Thank you to everyone who participated in round 5 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest. It was great to see so many new faces in the contest — inspired, perhaps, by our amazing grand prize reveal? You’ll find the winner of round 5 below, so stay tuned!
Our June contest is now open. Write a 250 word story about the picture above to be in the running for an absolutely fabulous prize pack. You have one week, so get writing!
The rules:
- Each submission must be 250 words or fewer.
- Each story must contain a beginning, middle, and end. Like all stories, a compelling narrative is essential.
- All submitted work must be original, not published elsewhere, and written by you. After the contest, what you do with your story is up to you; we hold no claim on your work.
- Each submission must be made in the comment section of the prompt post.
- No more than two entries per person, per prompt will be eligible for any given month.
- Deadline for entries will be one week after the prompt is posted, meaning 7 a.m. EST on the second Saturday of the month.
- The winning story each month will be selected by a mix of votes in the form of Likes in the comment section and our own discretion (which includes a blind-reading of the entries by a panel).
What the winner receives:
Each month’s winning story will be announced the following month, and republished on Writer Unboxed, along with the author’s bio, and links to the winner’s website and social media accounts. As well as this platform-raising exposure, the monthly winner gets bragging rights and the exclusive opportunity to compete for the grand prize in December.
In December, each of the monthly winners will be asked to write a new flash fiction story based on a new prompt. The overall winning story will be selected by a mix of votes via a poll and our own discretion.
The overall winner of the 2015 Writer Unboxed Flash Fiction Contest will be announced by the end of December 2015, and will receive:
- A signed copy of Dave King‘s Self-Editing for Fiction Writers
- A signed copy of David Corbett‘s The Art of Character
- A 15-page manuscript critique by bestselling author Catherine McKenzie (double spaced, normal margins, Times New Roman 12pt font)
- A one-hour Skype lesson with Scrivener expert, Rebeca Schiller
- A free, nontransferable pass to attend the next Writer Unboxed UnConference (does not include travel or hotel expenses)
The other finalists will receive the a beautiful “Edit” poster from Three Figs Villa, as kindly donated by the generous Cyd Peroni.
Good luck and happy writing!
And now… announcing the winner of Round 5 of the WU Flash Fiction Contest.
HONOURABLE MENTIONS
Cathryn Grant (“A Short Distance”)
Alexander Hollins (“Samantha walked towards the tunnel, staring at where the body had been.”)
Veronica Smith (“It was an ordinary archway; like many we’d encountered strolling through the park.”)
Congratulations Cathryn, Alexander, and Veronia. I’m looking forward to reading more of your work this month.
WINNING ENTRY
With her second winning entry of this competition, earning her a second entry into the December finals round, please say congratulations to the winner of round 5:
Please read and enjoy the full story, in its encore performance.
The tour guide wore a pair of brown Oxfords, a pince-nez, and a librarian bun.
“This was one of five tunnels built here for the transcontinental railway in the late 1800s,” she said, adjusting her glasses on her nose. “White workers were difficult to come by, so they hired the Chinese. Mostly for setting the detonations. They were cheap.”
The guide paused.
“And expendable.”
The now-defunct railway had left a deep scar carved through the slope.
Melissa stood quietly in the group. A grey-haired man beside her snorted “harrumph”; she noted his hyena-like face and pale rheumy eyes, and she watched as he stared blankly up the mountain’s treacherous incline. As the group started to walk under the archway towards the next tunnel, he brushed abruptly passed her, turning and glaring at her as he did.
“The tunnel that was originally here collapsed twenty years ago…”
She pulled a photo and plastic bag out from her pocket.
“…and then this smaller archway was built.”
The photo was a young Chinese man standing in a kitchen. She placed it inside the bag and then walked towards the archway after them. Finding a thin crevice in the bricks, she nudged the bag in, recalling the writing on the back of the photo:
“This is my great-grandfather, An Lo Chin. My grandmother said he was good at fixing bicycles and cooking. He limped from chopping off his own toe. He helped build this railroad and died doing it.
Melissa Chin.
Lest We Forget.”
