1st Place – Short Story Category Grades 5th & 6th
“My Brother, My Role Model” by Jack Coulombe
Have you ever had someone you know and love move away, then you realize how important they really are? That’s what happened to me when my comical brother moved away to college.
One cold school night while I was inside setting up my dominoes, my brother headed outside to check the mail. Ever since he had applied to Willamette University he had been checking the mail obsessively. While I sat in my warm cozy house, and frustrated myself again by knocking over the dominoes on accident, I thought to myself how cool it would be if Mitch walked in and announced that he was accepted to Willamette. The thought hadn’t even left my mind when my brother rushed in the door and blurted with joy, “I got a letter from Willamette!”
“What does it say,” my Mom asked with a great amount of curiosity in her voice.
My brother unfolded the long traveled letter. It says “It says that it would be a great pleasure for them to have me attend Willamette University!” He sounded so proud and so happy that I thought he had drained all the excitement out of the whole state.
The next few months when I got asked “Oh Jack, are you going to miss your brother?” I would simply reply, “I guess so…I get the big couch all to myself now!” I really had no idea how special Mitch is to me.
The day finally came when we had to wake up at 3:00 in the morning to take my brother to college. We were all ready to go around 4:00. Therefore, my brother gave our dog some kisses and we left. While we drove there I fell asleep and dreamed about how I would be so big and tough and not shed a single tear of sadness or dread. Nope, I was ready for him to go.
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My mom had to make it mushy and softly said, “Oh Mitch, can’t you wait to have a bunch of exciting experiences in somewhere new?” “Of course this is going to be lots of fun,” replied my brother.
Finally, at around 7:30 in the morning we arrived at Mitch’s elegant, small brick campus. We drove straight to my brother’s dorm where a bunch of hulk like football players waited in the parking lot to help people carry stuff up the stairs to their dorm rooms. My brother was all the way up on the top floor. Some people would say “Oh, what a great view you have!” To me it just meant more walking. “Ugh, I’m so tired of walking, let’s leave, I whined.” Eventually we had all the boxes in the room, and my watery-eyed Mom stayed with my brother and my strong as a rock Dad and I went out to see what the town was like.
When we came back we were all about halfway to death from hunger. We went to the spectacular restaurant across the street from my brother’s dorm. Now I felt as if I was so full that I would explode like a giant balloon popping. After we dropped off my brother at his dorm, we headed to our hotel where we weren’t too long for the world and crashed.
The next day we made the short drive to Mitch’s dorm. It was suddenly time from my brother to leave the
Mother’s nest. My Mom couldn’t help but cry, and I’m not going to lie – I shed a couple of tears without anyone seeing. I was going to miss my big bro. I have always looked up to him since I was little, and now it was time to let go.
I have been thinking a lot about my brother lately, now in his second year of college and I miss him just as much. I’ve learned a lot from this experience. I learned that my brother IS truly important to me. Being the little brother of such a great example of a good person is a pleasure. I definitely respect and love my brother
Mitch.
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All in all, I still miss him a bunch. I excitingly still learned that I did get the big couch all to myself, but I think my Dad had the same idea…
1st Place – Short Story Category Grades 7th – 9th
“A Twisted Wonderland” by Lilly Bruner
This is the untold true story of a little girl who went insane and found the most real mystical place named,
Wonderland.
“Hannah!” I yelled, “you better not be playing in the rose bushes again!" Of course, my foolish seven year sister indeed was. She never listened. I found Hannah looking completely disgusting and truthfully, it was disheartening.
“I’m used to the thorns Lisa! They don’t hurt anymore.”
When would the silly little girl ever learn? I told her to get out of the garden and wash up. Hannah sat with Mother’s roses, covered from head to toe in mulch and soil. She was dirtier than the horses after a parade and more cut up than a fox in a brier bush. Blood. Everywhere. She insisted mother’s pure white roses be red.
Whether from red paint or blood from her own gashed skin, they must be red. Sometimes I thought she purposely got cut up just so the roses appeared red. Oh and perfectly pruned. Hannah relentlessly picked out weeds and violently removed the wilted flowers. Lately I have heard her screaming, “Don’t you go and wilt on me..or..or..I’ll cut off your heads!” “Off your head you filthy wilted flower!” The latest beheadings of the revolutionaries in that dreaded rubbish filled country, France, have proved a very negative affect on my poor young sister. When her life idol, Marie Antoinette, was beheaded, I think she lost it. The little innocent little girl has not been the same since.
I do truly think Hannah has gone mad. She must get it from my father, Johnny. He sells antique teacups for a living. Yes, teacups! It always amazes me that he actually makes a living off of such a silly trade. Yes, it must be from him. With his tall hats and a little more than slightly immature sense of humor, Father can make a scene
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almost anywhere. Shockingly, my father’s exquisite teacup business makes a good deal of money, enough for an average English family of the time to live comfortably, but you see we are most definitely not an average family.
Mother is the Princess of Marmoreal or as the commoners christened her, the White Princess. This is where almost our entire fortune comes from. We even live in one of the Marmoreal castles instead of my father’s rickety teacup shop. Quite the upgrade my grandfather says, or that’s at least what I thought he said. I can only make out half of what the old man says through the puffs of hookah. At least Grandfather tries to help out, but no one can withstand the strong aroma of the hookah that constantly lingers when he is in a room. With all mother’s
“duties” to her country, father’s impractical obsession with his teacups, and grandfather’s hookah Hannah and I receive no attention. I have begged endlessly for a nanny to take care of us, mostly my unstable younger sister.
Every time I request a care taker, my mother gives me the same answer, “Lisa, there is no need for some worthless nanny when your father, grandfather, and I take perfect care of you.” She was so wrong. No ever paid attention to us, and Hannah is getting worse by the day.
Hannah has been having the most dreadful nightmares. She says she falls and falls and ends in
Wonderland. Don’t be fooled by the name, this place is not wonderful at all. No. It contains cakes, if eaten, make one turn into a giant. Juices, if drank, one shrinks, to a size not even an ant could depict. To me, this sounds utmost not wonderful. But Hannah says that I in particular love it here! When I first heard this, it shocked me out of my wits.
“Oh I am in this land?” I said.
Hannah simply responds “Yes,” and quickly added that in this land no one calls me by my name, Lisa.
They call me Allis.
