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3rd Place, 2020 Short Story Contest Winner: Jessica Carlson

Just Another Nightmare

by Jessica Shepard Carlson

Their house is still dark, the windows black, only stillness behind them. A familiar dread is settling in — I haven’t seen movement for days.

“There you are, dear.”

A voice behind me. It’s Gary, my husband. As if I am so very hard to find. Every afternoon since my retirement, I sit in the backyard on this same rusty lawn chair, cigarette in one hand, sudoku book in the other, watching ants crawl over the mossy lines crisscrossing our brick patio.

I use the book to disrupt a trail of smoke heading Gary’s way. A show of respect, I think. He frowns into his beard, mostly gray now.

“Dinner’s in the oven,” he tells me, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “I’ve got to run. Emergency council meeting.”

But he doesn’t run. He just stands there, his eyes fixed on the cherry of my cigarette. He’s waiting for me to ask about this very important meeting of his. There are things you understand about a person after 30 years of marriage.

“Have you seen Dave or Sheila?” I nod in the direction of their darkened house. “Out of town you think?”

He looks up at the house, reluctantly, dutifully.

“Not since the potluck, I suppose.” He sighs and turns back inside. “I’ll be back around eight.”

The potluck. That was ten days ago. A moist and suffocating Tennessee Saturday. The kind of oppressive heat that leads to divorces and fistfights and car accidents. I made my mother’s macaroni salad, one of the few things Gary lets me cook. We all sat fanning ourselves at the Henderson’s splintering picnic table, swatting flies off our watermelon rinds, my mother’s macaroni festering between us.

Dave drank at least 13 beers that afternoon, lining up each empty bottle on the porch railing like trophies in the sun. Gary circled the picnic table with a pitcher of lemonade, always topping off my glass before I had the chance to fill it with something else.

Sheila sat across the table from me, still as a tree stump, smiling vacantly behind dark sunglasses. The sweat collected on her upper lip like dew. She had been acting strange lately.

I was halfway through an ear of corn when Sheila abruptly reached across the table with all the speed and grace of a startled rabbit, plucked up a butter roll, and inadvertently revealed proof of something I had long suspected — deep purple bruises on her forearms, yellowing at the edges, a bloody outline of Dave’s fat sausage fingers trapped under the surface of her thin, almost translucent skin. She reflexively tugged her sleeves down to her wrists; both of her pinky nails were wrapped tightly with flesh-colored band-aids.

Nobody said a word. Maybe they didn’t see, maybe they just didn’t care. I stared hard at Sheila’s pale face, watching closely as a bead of sweat pooled at the tip of her nose and dropped to her plate. She was otherwise still, detached. Even her wiry yellow curls seemed to slink.

Then Dave grunted or coughed or spat, whatever loud disgusting noise he was always making, ruining everything.

That night, I had one of my dreams. The doctors call them “dream-reality confusions.” Gary calls them nightmares. Gary is the one who often has to shake me awake and try to convince me it’s not real. He moves his head to my pillow, a circle of drool between us, and calmly strokes the hair behind my ears. In those moments, I want to believe him. But to me, these aren’t dreams or nightmares. They’re memories. As real as every other memory swirling around the turbulent seas of my brain, stirred up and summoned unexpectedly, drawn out by a familiar smell or just a funny feeling in the air.

Few know about this condition of mine. You see, ambiguity doesn’t sit well with most people — they need a yes or no, night or day, good or evil type of world. Dead or alive. Dream or reality. It makes them feel safe, the sureness of it. Of course, life isn’t always so simple, so obvious.

A month or so ago, passing a jar of blueberry moonshine back and forth between us, I told Sheila all about it. The diagnosis, the symptoms, my dreams and the troubled roads they’ve led me down, my murky and sometimes hostile relationship with the truth.

After I finished, Sheila squinted up at her house on the hill, then turned her eyes down to a pile of sand some ants were assembling at her feet.

“That must be real nice,” is all she said.

As I sit here waiting and watching, the sun is right where I like it, below the trees and above the roofline, raw beams hitting my eyes and reflecting off the page — Puzzle #32, Very Challenging. It’s a ranch, our house, modest and small, built in the ‘50s. The trees are much older, ancient oak canopies hovering over us like some folks might imagine God. Ever watchful but always silent, unmoving.

I had a dream once that these trees revolted, shaking the earth and uprooting our house from this rolling hill like a dead tooth, sewer lines and cables dangling like severed nerves and blood vessels. This one I could tell was a dream. I woke up to Willie Nelson on the stereo, our house comfortably nestled in the ground, Gary hidden behind the spread-open pages of the Johnson City Press, the trees outside still quiet, leaves waving reassuringly.

