14 minute read
Short Story Contest
Short Story Contest Winners First Place
His Father's Smile
As the years slip by, I find that I’m giving By Tim Ruthmyself more and more permission to be myself, whomever that may be on any given day. I remember how petrified I was while dressing up for my first boy-girl “mixer” in junior high. Shyness on steroids. Intuiting my terror, my mom offered what she believed Through the windshield of my rusted-out Ford F-150, I watched the young man stroll into the supermarket. The kid looked to be in his early twenties, and his casual walk told me he didn't have a care to be a gem of advice. “Just be yourself,” in the world. He didn't know that very soon he'd she said. Then smiled and patted my arm. be dead. I planned to make sure of that. The parking spot near the front of the store he'd just What taken was mine. A blind man could have seen I And it’s taken was waiting to pull into it. But a car coming up years to figure that out. Not that I have that the lane delayed my turn. That's when that little perfectly nailed at this point in my life, but bastard shows up with his shiny subcompact certainly enough that I have a darn good idea and glides into my spot. I should have quit, let it of what works and what doesn’t, i.e. what makes me happy and what doesn’t. And I lean Syndicated columnist, political activist, and author James Allen (Jim) Hightower (age 79) sums up the key to successful aging Lowcountry Weekly is pleased to announce the winners of the 8th Annual Sea Island Spirit Writers Short Story Contest. This year, the participants were asked to include the ality and enjoy their later years as follows: word “quit” somewhere in their story of 750 words or less. There were so many great opposite of courage is not cowardice, entries this year, we’re glad we didn’t have to serve as judges. That challenge, as Dust off your old Santana and Jimi Hendrix albums and crank ‘em up. Make my always, was handled by the Sea Island Spirit Writers, and we thank them for their service. Thank you, as well, to everybody who entered the contest, and special Katherine Tandy Brown has traveled the world as a congratulations to the winners! Please freelance writer for 25 years. She teaches memoir, travel enjoy the prize-winning stories published writing and writing practice in USCB’s OLLI Continuing Ed in this issue. program and in her downtown cottage. A certified writing coach, she is penning her first novel, One to Go: An Equine 1ST PLACE $100 or (859) 312-6706 His Father's Smile by Tim Ruth, Chaffee, NY
2ND PLACE $50 Pottery Trips by Vivian Bikulege, Brevard, NC
3RD PLACE $25 Time Zone by John Williams, Port Royal, SC
HONORABLE MENTIONS $20
Losing an Old Friend by Sandra Fischer, Southern Pines, NC The Job by M.Z. Thwaite, Beaufort, SC Quit It! by Doris Wright, Beaufort, SC go, and looked for a space at the back of the packed parking lot. But he did something after he got out of that Toyota that sealed his fate.
He stopped and looked my way like he was noticing me for the first time. Then he smiled and waved at me. SMILED AND WAVED! It wasn't enough that he took the parking spot; he had to taunt me too. I wrapped my fingers around the steering wheel, gritted my teeth, and glared at him. He looked at me a second or two longer, shrugged his shoulders, and ambled into the store. I sat in the idling F-150 staring at the supermarket door until someone laid on their horn, demanding I move. Reluctantly I complied and headed to the back of the lot.
When I got there, I wheeled the pickup around, opened the glove compartment, and took out my revolver. Then I returned my attention to the storefront. There was no sign of him. I decided that if he weren't out in ten minutes, I'd go into the store and end him there.
In the distance, thunder rumbled. Fat drops of rain began to plop down, molting my dusty windshield with an odd polka-dot pattern. I flicked on the wipers and watched the worn-out blades trace a thin white arch onto the glass. I didn't care about the scar they'd etch. Since Barb left, I didn't care about much. The morning she walked out, she'd told me I'd changed since coming home from the war, that I wasn't the man she'd married. That damn war took her from me. I checked my watch and saw that ten minutes had passed. It was time I did the taking.
I slid the handgun into the pocket of my old army coat and stepped out of the truck. As I did that, I noticed my target exit the store. He started up the same row of vehicles I was coming down. We advanced toward each other like two gunfighters in an old west showdown. When we were less than twenty yards apart, I placed my hand in my coat pocket and grasped the 38.
The kid locked eyes with me, and a broad smile lit his face. He said, "Hey there, Mr. Collins, I thought that was you." Something about his smile was familiar, but I didn't know what. The young man must have noticed my confusion. He pointed to himself and said Danny Rameriz, Hector's son. I met you at my dad's memorial service." It was then that I realized what was familiar about him. The boy had his father's smile.
Hector had flashed that smile to me as he pulled me out of a burning Humvee in Iraq, saving my life seconds before a sniper's bullet ended his.
Frantically trying to come up with something to say, I finally asked, "What are you doing here?"
He pointed toward the store, "I work here. See the sign in front of my car."