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She also said I venture further every time I come. I am the most peculiar creature in Wonderland. Every night I make the same mistakes and endure the same trials. I always run into a fat caterpillar smoking hookah, trying to tell me to turn back, but my thick head gets in the way of thought. I refuse his advice. Then, I created a habit of intruding in a mad hatter’s party right at tea time. Hannah says she knows this terrible dream is almost over when I meet the most gorgeous woman of all in Wonderland, the White Princess. When she told me this I smiled, because for the first time, something delightful happened. Hannah then quickly reminded me that nightmares were called nightmares for a reason and her mind wouldn’t let her wake up happy. Then, the worst part comes, Hannah describes herself as the Queen of Hearts who has millions upon millions of white roses.
Alike to her real self, insists they be red. One part is simply worse than reality, when she cuts off her wilting roses.
In Wonderland when a rose is wilting, they get their head cut off and so does the nearest creature whom is always me. She says I without fail stumble into her rose garden whenever she, the Queen of Hearts sees a wilted flower. And then I hear the queen yell “Off with her head!” Now the elderly caterpillar’s advice won’t help, the kind White Princess’ army can’t assist, and the tea-crazed hatter are all worthless now. Off with my head, is just what happens. Except for this time, it wasn’t in Wonderland.
1st Place – Short Story Category Grades 7th – 9th
“Captain Useless” by Ben Davis
Once upon a time in Superhero City, there was a man. No one knew his name, yet almost everyone had nicknamed him “Captain Useless.” Because he had only been living in Superhero City for two weeks, none of the other heroes knew him personally. His only acquaintance was his sidekick, Lame Boy. They lived on the outskirts of Superhero City in a quaint little house once used as a meeting spot. Captain Useless, according to most other heroes, was just a regular mortal who somehow lost his path and found the city. However, Captain
Useless was a prideful man and thought of himself as the best hero in town. “If only they knew,” he would always think. Sometimes, he would accidently wonder aloud, and the people around him would inquire what he was doing. On one particular occasion, Captain Useless, his sidekick, and another hero known as “The Baboon” for his abnormal facial hair were riding a subway into town. “If only I showed them,” Captain Useless said.
“Showed who? What?” The Baboon burst in.
“Huh? Oh! Ummm..Uh…nothing…” Captain Useless said as he drifted back into reality. The Baboon looked away, not before giving Captain Useless a puzzled face as if searching for answers. After that experience, Captain Useless shut his mouth. After all, he could still say it to himself. As the days went by,
Captain Useless shut his mouth. After all, he could still say it to himself. As the days went by, Captain Useless and Lame Boy finally started to fit in. Of course, Captain Useless still had a random burst of “I’m the best hero in town” here and there. One day, however, was different. On this night, as our hero and his sidekick walked home in the darkness, a villain and his buddies stalked them. “Shhh! I hear something!” whispered Captain Useless. In one moment, the footsteps, grunts and the sound of his hero were gone. Lame Boy, all alone, ran away. Not to the city, nor to his Captain Useless Page 2
home. He thought he would run until his master was found. Sadly, Lame boy’s fitness was – well, in poor condition, to say the least. He had only run a lock when the stomach cramps hit him and his legs screamed for a break. If only he had gone with Captain Useless on his jog every morning…
Captain Useless woke up in a stone cell. Looking out the small barred window, he saw no one. His cell was in the corner of a big room containing three other cells, one in each corner. A scrawny man, he hopelessly threw himself at the thick walls with desperation. He noticed things were written on the walls. All over them, things like “PRIDE CAN’T SAVE U NOW” and “WHO’S THE BETTER ONE NOW.” Captain Useless dropped to his knees. “What have I done!?” He yelled as the tears of remorse rolled down his cheeks. He wept in his solitary confinement with no one near. He was not crying in hope that someone would help him; he was crying out of regret and humility. Eventually feeling very exhausted, he collapsed on the cold concrete floor. He woke up hours later. The room lights had been turned off. He walked up to the window and realized something. Al of a sudden, the walls started to close in on him. He backed into the center of the cell. His once twenty-by-twenty room was now fifteen-by fifteen. Ten-by-ten. Five-by-five. Time seemed to almost slow to a stop. “This – this is it,” Captain Useless thought. He felt the pressure of the walls slowly crushing his body out of existence. In one last desperate attempt, he yelled. It was a complete, utter yell of helplessness and inevitable death.
“BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!” The endless monotone sound of Carl’s alarm clock rang and woke him up. He was sweaty from last night’s dream. More like a nightmare. Carl, a ninth grader at Meyer High, was known for thinking he could do things he really could not. He was bullied every day and hated school. But today was different. Known as “Captain Useless” by everyone at school, Carl was the target of all jokes, fights, and gossip.
His pride kept him from getting along and trying to make friends. Today, however, he understood. He was the
Captain Useless in his dream. His bullies were the captors of his dream. And the cell, the machine that killed him in his dream, was he. Not Captain Useless Page 3
his physical body, but instead the prideful spirit inside of him. He grasped how his pride had hurt others, and how in the end it could be his very fall. Today, he would change that. Today, he would conquer his selfish desires and recognize his weaknesses. Today, he would no longer be Captain Useless. He would be a kind, humble gentleman.
2nd Place – Short Story Category Grades 7th – 9th
“The Big Shot” by Jacob DeBilzan
Justin was nervous. His coach called on him to take the last shot in the game. This wasn’t an ordinary game, oh no, this was the State Championship Game.
His team, the Rockford Pelicans, was down 71-70 to the Timberview Wildcats, with 1.8 seconds on the clock. Now came Justin’s big moment. He caught the ball off the inbound, separated from his defender and shot.
The buzzer sounded, just as the ball clanked off the rim. In Justin and his teammates were devastated.
His coach said, “You guys fought hard and almost won it. You should be proud of your performance.” But
Justin didn’t feel proud, he only felt sick.
Justin knew he had to keep working to do the same thing next year, so that’s what he did. That shot he missed, he didn’t forget about it, he practiced it every day. At first he didn’t make many of them but he kept working the shot began to fall in the basket with a “swish”. All over the summer he practiced, and practiced, and practiced even more.
Summer passed and school began again and Justin was ecstatic for the opportunity to make his big shot.
The first practice came and coach gave a speech.
“We made it to the championship last year, and I know we can do it again this year,” said coach.
Justin and all of his teammates screamed, “Yeah!”
Then they began practice. Justin saw that what they had lost last year from seniors was recovered by the talent of the freshman.
