiders. Hornets and wasps build nests inside the engine.” She said, “Sometimes creatures are attracted to models with names similar to their species.” “Models like Stingers, Wasps, and Hornets?” “Yes. You must have a priest bless your car with holy water.” Her advice worked. I didn’t have any more problems. Not until I bought a Jaguar.
life and death on a tuesday
by Amanda D'Errico
At the flick of her fingers, the six-legged intruder flew from the park bench into the abyss of the lawn below. So long, sucker. She returned her nose to her laptop, ever vigilant of crawling dots at the edge of her vision. An earth-shattering screech drew her attention to the road. An accident. Two people injured. She watched the paramedics work, their faces pinched with concentration. One person lay on the ground and wasn’t moving. Another ant made its appearance on the bench. She lifted her hand to flick it off, frowned... then let it crawl away.
SPARE ME
by James Brewer
Scud’s longshoreman’s body, battered and bruised, looked like it had two kneecaps on the same leg when he stooped in his stance. His ball was drilled to fit fingers like claws. The last time he stooped, he soon clutched his chest. His choked-out cheer suggested he saw the pins fall. A fatal stroke and a final strike! The foul light flashed. “That’s how I’d like to go,” Dad said. “Worse things to see during your last second than a perfect strike.” “Not me,” mumbled Mom. “Last thing Scud saw was a foul light.” “Nah,” said Dad. “He was looking up!”
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