Larissa Thomson is “just a small town girl, living in a lonely worl……” Oh. No? Ok, truth be told, she’s not a small town girl (anymore), and she lives on the West Coast of B.C.. She’s currently trying to hone her voice and skill in the short story department before taking the plunge in to, gulp, a novel. She’s really lucky to be surrounded by crazy and interesting people who will, more than likely, become characters in that novel (whether they like it or not). In the meantime, she’s collecting mannerisms and expressions from her recalcitrant teen and story ideas from her husband who, thankfully, sees the world very differently than she does.
Congratulations, Larissa! You’ve earned yourself a second place in December’s final round of the 2015 WU Flash Fiction Contest.
About Jo Eberhardt
Jo Eberhardt is a writer of speculative fiction, mother to two adorable boys, and lover of words and stories. She lives in rural Queensland, Australia, and spends her non-writing time worrying that the neighbor's cows will one day succeed in sneaking into her yard and eating everything in her veggie garden.
A wonderful story. Deeply moving.
Thank you so much, Autumn!
Congrats to Larissa Thomson for the win. Well-deserved with such a compelling story.
Here’s my entry for this week’s flash fiction challenged:
The Baptism
Every year they drew the lottery,
the old folk
for their baptism, their limbs scrawny
skin like old letters worn
out by the lover’s reading.
Everyone, including us, who changed
their bed pans and kept their pills
in plastic boxes, lined up and categorized
like tin soldiers,
forgot they had once been beautiful
like the trees that bowed over that
strip of riverbank.
I thought I knew one thing
nature is not a friend, time is a stranger,
unkind and leaving us all to fend the waters
for ourselves, drowning, unknowing
the depths never tested. They told me,
young and uninitiated,
to take them and I patted their grey heads
settled them into the van.
We drove into the late summer heat,
their chattering like old records
worn and familiar.
They stripped down
to their underclothes, embarrassed, I wondered
when gravity
would take hold of me, how long I had to
breathe in smell of water and green
in wide gulps before I bore lines on my face
and aching in my hips.
In the wake of silence I turned, afraid the river
had claimed them.
They bobbed along,
each face lit like white butterflies,
Accepting the current that bore
them away.
I tried to shout into the stillness,
plead with them to come back to me.
I ran after them, brambles tearing at me
Like grief, like bad dreams.
I dived into the river
Consumed by charging darkness
Bore up again by gentle hands
Into shallow light.
Alone.
Never entered one of these before so thought I would give it a go. Here’s my entry:
‘There. You must have seen it.’
My hand over my eyes, shielding the last of the sun, I look out over the lake. ‘Are you sure?’
He grabs my free hand and pulls me after him, my feet tripping through the long grass. ‘There’s something in there.’
‘I can’t see anything.’
He stops suddenly so that I nearly run into the back of him. He drops my hand. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
We have been here many times before. I wonder how to handle him now: should I try and cajole him out of his blackness with the sympathetic smile of a forgiving wife, or should I go on the attack, reminding him that he is a liar? A liar. A cheat. An adulterer.
This holiday is supposed to be a break from it all – it’s sink or swim time for our marriage. That’s what he’d said anyway; I didn’t like to tell him that I’d already decided it was over.
‘This way.’ He points to a tree that must have come down in the storm.
‘Adam, it’s dangerous,’ I say but he’s already shuffling along it, arms outstretched.
‘There,’ he shouts. ‘I was right. It’s a woman. It’s…’
I push him as hard as I can. A splash and then he bobs back up, fear crowding his eyes, his arms thrashing, his hands grabbing for his mistress’ body.
‘I can see it now, Adam,’ I shout, as he pulls her down under the water with him.
Sure, I’m game. It’s a little dark.
—
The river ripped as the stone skipped across its surface. The young soldier threw another stone after it with a grunt.
“You know, skipping stones won’t stop the inevitable.”
He glanced at the dark figure leaning against the tree behind him.
“You got caught.” The figure inclined his head to the tributary. “This is the best outcome you could hope for.”
“I ain’t ready yet.”
The figure nodded and rested against the trunk, chewing on a thin pipe in his mouth.
The soldier grabbed another stone and threw it, but this time sunk to the bottom.