Justin thought, “We may actually make it back to the championship this year”
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So Justin and his teamed worked, harder than ever before. Coach demanded more running, more, dribbling, and more shooting practice that Justin could’ve imagined. They continued their hard work into the season; they beat one opponent, after another, after another. The Rockford Pelicans at the end of the season were 20-1, and were the favorites to win State.
But now came the hard part, the playoffs. The Pelicans cruised until they found themselves in the State semi-finals game, against the Timberview Wildcats. Justin and the Pelicans snuck away with a 68-65 win over the
Wildcats. Now they were here, the championship again! The game was close, one team led, then the other, they were trading blows, but no one could deliver a knockout. Then came the fourth quarter, it was close then a player on the Hillside Dragons, the opposing team, made a shot to put them up 69-68 with two seconds left. Justin’s coach called a timeout. He organized a play were Justin would take the last shot!
“How can he trust me with this?” thought Justin. “I blew it last time.”
But here it came, the last play. Justin moved to the same spot where he missed last year, caught the ball and shot. The crowd, who sounded like a pack of elephants all game, suddenly fell quiet. The buzzer sounded as the ball fell into the basket with a “swish”, and all of Justin’s teammates dog-piled him.
“I did it! I did it!” thought Justin, “We won because of me!”
Everyone forgot last year and treated Justin as a hero for the rest of the year.
3rd Place – Short Story Category Grades 7th – 9th
“The Fight” by Matthew Lopez
I could feel the blood start to seep out of my cut, which lay directly below my right eye. It stung as the sweat from my forehead mixed into my wound. I lifted myself from my knees, using the fence to support my balance. I leaned back the octagon and told the ref I’d be okay and I could fight on. Only thing is I didn’t remember why I was even there. Then it came
back to me.
It was a Saturday in the middle of warm spring. A Lightweight Championship Fight was prepared to start.
I walked out of the locker-room, down the aisles crowded by fans. One of my favorite songs from back home play as stepped into the octagon and took my spot in the blue corner. Then my opponent walked in from the other locker-room. The fans cheered louder for him then me. Maybe because I was a foreigner, I don’t know. He stepped into the octagon and stood in the red corner. Then the announcer stepped into the arena. He began to speak, “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the main event! This fight is set to take place for five five minute rounds. Now let’s meet our fighters. In the red corner, standing five feet eleven inches tall, weighing in at 160 lbs., from Miami, Florida, Derek Sanders! Now in the blue corner, standing five four inches tall, weighing in at 160 lbs., from Monterrey, Mexico, Ceaser Gomez! Now for the rules, our ref for this fight, Mario Yamasaki.”
The ref told us the rules, basically no hair-tugging and no foul shots. I put my fists out I order to wish him luck. He shoved them away. We both walked back to our corners. The ref started the round. And out of the gate Sanders charged forward and took a leap and brought his left knee up to his waste and stroked me with it across the face, hence the cut. Now here I am. Bleeding. The ref says, “Fight.” And there we go again.
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I was raised in Monterrey, Mexico and our fighting technique is boxing. When I was five, my Tito Juan started me in his boxing club. That’s where I learned to fight. That’s what brought me here.
I go forward with my hands by my side. During my training I had learned to sway. Swaying is basically dodging shots. Sanders throws a hook, and I sway left, but he’s ready. He takes his other fist and lands a solid body shot. I’m mad. I tackle him to the ground using a double-underhook. He attempts to keep me in stalemate, but knowing how to box, I land vigorous punches into his side. Then I switch to side control. I grapple him and bring my knee into his side. But he knows more Jiu-Jitzu than me. He throws me off and jumps on me. He changes to invert. He locks my head in a head triangle, cutting off my circulation. I jam my fist into his soft gut. He gets off me and lets me stand. But I come up with a fast combo. Landing a right hook in to his jaw then one with my left into his ribs, then an uppercut. He’s rocked. And I’m about to take advantage when the bell rings and the rounds over.
We go through the rituals. I’m nursed. My trainer speaks to me in Spanish. Then the next round starts.
Sanders looks bad, but he has his bearings, and most of all…he’s mad. I change from offense to defense, in attempt to use his own energy against him. He runs at me and I meet him in the air with a superman punch all the way from Mexico. Everything goes into slow motion. His eyes roll back into his head. His mouthguard flies out of his mouth as head snaps around. He came at me so fast and strong that he keeps falling in the direction he was running. I land on my feet. The ring doctors (there called something else but that’s what I call them) come out and treat Sanders. He’s groaning and I see them put him on a stretcher. I almost feel bad, but I worked hard to come this far. The ref grabs my wrist and stands next to me. He raises my hand in the air as the announcer says,
“Winner.” Then he wraps the champion belt around my waist. The crowds cheer. I made it. I finally made it. I’m exhausted. I’ve been raining for the past week non-stop. And I collapse with a smile on my face. I made it. 1st Place – Short Story Category Grades 10th – 12th
“The Midnight Drink” by Cristian Villegas
It is midnight in the city of New York, and the magical feeling of exhilaration and liberation is soaring through the souls of every gent and doll that’s roaming the lit, colorfully wet streets of the city’s cracks and corners.
Lingering through the lively crowds of young teenage drinking participants, giggling and laughing to the thought of having some illegal fun in the shadows of the glimmering city, a man by the name of Daniel Gridge moved swiftly through the masses, pressing his shoulders against the parties in an effort to get to a local bar he had recently come to love out of the fond memories of Britain during the year of victory.
The year’s 1922 and the world is calm after the storm of a Great War, and Daniel, now recovered from his bitter past of blood and glory, heads towards his favorite European inspired pub for a cool glass of German brewed beer, carefully shipped from the fallen empire itself.
Meeting at the door of the pub Daniel found himself confronted by a broad shouldered, tall man in a blue, stitched up suit. He didn’t appear to be a thug looking for spare coins from weary passers, but simply someone the owner had hired to watch the premises for on duty cops and any possible scum hoping to arouse a fight or two in the area.
“I’ve reckon’ you’re here for a drink?’ he shuttered in the brisk of a flowing wind.
“Yeah…” Daniel replied in a slick tone of uneager pleasantry.
Lifting his chin ever so slightly to univocally express his dubious curiosity over Daniel’s late choosing for a drink, given that half of the neighborhood knew he was a cop, the man unwillingly stepped aside and allowed him to pass into the building in a manner as if the two had just battled out in a test of worthiness to intrude in a chamber of high class.