As I told Sheila, when I was a kid, everyone chalked it up to an overactive imagination. My mother mostly nodded, a cigarette dangling from her ruby lips at the kitchen table, her gaze fixated on the small black-and-white TV just over my head. “That’s lovely, dear,” she’d always say.

Daddy was more easily persuaded, at least until the time I found a body down at the river by our house. He called the sheriff and they brought dogs and officers with big flashlights and even a man on a horse. I led them all through a narrow wooded trail to the riverbed, Daddy beside me, proudly hacking aside wayward branches. But when we got there, it was just slippery rocks and rotting logs. No flesh, no strands of hair, no body. The dogs whined in disappointment. Daddy shook his head. But I still remember: a girl, not too much older than me at the time, bloody auburn ringlets strewn across slate rocks, her head bashed in like a deflated basketball, a smell so powerful and rancid it stayed with me for weeks.

I need another cigarette.

I wonder what Gary has in the oven. He’s not a great cook, but much better than me. He definitely tries. But that’s Gary, always trying. The day we met, he was standing outside of the student center at East Tennessee State collecting signatures for some ballot initiative, a nerdy hippie with long brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail, eyes magnified behind thick black frames.

The way he looked at me when I signed his petition, so earnest and hopeful, I couldn’t shake it. I came back an hour later and asked him out. He said yes, of course — I was quite pretty in those days, feathery blond and slender, a young and sarcastic nursing student, no outward signs of my strange condition.

By that point I had mostly learned to live with it, to keep my memories to myself and parse out what was real and what was not on my own. Turns out when you assume everything is a nightmare, reality is a lot easier to deal with.

I became an ER nurse, mostly because I knew I could. The most catastrophic, gory human carcass could roll through that hospital door and I wouldn’t blink. Twenty-five years of broken bones protruding from skin, severed limbs wrapped up in blood-soaked towels, open flesh wounds battered and red and wet like roadkill, panicking eyes looking up from the gurney absorbing the scene around them, their own grim reality setting in.

Whatever it is, I’ve seen and done worse.

Two years into our marriage, I cheated on Gary. It was a one-time thing, a smartly dressed pharmaceutical salesman I met during a smoke break at the end of a long shift. I changed into a purple sundress I kept in my work cubby and we met at a hotel bar down the street from the hospital. All it took was a couple vodka martinis, some bar nuts, and his hand slowly creeping up my inner thigh. I demanded his room key and told him to meet me there in five minutes. We had sex three times. I left before the sun came up.

The guilt was immeasurable. It took the flavor out of food, colored my every last thought and word. I couldn’t breathe without a memory seething in; purple dress at my waist, tan hands on bare skin, the smell of vodka and cologne and cum.

A week later, I confessed to Gary over breakfast. Staring into an empty coffee cup, I told him everything. He sat there quietly for a minute, maybe the longest minute of my life, then got up and went into his office. He came back smiling.

“I knew it!” He was holding his appointment book up like a preacher with a bible. “Honey, you didn’t do this. You couldn’t. You were with me that night. It’s all right here!”

He pointed to the date in his book. There, in Gary’s tidy handwriting: “Pick up K at hospital. Dinner at Light Horse. Play at 8.” Two ticket stubs for the 8 o’clock showing of Blithe Spirit at the community theater were paper-clipped to the page.

As I said, I want to believe him.

The strange thing about the dark empty house is also the empty backyard. Usually at this time of day, Dave is out back aimlessly sawing or chopping, fussing over some project he’ll never finish, eventually losing his temper over his own incompetence. He never waves. He once asked Gary why I’m always sitting back here on this lawn chair, smoking, sudokuing, watching.

Gary, bless his heart, put his hand on Dave’s shoulder and said, “Dave. A word of advice. Women are meant to be loved, not understood. Ok?”

But the problem with Gary isn’t that he doesn’t understand me. It’s that he never believes me.

Earlier this year, Dave walked himself into the hospital, his right arm wrapped up in a bloodied towel, his face hot pink with rage. He unwrapped the towel to reveal a deep stab wound right in the meaty hump of his bicep, about two inches wide and curved slightly at the edges, like a smirk.

“An accident,” Dave muttered at the tile floor. He takes a blood thinner for his gristly heart, so the blood seeped out surely and freely, any chance to escape. As I cleaned out the wound, I swear it was smiling at me. I smiled back.

The next morning, I walked up to their house and found Sheila under an umbrella on the back porch with a large stack of supermarket tabloids and a coke.