“Fitting,” the figure said. “Are you done now?”
“Why’d they do it to me?”
The figure shrugged. “People do strange things in times of war.”
“Turning on your kin though,” the soldier spat. “That ain’t right.”
“It isn’t right.”
The young man narrowed his eyes. “You correcting me?”
“There’s plenty of time for correcting your ways now, isn’t there?” The figure side and pointed at the banks. “Look, it’s pretty simple. The way I see it, you either walk along the banks until you find what you’re looking for, or you can come with me, and we’ll get you at least a decent meal to start.”
The soldier stared at the ground and held out his hand. “Will it hurt?”
The figure grabbed him and smiled. “No son, that’s just what preachers say to scare children.”
Their figures faded as the soldier’s body splashed into the water, cut free from the noose.
SYLVAN LAKE
On this day, Sylvan was thinking about mother, Dame Nature. Fall was approaching. There would be preparation for cold times. The residents were scattered slapdash on banks and inland. An abundance of families occupied the lake. The Evergreens were the most essential. Mr. & Mrs. Beech disagreed. They produced the prodigious Oaks, the most prominent in the assembly. The Evergreens countered with friendly Sycamore and Cypress whose presence decorated the rim of the long, lovely body of water. Birches, white and pencil thin and splashy black or red Maples considered their exhibits deserved attention. All in all, a glorious display of wondrous generosity by Mother Nature, culled from her ample bosom. Yet, there was friction among the populace.
Oak was in love with Willow. He adored watching her graceful dance when the west wind moved quietly through. But she was oblivious. Her heart belonged to Alder. Strong and supple, his silver coat charmed the impressionable Willow. Oak wondered why he was unacceptable. He was sturdy, massive yet universally loved by the denizen of the wood for shelter and acorns he graciously dispersed. Yet when Alder stretched his branches to touch Willow, she trembled like winter’s bluster. Oak knew Alder’s reputation for spells and witchcraft. He decided to rescue Willow. He called his friends, the aphids, who kept his thick bark trimmed. They would forever shred Alder’s lightweight, obnoxious coat, making the braggart ordinary. Willow would turn to him. Oak was satisfied. Peace had returned to the sylvan.
FREE LIKE THE DEAD
As he walked along the lake on an auburn fall afternoon, Ansel Curtis thought about his coming death. He recalled
Daisy, educating him about her love for Joel Mendes, a subject he already mastered. That fatal night, he came home unannounced to a parlor strewn with clothes. While listening to their sacrilege, he donned Joel’s shoes and hat, shuffling around the room in a dance of agony.
“I want an open marriage. I’m exploring relationships with other like-minded people,” Daisy announced on their eleventh anniversary. Get accustomed to it or take a walk.”
“You’re already open like a daffodil. Sex was meant for my punishment, my trips away for work. No joy from you, only the needy part claiming a prize. Fools may come to you, pigeons at your feet, pecking for crumbs. Age will signal to you, like wasps tapping at your windowpane. Look in the mirror, time is scraping away at you.” Shoulders hunched, he staggered out.
“Men of little substance don’t alarm me. Living with you is the terror,” she squawked into the slamming door.
The sky was thick with autumn winds. The lake lapped at its edge. From the trees, crows watched with hooded, gloomy eyes. Curtis knew they would be his final companions here, his favorite place. Cramps were stronger, the vermin poison performing well. Sinking to his knees, he envisioned Daisy, sitting on the branches with those creatures. In a few minutes, his bones would be picked clean. She already had her fill.
The Leaf Boat
I stretch my hand down and hold the boat above the shimmering ripples. The river bank drops sharply but the water is easy to reach. For me.
“Is it ready?”
A breeze carries his voice to my ear. I smile. He is close today. “Yes. It is ready.”
“Let it go.”
My fingers trail in the water but six year old impatience warms my cold, maternal heart. “I will.”
I lower the boat into the water. The bow makes a watery trail which travels downstream. A path. His path.
The breeze tickles my skin. “Will it float?”
“It will float.”
“The last one didn’t.”
No, the last one didn’t. “The current was too fast.” My smile fades. “For the last one.”