As Daniel entered the pub an odor of raw drink and filthy sweat engulfed his nostrils with a soothingly comforting, yet overwhelmingly irritating sent that could relieve his burdens with the sip of several cups; from the corner of the chamber three men were gulping liters of whiskey to the death of an old friend who’d just passed, and at another table near the rear of the pub’s bathroom a lone gal sat quietly, her green eyes wide and shimmering with an excitement that could only give a man the impression that she were waiting for someone to meet with her for some special occasion.
“Ahhh! He always did have a belly laugh didn’t he!”
One of the men cried from the back of the pub, lifting a beer in honor to the fella who’d gone to the other side. The group looked roughed up, and nearly wasted to death, faces covered in a smoky glossing, and hands cracked and dried from the heat of American industry. Staring at the biggest of the group, whose skin was scorched with the markings of a Bessemer process, Daniel had only to assume they were American steel workers, on leave from their job after a ten-hour work shift. The Midnight Drink Page 2
“Feeling hotsy-totsy?” asked the bartender.
“Feeling decent you could say, it’s been a long day though?” Daniel replied carelessly.
“So what can I get you mate?” pausing for a brief moment to contemplate the aggressive chatter that was roaring outside the building.
“A beer please.” Daniel said while looking to a painting of a familiar gangster smiling with a cigar in his mouth.
“I’ll have it right out for you mate.” He quickly replied while rushing to another customer.
Like the bartender, a series of heads had turned to the door, wondering of what was occurring outside the pub due to the ricking sounds of shouting and shoving. Suddenly the door flew open and a man collapsed on the wooden floor of the pub, covered in coal ashes, and dripping blood from his nose.
“Quit being a gatecrasher George! No one wants you here anyway!” The man at the door said.
“All I want is a bloody drink man! Turns out my wife’s been cheating on me – I found some pearl necklace under one of her fancy dresses, and I’ve don’t got the slightest clue of who she’s screwing!”
“I don’t care and nobody else does either, now get out! You’re making a muck of things and disturbing the customers!”
No one was disturbed though, in fact everyone was just waiting for a fight to erupt so drinks could be free and bottles could be smashed. Lifting himself up from the ground George could see a few acquaintances looking at him in pity and awkward shame; then realized blood was dripping unto his shirt, and appearing as if his mind was clouded by a fog of revelation, he brushed off the blood from his nose with his right arm, smearing the liquid into a paint on his skin.
“I feel sick…” he muttered in a groaning moan.
The doorkeeper said nothing, simply moving from the entrance so George could leave - embarrassed, bitter, and tired he limped out of the pub, barely able to walk a couple of feet at a time. Now feeling pity and regret for his own past, Daniel finished up his drink in a single gulp and asked the bartender for the price.
“How much do I owe you for the drink?” Daniel said,
“About a dollar.” The bartender distractedly replied while still staring at the scene.
Looking shocked at the price Daniel got up from his chair, put the note in the empty mug and rushed out of the pub.
“Hey, hey man!” Daniel shouted out loud to George, who was half on the floor, looking pale green, with blood now all over his mouth and right arm.
“Wha-da ya want?! George grunted.
“You need a ride, let me get you a cab.”
Now appearing teary eyed from the grief George struggled to reply, barely managing to spurt out,
“Why’d ya do that for me, I don’t know you one bit.”
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Now standing over him, Daniel, unwilling to reveal the reasoning for his concern over George looked gently towards the direction of the bay and watched as a cargo ship slowly passed by. It was flaring with vibrant lights that reminded him of the ocean liners he had seen when first returning home from Europe.
“Ugmph”, George grunted in slight pain.
Looking back down to the rugged an, who was now covered in his own blood and half dead in his motions, Daniel started to remember his own response when finding out his wife had abandoned him to lust and sin; The bitter truth had come in a crumpled up letter, somewhat stained in blood from the wounded carrier who had brought the message to Daniel’s company in a package of dozens others. The news had unfortunately come just shortly after the war had been declared over by the British government, and in that moment of revelation, his victory over cruelty and wrong had been severed by unfair words and betrayal.
“Where do you live man?! he angrily asked, not intending to be harsh to George in any way whatsoever, but still thinking of the past.
“I’ll just tell the cab driver when I get in.” George reluctantly replied in response to Daniels’ tone.
“Fine” seeing a taxi coincidentally driving by Daniel signaled it and lifted George up quickly to get him into the vehicle.
“Take him where ever he needs to be, here, have this.” Giving a ten-dollar bill to the driver, he pleasantly responded with,
“Yeah, cosa sicura (Sure thing).” While smiling gratefully,
Seeing that George was now an even darker shade of green Daniel put both his hands to the sides of George’s face and looked him straight in the eye,
“Don’t worry mate, I get it, your wife cheated on you, and that aint’ right, but be cool…”taking one hand from George’s face to point up,
“God sees everything.”
George’s eyes widened and you could hear him whisper that sentence to himself,
“God sees everything…”
Unaware of the impact he might have just bestowed upon a poverty-consumed lad from the valley of ashes, Daniel smiled and gently slapped George on the cheek, pulling away to slam the cap door.
“Poor bastard!” he exclaimed as the taxi speedily drove off in an abrupt manner,
“Hopefully the lady gets what’s right for turning on her man.” He shouted breathlessly in the air, still reminiscing over that fateful day.
Shaken up like a can of soda the and wired like electricity from the unexpected event that had fallen unto his lap at the pub, Daniel looked to his watch and began cooling heading out, back to the west egg of the city for a couple more drinks with some old friends before heading to the police station to begin his night shift as a detective.
“Ah who cares anyway?” Thinking aloud while walking though the gravel and mildly paved concrete,
“Who cares anyway?”
End.
1st Place – Short Story Category Adult
“My Way” by Mary Bollman
I always knew this time would come, I just didn’t think it would come so quickly – if you can call eight nine years quick. It’s been a helluva ride, but now, just as I imagined, I am lying in sterile surroundings, machines beeping in regular intervals, reminding everyone that I haven’t kicked the bucket just yet. And how weird is this?
All I can think of is a song Frank Sinatra sang in the sixties.
Ol’ Blue Eyes. I saw him in concert when I was a young mom. I loved all his songs, but without a doubt
“My Way” was my favorite. Frank and I belted out that song over the roar of the vacuum cleaner countless times.
Back then “the end” seemed so far away, but now it’s here. My family crowds the small room knowing my final curtain will fall within a matter of hours. Everyone is talking in hushed tones. It’s creepy, like something out of a bad movie. I’ve often I wondered if I would be scared when this time came, knowing that I’ve nearly used up my God given ration of heartbeats and breaths.