The sign read, reserved for Danny Rameriz, employee of the month."
I stared at the sign I hadn't noticed earlier, paralyzed by the thoughts of what I'd almost done. Finally, I returned my gaze to Danny and stammered, "Your dad would be very proud."
He smiled that familiar smile once more. I patted him on the shoulder, then hurried back to my truck. I sobbed there behind the wheel of that Ford for a long time. Sorry for what I'd almost done. Ashamed at what I'd become. I picked up my phone and placed the call Barb had begged me to make more times than I care to remember. Two rings later, the call was answered, "Veterans administration."
Through my tears, I choked out, "This is Gunnery Sergeant Jonathan Collins. I need help."
Dear Artists and Customers,
After 25 years, it’s time to retire. We’re closing in early November. Come buy unsold frames and materials at our 3-day close-out sale October 29,30 & 31. Thank you all. We’ll miss you.
Newly named as Greenville, SC’s first Poet Laureate, Glenis Redmond, author of The Listening Skin, is also a 2022 inductee of the South Carolina Academy of Authors (the Palmetto State’s Literary Hall of Fame) and a 2020 recipient of the South Carolina Governor’s Award for the Arts. Poet Marlanda Dekine, author of Thresh and Hold, was recently recognized as the South Carolina Arts Commission Fellow for Spoken Word / Slam Poetry and winner of the 2021 New Southern Voices Poetry Prize.
Both award-winning writers will be reading from their poetry at Sandies at the Beaufort County Black Chamber of Commerce (711 Bladen St.) on Friday, November 4, at 5:30 p.m. Hosted by the nonprofit Pat Conroy Literary Center, this event is free and open to the public. Sandies will be open for dine-in or take-out dinner that evening. Books will be available for sale and signing.
On the following morning, Saturday, November 5, from 10:00 a.m. to noon, Glenis Redmond will also be teaching a poetry writing workshop inspired by Jonathan Green’s artwork of potter David Drake-- Working with Wonder: Creating Couplets and Ekphrastic Poetry. This workshop will be held at the Pat Conroy Literary Center (601 Bladen St.) and is open to writers of all levels of experience. $45/person. Please register in advance for the workshop at https:// workingwithwonder.eventbrite.comPoet Glenis Redmond
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Poet Marlanda Dekine
ABOUT GLENIS REDMOND
Glenis Redmond is the first Poet Laureate of Greenville, SC, a 2022 inductee into the South Carolina Academy of Authors (our state’s literary hall of fame), and a 2020 honoree of the South Carolina Governor’s Award for the Arts. She has been a literary community leader for almost thirty years. She is a Kennedy Center Teaching Artist and a
Cave Canem alum. Glenis has been the mentor poet for the National Student Poets Program since 2014. In the past she prepared these exceptional youth poets to read at the Library of Congress, the Department of Education, and for First Lady Michelle Obama at the White House. She is a North Carolina Literary Fellowship recipient and helped to create the first Writer-in-Residence position at the Carl Sandburg Home National Historic Site in Flat Rock, North Carolina. Her work has been showcased on NPR and PBS and has been most recently published in Orion Magazine and the New York Times. She is the author of the poetry volumes The Listening Skin as well as The Three Harrietts, What My Hand Say, and Under the Sun.
ABOUT MARLANDA DEKINE
The 2022 South Carolina Arts Commission Fellow for Spoken Word / Slam Poetry and winner of the 2021 New Southern Voices Poetry Prize, Marlanda Dekine (she/they) is a poet obsessed with ancestry, memory, and the process of staying within one's own body. Their work manifests as books, audio projects, and workshops, leaving spells and incantations for others to follow for themselves. Dekine's work has been published or is forthcoming in Southern Humanities Review, POETRY Magazine, Emergence Magazine, Juke Joint Magazine, OROBORO, Screen Door Review, Root Work
Journal, and elsewhere. They are the Founder and former Executive Director of Speaking Down Barriers, Spoken Word Spartanburg, and other organizations that make space for all beings. Currently, they serve as a Healing Justice Fellow with Gender Benders and the 2021-2022 Creative-In-Residence with Castle of our Skins. Dekine is the recipient of many awards, including a Tin House Own Path Scholarship (2021), a SC Humanities Award for Fresh Voices in Humanities (2019), Emrys' Keller Cushing Freeman Fellowship (2019), and grants from the SC Arts Commission, Alternate Roots, The Map Fund, and other organizations. Thresh and Hold is Marlanda’s first book of poetry.