“Is the current fast today?”
I look over the river. Sunlight dances on smooth glass. “Not today.”
“I’ll race it. You say go.”
My heart throbs painfully. “Okay. Ready? Go.”
I release the leaf boat. A peal of laughter catches on the breeze and drifts along the high bank of the river. I don’t see him run. I watch the boat instead. It sails his path, but when it reaches the dark patch in the water, the boat slows and spins and waits to be caught. My tears reflect my next memory.
The breeze dies. I reach for another leaf, another stick for a mast. Maybe with this one, I’ll see his hands again.
“Don’t Pay the Ferryman.” Charlie had been singing that song as they pushed the canoe into the water. Off key, as usual. He loved to butcher old tunes for laughs. Sometimes he’d insert dirty jokes into the lyrics; sometimes jokes about girls or baseball. Whatever it took to make his friends laugh.
“Don’t even set the price.”
What price can you put on friendship? On laughter? Even on the memory of laughter? Ben let the tears come. He couldn’t avoid the memory of his friends death, not at the river where he had died, not while holding his urn.
He opened the urn and began spreading the ashes over the water. “Don’t pay the ferryman, Charlie. Until he gets you to the other side.”
“He won’t take me.” Charlie said.
Ben jumped, dropping the urn into the river. Charlie’s transparent ghost hovered at his side.
What the…? “Charlie?”
“Turns out old Charon really loves that song, he refused to take me across until I sang it ‘correctly’.
Ben shook his head, trying to dispel the image he was seeing.
“Thing is, I butchered it so many different ways, I can’t remember the ‘correct’ way.” Charlie made air quotes with his transparent fingers.
Ben couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing.
Entry for Round 6
Buoyancy
A shadow stretched across the surface of the river. Jennifer’s sister slipped into a lawn chair beside the water’s edge and joined her.
“She’s resting.”
“Thank you,” Jennifer said. An oak tree, which in her youth was not nearly as towering, all but concealed the old house in shade.
“I can stay.”
“I’ll call, if anything.”
Her sister left and Jennifer went inside to check nana.
The flowing water had always been a comfort to Jennifer. Its nearness to the bedroom window when she slept here, the spell it cast whenever she felt small and weak. As a child she would sit on the bank and dangle her feet in the cool running water and stare at the bend and wonder from what magical place these special waters originated.
She came down from her nana’s room slowly, taking each step as nana might have, remembering with each step another memory of living here. She paused at the bottom step thinking she heard a noise, a soft cry, as if a dream, a sad one, had played. She checked on the old woman and found she was resting and peaceful.
Jennifer went down to the river, removed her shoes, and dangled her feet in the water. As much as she wanted to hold and caress these memories, she let them slip away, dissolving into the past. Her hands were open. She was buoyant, no longer weighted down. The shadow that had stretched across the surface of the river had given way.
“A River’s Rage”
It’s cursed it is, that river, ever since I was a boy. Never passes the day that I don’t look upon it and remember her. Never do I gaze upon its oft-smooth surface and not see my mother’s reflection staring at me with eyes sorrowful and distraught. It claimed my father, you see, and Mom never forgave it.
Sailors say the sea has moods and turns on you without warning. That may be, but the sea’s a big place for pitching tantrums. Weave that rage like a snake and set it to moving and you’ve got a river’s fury. Temper-swollen rivers do as they please and care for nothing.
Mom never recovered. She’d tuck us in at night, kiss our foreheads, and force a smile beneath her puffy red eyes. We’d hear her hours later on the riverbank wailing and railing in equal measure. She cursed it with her every breath. My sister would cover her ears, but me, I’d raise the window and listen. I always listened.
Then came the night her railing ceased. Maybe she’d used up all the anger that boiled inside her. Maybe all those tears she shed finally drowned the bitterness. I sometimes wonder if maybe she finally forgave the river that night. I like to think she did. I don’t suppose I’ll ever really know.
I’ll give this a go.
How long could regret last? It had been a desperate night, no light at the end of her tunnel. She’d tucked the children in bed, tucked the note beneath her pillow, and walked away from life. That was forty five years ago.