Well, I’m not scared. I’m tired. No, not tired. Relaxed, I’m deeply relaxed, and it’s not the medications.
I’ve been sedated before with pain meds, but this is different. I am at peace. I am curious as to what’s coming next. And I am quiet. I will look and I will listen but I will not speak again. I’ve said everything I have to say. That song runs through my head.
My life has been full, and I have traveled many highways. It seems hard to believe I could squeeze all that living into one lifetime.
Funny…when you get this old; people tend to look through you, as if you’re not a whole person…just an empty shell, someone who is a bundle of bones covered with wrinkled skin and thinning, white unkempt hair. You go from being a vibrant, intelligent woman to being someone’s ‘job’. Well, my eyes may be vacant, and I may talk
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and act a little fuzzy, but there is still much living going on, though now it’s only inside my head. I am weak, but my memories – my memories are strong and clear.
I really did do everything my way. I’ve had my share of marriages, divorces, deaths, kids, grandkids, great grandkids, and pets. There were perfect times and times of pure hell. I cried a million tears, but I laughed more often than I cried. I lived to make other people laugh and I loved to laugh with them. I always told my kids,
“When I’m ready to croak, don’t gently touch my hand and look at me with sad eyes and tilted head. Yeah, it’s sad, but shit happens – get over it. If you can’t make me laugh then stay the hell home. Thanks to God they honored that request, at least most of them did.
Each of my five children wanted to spend some final one-on-one time with me. That was nice. One was truly saddened at the thought of saying good-bye. Circumstances kept us a few thousand miles apart, but when we did have time together it was amazing – he was a lot like me – he liked to laugh and when he loved, he loved with his heart and soul. We had our differences but he always loved me. I never doubted it for a minute. Though
I tried to show him options and give him good advice, he always chose the ‘School of Hard Knocks’ - and sometimes he had to repeat a grade or two. I hope he graduates soon. He’s still a sweetheart but he’s not a little boy any more.
Another, I’m certain, was happy to see me go. Maybe happy isn’t the right word. Relieved, maybe? For many years I was a pain in her ass. According to her, I didn’t love her nearly as much as I loved her siblings.
Raising her I did everything wrong…and even in our last few minutes together she, as usual, didn’t hesitate to mention a few of them, even one that happened over sixty years ago. I never understood why she chose anger over happiness. I wish I could have made her believe how much I truly loved her. She is a beautiful and talented woman, but her beauty remains hidden by her bitterness. How sad. We could have had so much fun.
My Way Page 3 The third also lived far away, but she called a lot and always made me laugh. She visited often and each time it was fun. As a kid, she was forever by my side in the kitchen, anxious to learn how to cook her favorite meals and how to bake cakes, cookies, pies and even bread. She was a born homemaker. Her goal in life was to be a mom and she is a damn good one. Our last minutes together were really no different than any other time
I spent with her. She gave me kisses, sang me a song I used to sing for her when she was little, talked about some funny things we did together and thanked me for everything, then said good-bye. I did a good job with her.
It was awkward with the next one. We weren’t really close, not my choosing. From a point in her early teens, she believed she was smarter and overall better than I and we grew distant. I thought it was just a stage but the distance remained – and increased over time. I worried more about her than I did the others, not about getting pregnant or doing drugs. No, she thought way too much of herself to ever allow those things to happen. I knew she was headstrong and independent and I prayed she would go in the right direction. She did. I’m very proud of her. She’s determined and works hard and is very, very busy. No time for mom except for the obligatory cards and calls on Mother’s Day, Christmas and my birthday. I read a quote that reminded me of her. “Beware the barrenness of a busy life.” I don’t know if she felt barren. She was too busy to tell me. I often asked what I’d done to create the distance. Still don’t know – and now I guess I never will. On the rare occasions that we talked, I always told her I missed her, but sadly never heard, “I miss you too, mom.”
And now the last one sits beside me. She jokes and says she’s gonna make me laugh or I’ll probably haunt her for the rest of her life. She’ll have no regrets or at least she shouldn’t. She gave me more than anyone else; yes, some tangible gifts, but a gift even more wonderful. She gave me her time. She shared her life, her kids and her grandkids. She managed to keep us all close, no matter the miles between us. She is probably the best mom ever; she reminds me a lot of my mom. She was never too busy or too tired to play just one more game or read just one more story. That’s what’s really important in life; being there for someone, giving your time. She said her good-bye with a kiss and a smile.
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Then my husband sat with me. He said nothing and I needed him to say nothing. We had almost fifty years together. If you can’t prove your love and devotion to someone in fifty years, lip service at the end of the road is pure bullshit. He just held my hand tightly. He’s a good man. I was a lucky woman.
Just like the song, I’ve had regrets – some, but not many. I won’t waste my precious time thinking about them now. I made my choices, some were good, and some really sucked. But at the time I was making them, it always seemed like the right thing to do. Well anyway, right or not, it was what I wanted to do. And now, especially now, I’m glad that’s the way I did it.
I always found it odd that at the end of the song Frank found life was so amusing. Hmph…now that I’m here…I see that it is amusing. All through my life I worked and worried and hurried and kept the house clean and paid the bills and made sure dinner was on the table and saved money. And for what?
I look around at these people – my family. A husband who will miss me terribly, grandkids, who I’m pretty sure, all liked me a bunch, children who will forever have, like it or not, a part of me within them, and their spouses who are wondering when is this going to be over and do you think she left us anything?
Well, I’ll check out when I’m damn good and ready. And as always, I’ll do it my way.
2nd Place – Short Story Category Adult
“Texas Christmas Lizard” by Denise Benavides
The old rocker creaked on the porch as Tessie Blue pushed back and forth, back and forth. She watched her granddaughter weeding by the porch steps. “’Bout time that wondering husband of yours took you back home to Texas.”
Jenny’s mouth twitched as she went on weeding, crouched under a tattered straw sunhat, the wind playing with her long brown ponytail. She swiped away a bug, smearing her face. “Had to come home, Memaw.
Someone has to help you weed the front garden and keep you in line.”
Tessie’s steel gray eyes could still slice and dice after seventy years – but never at Jenny. “Your travels have made you uppity, missy.” She wagged a finger on a weather-worn hand. “You missed that one under the pepper leaf. Get moving. Looks like the rain clouds are rolling in.”