Learn more about the nonprofit Pat Conroy Literary Center at www.patconroy literarycenter.org
Learn more about Sandies at the Beaufort County Black Chamber of Commerce at www. facebook.com/sandiesatthegullahjazzcafe
The Three Harrietts, What My Short Story Contest Winners Second Place
Pottery Trips By Vivian Bikulege
Marjorie loves mushrooms. She thinks she understands them. For her, they are introverts popping from dirt after days of mountain rain. Their beauty, much like hers, stays buried for a long “Who are you?” “My name is Brindle.” “What are you?” “An elf.” “I didn’t believe elves were real.” to escape the confines of her austere existence and chattering mind. Small bodies began to emerge from behind coffee cups and saucers. Marjorie buckled onto a wooden stool amazed by the process of staying within one's own body. night. We are like the mushrooms you Their work manifests as books, audio projects, cherish, emerging new and whole. We can be and workshops, leaving spells and family.” incantations for others to follow for As dawn broke on Henry Mountain, themselves. Dekine's work has been Marjorie stood and walked to her kiln. She time until they fruit to find daylight as if breathing for the very first time. Marjorie lives alone at the top of Henry Mountain. She is a potter and every month she fills boxes with her best work and carries them into town to a small gallery. She hopes tourists, maybe a few locals, will buy one or two pieces. What doesn’t sell in a month, she carries back up the mountain. She has a shed full of ignored pots. What makes her small bowls and coffee cups unique are the mushroom designs she lovingly carves into the clay. Some are plump with thick caps, and some are slender with tiny jabs from her needle tool, mimicking spores floating from the gills of the make-believe fungi. Every clay creation is finished with a fragment of mushroom pulp embedded into the base. It burns away once Marjorie fires her pottery in the kiln but leaves a lasting mark. Not long ago, Marjorie thought she heard curious noises in the storage shed. Mice, she thought, and set traps between stacks of hunter green and winter blue bowls. One night, after a loud snap, she trekked a moonlit path from her cabin to the shed. In the corner, on the hard-packed dirt floor, a tiny woman struggled to dislodge her denim skirt caught in the hammer of a mousetrap. She froze when she saw the giant woman, fearful as Marjorie reached down and lifted the trap and its captive. “We are. We’ve been living on this mountain for a very long time. We moved into your pottery shed for protection. We love your work.” “We? How many?” “I think our last census was seventy-six; parents, grandparents, and children. Some left this mountain for Pinnacle but we can’t be sure they made it. Snakes and raccoons make for a treacherous passage.” “So, I’m not really alone.” “No, Marjorie. We were here before you bought the place. We watch you collect mushrooms and throw pots. We hear you snore.” Marjorie and Brindle went quiet. Tiny, watchful eyes and subtle whispers of warm breath took hold of Marjorie’s senses. She pulled back on the hammer to release the pixie. Brindle smoothed her skirt and folded her arms warily watching the big woman. “Sorry about the trap.” Marjorie placed it on a windowsill, yellow cheddar still stuck to the catch. “It’s okay. Actually, we’re vegan. Dairy doesn’t set right but hunger of any kind causes one to take risks, don’t you agree? You, for instance. You’ve been eating your mushrooms.” Brindle was right. At first, Marjorie collected mushrooms to press into her pottery. Then, she gathered morels and chanterelles for salads and omelets. Now, her quest heightened. She’d discovered Psilocybin - magic mushrooms. She ate them elfin community. Fear took hold. Was she hallucinating or was this real? She closed her eyes. A low buzz, a hum really, grew into clear voices gathering at her feet. As she opened her eyes, she saw elves on the lips of bowls, leaning against shelves, and some began to shimmy her pant legs for a closer look. “There are so many of you.” Brindle stood in the center and raised her arms. The elves faced her. “Winter is coming” she announced. “Days will shorten and temperatures will sion Fellow for Spoken Word / Slam Poetry drop.” She lowered her arms and turned and winner of the 2021 New Southern Voices toward Marjorie. Poetry Prize, Marlanda Dekine (she/they) is a “If you’ll have us, we’ll make a home in poet obsessed with ancestry, memory, and the your pantry, cook, clean, and tuck you in at Southern gathered kindling and a gas can. She returned Humanities Review, POETRY Magazine, to the shed, sprinkled gasoline, lit a match, Emergence Magazine, Juke Joint Magazine, and watched the building go up in flames. She OROBORO, Screen Door Review, Root Work thought she heard screams but it was the sharp release of water trapped inside the wood and cracking pottery. There are no such things as elves, she reasoned, only the certainty that she would quit eating mushrooms. and elsewhere. They are the Founder and former Executive Director of Speaking Down Barriers, Spoken Word Spartanburg, and ings. Currently, they serve as a Healing Justice Fellow with Gender Benders and the 2021-2022 Creative-In-Residence with Castle of our Skins. ing a Tin House Own Path Scholarship (2021), a manities (2019), Emrys' Keller Cushing Freeman Fellowship (2019), and grants from the SC Arts Commission, Alternate Roots, The Map Fund, is
Learn more about the nonprofit Pat
Learn more about Sandies at the Beaufort www.