She watched as a teenager walked onto the bridge. At the top of the span, he leaned heavily against the balustrade. He’d been coming here for years. Sun sparkled on the water. Mosquitoes buzzed. He didn’t notice any of it. Shaggy hair covered his eyes but not the tight grief of his mouth.
He sucked in a ragged breath and drew a tattered paper from his pocket, spreading it open on the stone.
She glimpsed the familiar writing and recoiled in horror. How could he have her note, this stranger? Why, after so long? She couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t guess his thoughts. His hand shook as he slowly slid it toward her. “I can’t do it anymore.” His voice was quiet.
Then he looked at her—saw her.
“I can’t find another way. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. Grandma, please help me.”
Did she see it now, her daughter’s high cheekbones, the curl in his hair that mimicked her own? No, not here, not like this.
She wanted to run; instead, she stared at his face so warm with life, so desperate, so suddenly familiar. She reached out to lay her hand over his, mist over flesh. “We will find another way.”
“Always Wet”
Despite the mild breeze, the water rippled as if unseen fingers were stroking the surface. If the water was still, she’d be able to see the bottom. But it was never still. Ann pulled away from Jackson and walked down the pebbled bank.
“Why do you have to do this every time?” he said.
“I need to.”
“It scares me.”
Her toes sank in the mud at the water’s edge. “Nothing’s going to happen. The current’s almost non-existent.”
“Please don’t put your face in. You look like you’re dead when you float like that.”
She yanked her sundress over her head and walked until the water lapped at the edges of her swimsuit. The suit was still wet from yesterday, and the day before that. It was always wet. She lowered herself and swam to the center of the river. She stretched herself out into the aptly-named dead man’s float. Water covered her ears, blocking the sound of Jackson’s voice. Her hair floated around her, brushing the sides of her face. She pushed it away and opened her eyes.
He thought she would drown, like Laura had. He thought she was trying to frighten him, like Laura had.
She moved her feet gently, propelling herself forward.
There she was. Laura, looking up at Ann from the bottom of the river. Staring, holding on to her secrets.
If she kept coming back, every day, Laura’s ghost would speak in the underwater silence, assuring Ann that Jackson would forget, some day.
Blues and greens vie with sudden flashes of gold, reds, and cream as I look out at the water, squinting against the sun. You twirl off to the side, spinning round and round, wearing your purple skirt with deep pockets, the one you favour when in happy mood, teamed with heavy boots and a cream top with lace at the neck. You had been wearing a hat, a trilby. It suited, even though an odd ensemble. Only you could carry it off so well. It is off now, draped over the end of a low branch.
‘Don’t go too near.’ I always have that fear now.
‘Death is not the end.’ You stop spinning, coming over to take my hand. ‘It’s just a moving on.’
‘Even so.’
I look away, taking in the house across the way. The house that holds the memory, roof tile broken, confidence high, the stupidity of youth as I climbed, as I climbed.
‘Careful.’ I heard the shout from the ground just as the ladder fell slowly to the side in slow motion, ground coming up to meet me, a sickening crunch. Lying there seeing only grass and mud. I can’t move, I can’t move. No words came out.
There was no splash. No cry. No wave. You had weighted down your pockets, they said after.
I hear someone scream. It is me. I can’t move. Frozen, limbs immobile, useless and rigid in my wheelchair. Your hat falls off the branch. There is no breeze.
All her memories of her childhood resided in the tranquil waters of the river. The river held the screams of her brothers as they raced along the bank, the scent of mint for their evening teas, the soft whispers of her mother and father. Now, only she remained, standing sentinel after everyone had left.
Her fingers crumpled the stiff parchment of the acceptance letter clutched in her hand. If she left, who would remember? She arose from her crouched position and strained her eyes to see past the gentle curve of the waters in the distance.
“Stay,” the still waters seemed to whisper.
“What are you waiting for, Ali?” Her few remaining friends couldn’t understand her hesitation, her devotion to a place that held no human warmth. Ali didn’t blame them. How could she show them the long afternoons of barbecues and S’mores, her father urging her and her brothers not to get too close to the flames, her mother’s face brightening as she leaned down to roast a marshmallow?