Jenny always saw past her grandmother’s gruffness. With a mischievous gleam in her eye, she just continued to weeding the corner bed. Glancing sideways she saw that her grandmother had stopped rocking.
Then Jenny slowly reached over and pulled the offending weed under the pepper plant. Creak, creak went the rocker, as her grandmother eased back, absently rubbing her hands against her jeans.
“You know, Memaw, Mike and I would have moved back sooner if you had told Uncle Gerry and Mom how hard the drought hit the ranch.” She looked up and saw the anger flash in her grandmother’s eyes.
“They have their own lives. And I’ll not have them thinking I’m too old and feeble to run this ranch!”
Tessie’s hands gripped the rocker sides as she leaned forward and shouted the words.
Jenny moved further away, looking down and weeding. “No one says you’re too old. It’s just time for you to let all of us – as a family – tighten our belts and work to keep the ranch going.”
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“Humph!”
Tessie paused and took a deep breath. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to go to the bank meeting on
Thursday.”
Jenny looked up from her weeding and smiled. “Got my best outfit picked out and ready.”
A green lizard darted across her hand and streaked up the slim trunk of the crepe myrtle. “Whoa!” Jenny jumped up, rubbing her hand. “Look at him puffing out his red throat to scare us, Memaw. A red and green lizard, imagine that! He must be a rare Texas Christmas lizard. It’s a sign of good luck.”
The rocker creaked faster. “Jenny Blue Thompson, you just made that up. There’s no such lizard. Stop sounding like a child. You’re 23 – time to toughen up.”
Jenny grinned as she took the garden gloves off, and walked up the porch steps. “People say I remind them of you. Is that tough enough?
Tessie hid a smile. “You have your grandfather’s foolish grin. Make yourself useful and pour us some sweet tea.”
Jenny filled a pair of glass mason jars from the pitcher beside them. She glanced at the pile of unpaid bills in the box nearby, then handed the tea to her grandmother. Jenny sat and pushed against the wooden porch floor, swinging and sipping. She and her grandmother looked out over the acreage. The front yard flowed to a slight hill crowned by a pecan tree surrounded by Spring wildflowers.
“I missed the bluebonnets in Grandpa’s Wild Patch.”
Tessie cocked her head. “Your grandfather used to say, ‘Tessie, come with me and we’ll let that pecan tree solve our problems. Mighty smart thinking-tree we have there.’
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I’d push him away and say, ‘Tom, there’s too much work to do to waste time under a thinking-tree.’ He’d grin and kiss me on the cheek and stride off with those long legs of his up to the Wild Patch.” She paused and touched her cheek, then shook her head and steeled her face.
Jenny stopped swinging. “Mom said when he died in that car crash that you almost lost the ranch.”
Her grandmother stuck out her chin and straightened her spine. “I didn’t lose it then and I won’t lose it now, good Lord willing.”
“Mom says that she and Uncle Gerry helped you – that you were family-strong.”
“They were teenagers.’ Tessie’s tea sloshed at the rocker’s fast pace.
Jenny waited until she calmed down. “Did Mom tell you that Mike got that promotion at his tech company?”
“Tech job! Don’t know what this world’s coming to with all that nonsense. People don’t even leave their houses anymore – heads bent over useless contraptions.” Tessie jammed a loose gray hair back into her bun.
“Mike says he’s doing some internet research that will help save the ranch.”
“Humph.”
“It’s the 21st century, Memaw. It’s not all bad. The whole world is connected thanks to technology.”
Tessie wouldn’t look at her. “I’ve got all the connections I need right here in Texas.”
Jenny leaned forward and put her hand on her grandmother’s knee until she looked at her. “You know we’ll be coming here every weekend to work the ranch, even though Mike has the dreaded tech job.”
Tessie taunt face softened a bit. “You picked a good man.”
Jenny popped out of the swing. “Come on, Memaw. Let’s go to the Wild Patch.”
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“Get me my walking stick.” Tessie eyed the dark rain clouds. “We need this rain. In this drought it’s like liquid money.” She rose stiffly, then took the staff from her granddaughter. They walked down the three porch steps and out onto the lawn. The two petite figures in their jeans and long sleeve button-down shirts walked the ground as did generations before them.
“Look, Memaw – another Christmas lizard on the pecan tree.” Jenny frowned as she neared the tree staring hard. “There’s something on the trunk…”
“Memaw, Grandpa carved your initials on the tree.” Jenny pushed her wind-blown hair behind her ear as she traced the scar on the trunk with the other. “It’s a heart with ‘T.B. and T.B. True Love” carved in it.”
She turned and saw her grandmother’s eyes mist. “Don’t know why that man had to go cut-up our tree.”
Jenny looked back at the carved heart. “That’s odd.”
Her grandmother moved the walking stick along with her as she approached the tree. “What?”
“There’s an arrow from the base of the heart that points to the two rocks below.” She bent to lift the rocks.
“Be careful of snakes, Jenny. Use my walking stick.”
Jenny took it and levered the rocks aside, then used the stick to dig beneath. “I’ve hit something.” She gave her grandmother the walking stick, then used her hands to dig through the earth, uncovering a metal cash- box. She lifted it out of the hole, held it up, and shook it.
‘It sounds like coins.”
“Well, don’t just keep rattlin’ the thing. Open it!”
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Jenny lay the dirty metal box down and tried to lift the lid. “It’s locked.” She shook and jiggled the box, then stopped when she saw a strange look on her grandmother’s face.
“What’s wrong, Memaw?”
Tessie pulled out the chain she wore under her clothes, and held up the small key that dangled from the end. “Just a few days before he died, Tom gave this to me. Said it was the key to his heart.” She shook herself and added brusquely, “Here, try it in the lock.”
Jenny took the key, and slid it into the lock. ‘It works, Memaw!”
Jenny lifted the lid and gasped. The box was full of gold coins!
Tessie’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “I’ve heard that story all my life, about some old conquistador hiding his gold on our land, but I never put no credence to it. Tom must have found the coins and put them in that cash box.”
Jenny stood and enveloped her grandmother in a hug, felling her stiffen, then grow soft in her arms. “The bad times are over now, Memaw. Finding this gold means the land can stay in our family. No one can foreclose and take it away from us. We only had to find Grandpa’s heart on his thinking-tree.”
Tessie gently pulled herself out of Jenny’s embrace. Her voice was shaky and she cleared her throat.