“You missed,” I said, nodding towards Dave’s bandaged arm. He was trying to start the mower with his left hand, his stomach flopping around like a water balloon with each pull of the starting cord.

Sheila took a long, slow sip of coke.

“How do you figure?” she said, tilting her head to the side, puppy-like. She was paging through a magazine indiscriminately, flipping two or three pages at a time.

When she reached the back cover, Sheila started laughing -- and do I mean laughing. More of an explosion, really. A howling joyful burst out of nowhere, free and loud and rapturous, the kind of laughter you can’t fake or control. The kind that spreads. Dave stopped what he was doing to glare over at us, see what all the fuss was about.

“Sorry,” she said finally, tempering herself, wiping the corners of her eyes. “I guess I’m just in a good mood today.” I recognized a familiar spark of mischief in her eyes. That’s when I learned Sheila is a fighter.

“Please don’t go meddling in other people’s business,” Gary said to me later that night, when I told him what happened, what I was sure was happening. “Nothing good can come of it.”

The night of the potluck, I waited until dusk, the air heavy with imminent rain, lightning bugs like tiny sparks of burning ash across our thirsty lawn. Gary had to leave for a fundraiser, some sort of fancy cocktail picnic for the mayor. “I just have to show my face,” he had said, but I could tell he was looking forward to it. “I’ll bring you back some shortcake.”

I waited until all the neighbors were chased inside by mosquitos and sick of sitting in their own sweat. I waited until Gary’s Honda cleared the driveway, his headlights heading west toward the nicer side of town, where he had wanted to buy a house and I refused. I waited until Dave and Sheila’s kitchen light flickered off and the bedroom curtains were drawn, just an eerie orange glow behind them.

What happened next is why I’m sitting here now, four cigarettes and three sudokus later, watching for movement in their windows, searching for clues.

By the way, they found the girl, the body down by the river. Years later, I read in the paper that a troop of boy scouts found her femur under a log while searching for salamanders. Her family thought she ran away.

But back to the potluck. That night, I remember pouring myself a glass of scotch from a bottle hidden in the linen closet. I took off my clothes, underwear and all, sweaty and sticky from watermelon juice and barbecue sauce. I stood in front of our bathroom mirror, examining my body in the unforgiving fluorescent light. My face was tired, lived-in: the corners of my mouth turned into a permanent frown, the skin under my chin sagged familiarly. I looked like my mother. I took a moment to study every wrinkle and unruly hair in clinical silence. Then I turned off the light, crawled into bed fully naked, and sipped on my scotch until the darkness came.

But I also remember stepping into Gary’s office later that night, into the small closet where he keeps the safe. He didn’t tell me he bought a gun, but the thing about marriage is you’re always finding out things the other person doesn’t want you to know.

I opened the safe and there it was, under our birth certificates and Gary’s dusty passport. Ominous black metal, smooth and textured and intricate. A Beretta handgun, not unlike the one Daddy kept on his hip as a police officer.

It was heavy in my hand, much heavier than I thought it’d be, but in a good way, like how you can judge a good piece of furniture; solid wood, quality craftsmanship.

I remember holding the gun stiffly at my side and slowly walking through our house. I hadn’t bothered to put my clothes back on. The lights were off. I was not afraid. Tough as a pine knot, that’s what Daddy used to call me.

In the kitchen, I placed the gun in an empty casserole dish. Weird, I remember thinking. Perfect fit. I poured some uncooked rice on top, shaking it around gently until it was in an even layer, just like Gary does with his jambalaya. You could just see the outline of the gun, black metal hiding under opaque rice. I covered the dish with a piece of tin foil.

I remember leaving the house, careful not to let the screen door slam behind me. Carrying the casserole dish with both hands, I walked up our sloped backyard, up and over the retaining wall that separates Dave and Sheila’s property from ours. I tiptoed over a rock bed and into their unkempt lawn, disturbing a row of dried out dandelion petals.

Peering through Dave and Sheila’s back window, I saw flowers on the table, water in the vase going green and rotten, fallen petals all around. A clown figurine on the mantle, smiling inappropriately. No sign of Sheila.

I figured Dave was passed out; too much sun and beer and rage for one day. Somewhere in the house, I imagined Sheila reveling in the silence, letting the tension out of her body, tending to her wounds.

I remember moving to another window, trying to get a better look inside. Suddenly, a light switched on and there she was, standing in the hallway in a pink bathrobe, white like a ghost. We locked eyes and I held the casserole dish up to the window for her to see, pulling the tinfoil back just enough to reveal the outline of the gun. She looked at the dish, then down at me, still naked and tense, lit up only by her light.