The river would wait for her. “Goodbye,” she said. As she climbed up the bank of the river, she thought she heard a lingering sigh, as though the river had resigned itself to her departure. She continued on without looking back.
Second entry for Round 6
A Thing That Can Never Go Wrong (title borrowed from a line of poetry by Dorothy Parker)
That afternoon Flor surprised Randall by suggesting a canoe ride on the river.
“You’ve overcome your fear of the water?” He asked, gently paddling.
“Distaste, not fear.”
“What’s that mean? This river’s sparkling pure.”
“Times it smells fishy, and the bottom squishes.”
He reached over, squeezed her arm.
“I like squishy.”
“Watch it! We’ll turn over.”
“Maybe that’s what I want.”
“What?”
“So I can rescue you. Carry you to shore. Show my undying love.”
Flor looked up at the sky, shaking her head.
“About that undying love, Randall.”
She explained as he paddled, his sun-burnt expression changing from thoughtful to disbelief and finally acceptance, but as they returned to shore in silence, Flor couldn’t help wondering if she’d misjudged him, and in the weeks that followed, she continued to ponder her decision.
He’d left that afternoon and hadn’t contacted her since. Obviously, his undying love had gone under and drowned. She’d been right, then, about their relationship, now if only her appetite would get the message.
Time passed and she drove down to the river, not expecting to see Randall there. A couple sitting on the bank when she arrived looked up at her and then went back to what they were doing. She walked until she found a place by the water’s edge and removed her shoes and socks, remembering Randall’s words. Yuck, it was squishy. And fishy smelling. Sparkling? Pure? Maybe on the surface. But she’d learned long ago about going deeper.
Hi Jo,
Thanks for the prompt. Here’s my take, entitled: Inheritance.
“Everything’s different.” My past lurked beneath the river bend. “The trees, the grass, the wat—”
Stick-snapping steps turned Ben and me from the muddy churn.
Envelope white stood stark against Gabe’s plaid flannel. It was the same envelope, the lawyers’ envelope.
Ben nudged my elbow. “Mom?”
“Give me minute.” His concern swirled. “Please?”
With a wary nod, Ben drifted down the trail far enough to miss Gabe’s whisper.
“You weren’t at the funeral.”
“She wouldn’t have wanted me there.”
“So why come here?”
“You should know.”
“These weren’t my idea.” Gabe offered his envelope.
I didn’t bother taking it. The penmanship told me enough.
“She’s taking revenge on the two she hated most.”
“Twenty years changes things.” Gabe joined me at the shoreline. “Your mom called me after the diagnosis. Asked if I knew where you’d ended up.”
“I figured things out just like I told her I would.”
“Aren’t you back where we started?”
“I’m here because her lawyers told us to be here.”
Gabe squinted Ben’s way. “What does he know?”
“Bits and pieces.” I huddled in my coat. “He’ll ask who you are.”
“What are you going to tell him?”
“The truth.” I gave Gabe my back. “You don’t have to be here when I do.”
“It took you twenty years to give me the choice?”
“You disappeared.”
“I was scared and when I’d sobered up you were gone.”
“And now?”
“I’m terrified.” Gabe stepped up beside me. “But I don’t make the same mistake twice.”
Timeless River
I’m sitting at the park looking across the river at the spot where it happened. Nobody ventures to the other side, it’s damn near impossible. I was crazy enough to swim across one summer with my fishing gear. I was fourteen.
When I came out on the other side, the mud smelled like sewage and fire ants were everywhere. The Texas sun was hot as hell. I caught grasshoppers for bait.
I caught small fish all afternoon. Mosquitos were now reminding me it was getting late. I should be swimming back. In my tackle box, I saw one big hook. I had small fish for bait and coming darkness, everything I needed to catch a big catfish.
At dusk, my pole bent with the weight of a fish. I cranked the reel drawing the fish nearer. In my excitement, I rushed barefoot into the water to scoop the fish into my net. A broken bottle sliced my foot. There was more blood than I had ever seen. Afraid I might bleed to death, I left everything and swam for my life.