“’Course we never would have found it if it hadn’t been for that durned Texas Christmas lizard. Maybe it really is good luck.”
Jenny grinned. “I think Grandpa sent us that lizard from heaven.”
Tessie squinted sideways at her granddaughter, then shook her head. “No more of your foolishness.
Let’s get back to the house. I’ve got some phone calls to make to save my…” She looked at her granddaughter,
“our family ranch.” Texas Christmas Lizard Page 6
Jenny snuck in a quick hug, then picked up the treasure box.
“Feel it, Memaw? It’s finally raining.” She glanced skyward. “Thanks, Grandpa,” she mouthed silently, tucking her grandmother’s hand into the crook of her arm.
Together the two women walked back to the house that now would remain in their family forever.
3rd Place – Short Story Category Adult
“Leaving Texas” by Cate Murray
Summer, 1959
When I was about as tall as a card table, and I would hear my mother and her bridge club friends whispering about girls who had to get married, I thought that those girls fell utterly in love, and they just had to get married. When I was not quite 18, I thought that I had to get married. I was as untouched as Sandra Dee at the beginning of the movie, but I was in love from the bottoms of my toes to “the length and breadth and height my soul could reach.”
His name was Jonathan. He was six feet, four and had brown eyes that mirrored those of Robert Burns.
Jonathan wore a short, carefully trimmed beard. He emanated the scent of sandalwood.
He was a poet who played the flute, a philosopher who played Hamlet and Prince Hal, a physicist who built stages, and a chemist who made Italian cream cake.
I first met Jonathan at a Theosophy gathering at my Aunt Sophia’s Turtle Creek mansion. As I served him a slice of orange date cake, he smiled at me and said, “You know that Robert E. Lee proposed to his wife after she served him fruitcake. It was just after he read her a chapter of Sir Walter Scott’s latest book.”
“Do you read Sir Walter Scott?” I asked.
“I prefer the original romances that his works are based on,” he said.
My heart leaped because I had just read Mallory. “What do you think of Robert E. Lee?” I asked.
“I have to admire the man,” he said, “for fighting a lost cause. He didn’t believe in slavery, but the South was his homeland. I work for Civil Rights, though, so it’s a bit ironic that I admire him.”
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I knew my father would dislike Jonathan because, God forbid, he had a beard. Mother would not like him because he was a Democrat. But my Aunt Sophia approved because he was a Theosophist. She kept our courtship a secret.
What little courtship we had consisted of written correspondence from the cities where he performed to my aunt’s Dallas home. Our penned romance began in 1958. I confided everything to Jonathan – my frustration about always being from 10 to 15 pounds overweight, my clumsiness on the basketball court, and my ennui and loneliness from being the only poet in my small, dead town.
A Valentine proposing to me arrived from Jonathan around Valentine’s Day 1959. I ecstatically accepted.
Between February 14 and June 8, as I waited for high school graduation and anticipated uniting with my true love, the world of my tiny hometown darkened. In March my best friend and third cousin died in a car accident.
Bobby and I had been close since kindergarten. He was the only person I could talk to after my brother had died in the Korean War. Bobby took me to movies on Saturday night and escorted me to the prom. But he never kissed me, I guess because we were third cousins. He had great ambition, unlike the other boys in town.
He had been accepted into West Point the month before the accident.
I was glad that Jonathan was taking me away from the town of ghosts.
The night I ran away to get married, I remembered the sound of Mother’s typewriter, the same sound I had heard hundreds of times. Since joining the John Birch Society, Mother was always writing to some newspaper or congressman. Silently, I lifted the frilly duster of my powder-blue bedspread and pulled out my
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hidden packed suitcase. As I tiptoed past the den toward the back door, I glanced at Dad. His eyes didn’t blink as he watched TV. His Scotch sat on a tray beside him.
Once outside, I quietly carried my one piece of luggage to the front of the ranch style house and up to the dirt road to the entrance. Hoping that no other cars would pass, other than the one carrying Jonathan, I sat on the limestone brick and waited. A June bug flew toward me, sat on my hand, and kept me company. As I gently deposited the bug onto a petunia, I felt a piece of paper. It was a note addressed to me:
Meet me at the Owl Café’ in Waxahachie. We arranged to get the car worked on there. It still runs, but it needs some fine-tuning for the long trip. Love, Jonathan.
“Girls spend a lot of time waiting for boys,” I thought as I walked back toward the house. I put the luggage in my little blue Fiat and set out for the 11-mile trip.
I stared into the black moon of the coffee till the steam threatened to make a volcanic flow of my eye makeup. Jonathan said he would meet me between eight and nine o’clock, but the buzzing clock registered 9:08.
“Sure you don’t want cream, Honey? I can’t stand coffee black,” the waitress said.
I’m afraid I’m taking up your table with just coffee,” I explained. “I’m waiting on a friend, and he hasn’t come yet.”
The waitress grinned as she refilled my cup and placed two tiny cream bottles beside it. As she handed menus to some new customers, I took Jonathan’s last full letter from my purse. It smelled of sandalwood incense.
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Dearest Josephine,
It is raining here in Buffalo. Though I should be sleeping, I keep staring at the raindrops stuck to the window like seeds that will never be planted.
I miss you so much! I love playing music, but even that gets old. City to city to city – hotel to hotel to hotel – gig to gig. The tour bus is bumpy. I have a hard time writing new music when the pen jumps up and down. Oh well, a guy’s got to earn a living some way.
I keep thinking what a great wife you will be. You are so different from the other girls. You are so quiet.
You don’t gush over me like some girls who fawn over every folk musician. When you talk, you actually have something to say. You wear very little makeup – just enough. You make wonderful brownies, and you can recite
John Keats! Think about what great lyrics we can write together! Moreover, you really care about people. Gotta go now.
Love always,
Jonathan
Before I could refold the letter, the door rang and Jonathan and two other guys appeared.” So this is the chick!” the guy with a long beard and a torn shirt said. He stared at the letter and grinned with tobacco teeth. I disliked him immediately.
“Josephine, this is Hank and this is Kurt,” Jonathan said. I liked Kurt better. He had soft, gray eyes and blonde hair.
Jonathan took my luggage from the Fiat, and I placed my keys inside the glove compartment. For a second I felt a tinge of sadness thinking of the day my parents bought me the car. I hoped that it would be found safely. Jonathan held the door as I climbed into the back of Kurt’s Studebaker with him. Leaving Texas Page 5
“I hear your ole lady is right in Dick Nixon’s lap,” Hank said as Kurt turned toward Dallas.