“Take it. Please.” I mouthed, but Sheila had already turned back into the dark hallway, her bathrobe trailing behind her.

I remember tiptoeing around the side of the house, around Sheila’s thorny hedges. I placed the casserole dish on the welcome mat and re-tucked the foil. I paused, considered ringing the doorbell, but didn’t.

I remember turning around just as the rain broke loose, hobbling back down the slope of the yard to our house, whispering curses at the pinecones under my bare feet. I crept back in through the screen door, back into bed, Gary beside me, scotch in hand.

The next morning I woke up in an itchy sweat, naked and certain that Dave was dead. Gary reassured me, stroking my hair, the usual routine. Just another nightmare, he said.

But ten days have passed and their house is still dark. Not a sign of life. And my casserole dish is nowhere to be found.

###

2nd Place, 2020 Short Story Contest Winner: Louise Farmer Smith

A Plain Man

by Louise Farmer Smith

The minister’s schedule included a wedding this morning.  9:30.  Absurd!  Sacrilegious really, to arrange a sacred nuptial around an American Airline’s flight departure. He had a good mind not to put on his best suit.  If the bride and groom were in such a rush, he might as well run out of here in his pajamas.

“Tommy?”  His wife’s sweet voice called up the stairs.  “Time to get moving.”  Janet, whose graciousness and energy had made it possible for him, a natural cynic and grump, to have a career in the ministry, had been ready since dawn.

“I’m not going,” he said.

“But you would be missed.  Come on now.  I just got back.  Everything is in order. He’s already picked her up.”

That was another slap in his face, the groom taking the bride to the church when it had always been the role of the father to hand off the bride, a cherished daughter who had not seen the groom on the appointed day, whose dress was a surprise, whose veil symbolized her as an unopened package.

Oh, Thomas, what century are you living in, old man!  Your own parents had undoubtedly opened the package themselves since theirs was a rushed affair, shotgun being the crude word in those days. Thomas sank down on the side of the bed he shared with Janet in spite of the fact she got up and down all night long, waking him each time.  That was marriage.

 I come to you with a heavy heart.  Wait, that’s how he started funerals.  Get hold of yourself.  He glanced about the bedroom for some distraction.  His shoes were shined and ready beside the chest of drawers.  His best suit, still in the shining plastic from the cleaners winked at him through the open closet door. At least his daughter hadn’t demanded he buy a new one.  Uncharacteristically, she hadn’t demanded much, her needs, he supposed, satisfied now by her chosen life partner.

He stood up and walked to the closet to take out his best suit, six or seven years old now, a touch shiny in the seat, threadbare but only on the right cuff.  He took it out and held it up.  He always felt charged once he slipped on the jacket just as he had when it was new.  It would help to hold him together today.  He was, after all, a leader among the Methodist clergy in Southwestern Oklahoma, a man who had tried in every way to live uprightly after the chaos of his parents’ life.

 

When he and Janet peered in from the back of the little church, they heard Mrs. Jenkins churning the organ and saw that the sanctuary was filled to capacity even though it was 9:20 on a Thursday morning.  Janet let out a little sigh of relief as though she’d doubted that their friends and other parishioners would come.  But he’d been sure they’d come, every prying eye in town would show up to see him let Veronica go to that out-of-state head-shrinker.

He left Janet with an usher, his nephew, and went around to the entrance to his little office, so he would be able to arrive at the front of the congregation.  Once inside the office he was steadied by the sight of his desk and the familiar texts from his seminary days, erect and in order on the bookshelves with the boxes of manuscripts of his sermons.  Before he could settle in, a gentle knock came at the door.  That would be the groom, his arrival being the first traditional event of this topsy-turvy wedding.  Thomas opened the door to see a man in his thirties wearing an expensive suit with a pink rose bud pinned to the lapel.  “Hello, Chris.”

“Hello, Reverend Matthews.”

Thomas and his prospective son-in-law had eaten supper together last night.  And although Thomas hadn’t pumped him for information, Chris had run on and on about himself, his job as a psychotherapist, his education at Cornell, his family, earnings and bank account.  Thomas had tried to be cordial and feel comforted by this man who seemed to hide nothing, but this dinner was after a hasty rehearsal during which Veronica kept saying, “I don’t know why we’re rehearsing since I have no attendants and all the ushers are my cousins who’ve done all this before.”

And why the hell don’t you have any attendants? Thomas wanted to ask.  It was the company of friends that gave weddings that supported look, the community behind them.  His daughter had done everything she could to shave the glory out of the wedding.

“May I come in?” Chris asked.