Twenty years later, I’m sitting at the park looking across the river, wondering if my stuff is still where I left it? The scar on my foot reminds me not to rush into things. I wonder if the water is cold?
The Lake-Thirst War Revived
——————————–
“Can we go fishing?”
“I guess so,” Henry said, looking alarmed. “I’ll just. . . run and get something.”
He came back holding—
“That’s a sword.”
Henry nodded uncomfortably. “Yeah.”
“Where did you even get that?”
“It’s nothing. Forget it. Let’s go.”
When we got to the lake, I saw a woman in the water on the other side, wearing a shirt with the sleeves hacked off. She had a nose ring, and her hair was dyed turquoise.
She waved, smiling, and began to cross the lake. It must not’ve been that deep; the water never got higher than her shoulders.
“How are you?” she asked when she got close.
“Don’t talk to her, Sally.” Henry pointed the sword at the woman. “Dad taught me how to use this, and I’m not afraid to.” His voice shook slightly.
“Yes, you are,” the woman said.
“I’ll use it anyway, if I have to,” he said, more steadily. “You leave my cousin alone. This is Bartan’s sword. And I’m Bartan’s great-great-grandson.”
She stared at him. “No,” she said, and now she was the one who sounded scared.
“Go away,” Henry said.
The woman turned her back and dove headfirst into the lake.
A giant fishtail broke the water instead of legs, then vanished beneath the murky green.
“A mermaid?” I said.
Henry nodded. “And if she’s here, now, and not afraid to show herself—I need to tell Dad. And you need to hear the story of Bartan Merfolksbane. Come on.”
Oh, Say Can You See
“Can you see her?” Ryan asked breathlessly.
“I don’t think she’s home yet.”
Derek was on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, eyes squinting through the binoculars.
Corey shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, his eyes moving from the other boys to the house across the lake. He liked Mrs. Trotter, and didn’t think they should be spying on her. But Derek, Ryan’s older brother, was in seventh grade, so they usually deferred to him.
Ryan swiped at the binoculars but Derek was too fast.
“C’mon Derek.”
“Stop whining and wait.”
Corey didn’t want to be called a baby, but he had that Shakespeare to memorize by tomorrow.
“We have that Shakespeare to memorize by tomorrow,” he blurted.
Ryan displayed his palm with a triumphant flourish, where the tiny letters of the passage were written in green Sharpie.
“So go home, baby,” Derek said.
A chilling adult voice rose from behind them.
“What are you boys doing in my yard?”
Derek sprang up, dropping the binoculars, as the others spun around. The three looked at their feet.
“Nothing, Mrs. Burgess,” they said in unison.
Corey looked up. She stood with the setting sun at her back, bestriding the narrow world like a Colossus, and we petty men……oh, that was the Shakespeare.
“Ryan and Derek, come with me,” she ordered, her charges silently, helplessly complying. “Corey, I’ve called your father.”
Corey sank to the grass as he watched them go. They were his binoculars anyway.
Congrats on the second win! NEXT TIME GADGET!
Sigh, I totally missed the contest this month. Cmon july!
The promise land
“You children keep up, we not stopping tonight”, said mama, “your papa is waiting.”
The yapping of the vicious dogs on our trail is but a distance memory now, we only traveling at night now just like papa said.
“We ain’t never going back to cruel master Draven, my children gonna be free”, said mama. You papa promised to be there. Mama had risked all to be free with papa.
“I was willing to squeeze the life out of them first, we are headed to the freedom river”, said mama. Then she started singing, always sang when she needs strength.
“Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ to carry us home”, mama began to cry.
The freedom river, we have always heard whispers about the river. You are free when you cross the river! No one ever talks about it, afraid master might get wind. God knows he’s a mean spirited animal.
“We gonna get cross that river, children”. I was the youngest going on about five I think. Born on a hot day in the summer is all I remember. We didn’t have no learning in them days.
When we reached the river mama fell down on her knees. “Children we here, we done made it to the promise land”, mama said. Then the look of despair as mama looked out cross the river. Where is all the people, no one one to meet us. Where is papa? He promised to meet us in the promise land. Where is my papa?