“She’s very conservative,” I admitted. “I wanted to tell him that she was my mother, not my ole lady, but I stayed silent. He reminded me of some of the boys at school who would pop bras while the teacher wasn’t looking.
A few miles down the road, Jonathan asked, “Is marriage really important to you?”
“Yes.” The question shocked me.
“Then we will get married,” he said.
When someone loves another, doesn’t he automatically want to get married? What alternative was there to marriage? I thought. I had heard about people “shacking up,” but I didn’t actually know couples who were. I had just read Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. The guys’ adventures in the book fascinated me, but I didn’t want to end up like the girls in the book. Always told that sex was beautiful, and then the guys conquer, keep the girls for a short time, and then split.
Hank dispersed my thoughts. “I think it’s great you can’t have kids,” he said. I was horrified that
Jonathan had told Hank, of all people, our secret. “Babies are really overpriced,’ Hank continued. “They cry half time, they shit all the time, and the rest of the time they spit up. Think of it this way – your crib doesn’t work, but boy do you have a great play pen!” Hank shook with laughter.
“Do you always laugh at your own jokes?” Kurt asked.
“If I didn’t laugh at them, who would?” Hank laughed so hard he dropped his can of beer.
Jonathan pulled out a beautiful filigree ring and said, “Let’s see if it fits.” It fit perfectly. He told me: “The ring has been in my family for at least a century and a half. They were all goldsmiths before the war.
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Mother hid this ring in the hem of her Auschwitz uniform. Her parents were killed. My father’s parents were killed as well. They were all Polish Jews.”
“How did you escape?” I asked.
“A resistance group took my sister and me to Switzerland. We stayed in a convent for a while, then in an orphanage, for a while.”
I couldn’t fight back the tears. The thought of Jonathan never growing up with grandparents and learning of them killed in horrible ways. The Diary of Anne Frank came to my mind. I
“How’s your mother now?” I asked.
“She’s doing what she wants to do – married a rich man in Florida. Gives her a new diamond every year.
I don’t like him but he keeps her happy. She sees a doctor who helps her with her bones. After all those years of malnourishment, she has to take special supplements.”
I’m going to marry a Jew, I thought. I had always been awestruck by the Jews I had read about – I had hardly had met any before Jonathan. How I loved Old Testament stories. I thought of Jews as Jesus’ cousins.
Of course Jonathan wasn’t Jewish in the traditional sense. He told everyone he was a Buddhist, a Theosophist, and a Hindu.
As if Hank could read my thoughts he said, “Wanna hear about my religious experiences?” Hank asked.
“No!” Kurt told Hank.
As we passed the Dallas skyline Kurt asked, “En route to Oklahoma?”
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Jonathan replied in the affirmative. Oklahoma had relaxed rules about teenage brides. Jonathan added,
“Let’s pick a town that has a pretty lady’s name: Ada or Enid.
“Enid is two or three hours north of Oklahoma City,” Kurt pointed out. Ada is much closer, and not as much out of the way.”
Ada was deserted just like my home town was after dark. Signs announced Vacation Bible classes and a
Fourth of July parade. After driving a few blocks, we found an open gas station.
The manager smiled at me, but his face stiffened after seeing Hank. He kept an eye on him as he entered the men’s room
“We want to get married,” Jonathan explained. “Could you tell us where to locate the justice of the peace?” The man frowned at Jonathan’s beard and looked at my stomach. “You folks from California?” he asked noticing the license plates on the car.
“We plan to settle there,” Jonathan said.
“The marriage office is up the street. It’s closed till ten tomorrow.”
“Does the J.P. live behind or around his office?” Jonathan asked.
“Yeah, but he don’t like to be disturbed after hours.”
“We’ll take our chances,” Jonathan said. He put his arm around me and guided me back into the car.
“Wait. I want to change,” I was wearing a cotton blouse and a pair of Levis rolled up a few inches from the ankles. Mother would have fainted. She didn’t even like me wearing jeans around the house, not to think of getting married in them.
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Jonathan retrieved my suitcase from the trunk, and I ducked into the ladies’ room to quickly change into my white graduation dress. Kurt told the man to fill the car up.
Although I carefully packed the white dress in tissue paper, it was badly in need of ironing. I ran some water to dampen my hands, hoping that the moisture would alleviate some wrinkles. After buttoning the last button, I quickly powdered my face and applied lipstick. I reconstructed my ponytail and tied a white ribbon around it. “Well you’ll just have to do,” I told the girl in the dusty mirror. We were all glad to leave the filling station.
Finally a yellow bug light flashed on after Jonathan rang three times. “What do you want?” a skinny man snapped.
“Please Sir, we have come here to get married,” Jonathan said.
“Don’t you know it’s after hours?” the skinny man said. He was bald and looked just like the American
Gothic farmer.
“We didn’t realize we would be arriving after hours,” my future husband explained. “We drove all the way from Texas, it’s too late to drive back now, and we don’t want to spend the night together till we are married.” I didn’t know if Jonathan read my mind and saw my discomfort with premarital sex, or if he was manipulating the man to perform the ceremony quickly, so we could continue my trip.
Kurt and Hank served as witnesses to the perfunctory ceremony. Jonathan only tipped the dour J.P. a dime. “Your service is rude,” Jonathan explained.
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“Now remember ole boy, it’s the groom’s duty to rise the occasion,” Hank told Jonathan as we drive to the motel.
“I’ll remember,” my new husband promised.
“Cool it, Hank!” Kurt said.
“Ah, what’s wrong with a few nuptial jokes? Don’t you Germans have a sense of humor?”
All of the sudden goose pimples appeared on my arm and legs on that sultry June night.
“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asked.
I couldn’t explain it to him, but I had the honeymoon jitters. I had kept my virginity for nearly 18 years, and losing it would not be as easy as I had thought.
I awoke to view a beautiful pink light meandering its way through the curtains – Homer’s rosy fingered dawn.
“Last night wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jonathan whispered.
“It was beautiful.” I meant it.
“We’ll do it again sometime,” he winked.
As we began to pack, Hank pounded on the door. “Are you still in tandem?” he yelled.
Hank ruined the bliss for a few seconds, but I took a deep breath and told myself to forget about the crude creep. Jonathan was my husband. We had taken vows, and I was now a woman. The moment I realized my new venture, I felt like Jonathan and I had climbed Mount Olympus as one. We would write songs as together and never be lonely.