“Oh.”  Thomas stepped back and held out his hand to a chair for Chris.

Chris chuckled. “You don’t want to let her go.”

“No man wants to let his daughter go.”

“Oh, I imagine a few are glad to unload expensive shopaholics and manipulating little b--.”  Chris grinned.

“Where did you put her?”

“You mean the bride?  She’s in the vestry dressing.  She’s going to ring my cell as soon as she’s ready.”

“That’s just great.”  Thomas walked to the window and looked out at the overcast day.  “What are we doing here on a Thursday?”

“Oh, that’s Veronica,” answered Chris.  “She worked it all out, counted backward from when her next case would come up in court, the flight back, the days in the hotel, the flight—“

“I’ve got it.”  He remained at the window, his back to the groom.  The day was completely out of his control.  Would there be anything sacred about it?  He sighed. Nothing to do but get through it in as dignified a way as possible.

“She must have been an adorable child,” Chris offered.

Not for the first time Thomas wondered if he should add anything to the traditional ritual, any extra words about this being his own daughter.

It was quiet now between himself and his future son-in-law, a relief.  Thomas let his mind drift to a scene he hadn’t thought of in years, the nasty vision of Janet’s father standing on the porch in his ugly bathrobe and black socks, reaching out to take by the shoulder his twenty-year-old daughter and shove her into the house while giving him, the date who had returned her on time, the kind of glare deserved by a kidnapper.

“Does he keep a gun in the house?” he had asked Janet when they passed briefly at church the next Sunday.  She’d looked at him wide-eyed even though he’d tried to make his question sound like a joke.

He thought he had left nothing to chance that August thirty-seven years ago.  As soon as he had in hand the letter accepting him at the seminary, he’d signed up for married student housing, bought their bus tickets, the marriage license, arranged their escape for a day when the old man was going to be away and Janet’s mother would have the car to go shopping. In spite of all his plans everything had been against them.  The old man changed his mind about not needing the car.  Janet had no way of contacting her fiancé where he waited at the bus station—no cell phone, no emails in those days.  He had paced the smelly depot and watched as their bus departed.  Meanwhile, Janet had taken that huge old green Samsonite suitcase out of the car’s trunk where she’d hidden it, and after her father was gone and while her mother hung the wash in the backyard, she set off on foot for town.  Four miles in the August heat she’d lugged that heavy bag that contained the wedding suit she’d made herself and a castoff iron skillet she’d found in the attic.

It was late afternoon by the time she made it to the bus station.  Rather than wait there where they would be sitting ducks for her enraged father, they’d hitched a ride with a chicken farmer into Wichita Falls where they caught a bus to Dallas.

They arrived at Southern Methodist University Seminary around dusk and were directed to Married Student Housing, but Thomas led Janet straight to the chapel.  He introduced himself and asked the minister to marry them, but the license Thomas had was for Oklahoma, not valid in Texas.  Consulting his course outline, he sought out each professor who was ordained. None felt they could help these unlicensed runaways.  Finally, long after dark the Dean of the Seminary chuckled at their predicament and agreed to marry them.  Afterwards, though it was late, he invited them to have cake with him and his wife in their beautiful home.  As the old Dean made out the marriage certificate, he said, “This will serve God for tonight, but tomorrow you must get a license to serve Caesar.”  Thomas remembered the Dean’s wink and his own deep blush on what he now counted as the first happy day of his life.  He had known by instinct that Janet was his salvation.  They would serve God together.

That night after the little wedding and the wild fumbling of first sex, he had lain staring at the ceiling, exhausted and amazed that God would grant him, a plain man, such ecstasy.  Then, suddenly, with no prompting from him, Janet had pushed his shoulder to turn him away from her.  She had wrapped her arm around his ribs and pulled him to her, her knees behind his, her breathing slowing into sleep against his back.

Thomas touched his finger-tips to the cool window pane of his office then bowed his head.  Dear Heavenly Father, who was that brash, romantic boy with so much confidence in the future?  Janet is still herself, lavishing kindness, generosity and good humor on the world.  But I have shrunk, Dear Lord, my courage now is nothing more than a querulous whine, always the first to have my say in meetings, the first to speak of any weakness in other’s suggestions.  That isn’t courage.  Dear Maker, is there any tiny ember left in me of that daring love-stricken lad?  He opened his eyes and looked at his fingers on the windowpane.

Chris’s cell phone rang.  “Okay, lover,” he said, “I’ll see you at the altar.”

Thomas clenched his fists.  He knew these two had been sharing a place in Chicago for two years, but weren’t they going to leave a poor father even a shred of denial?  He turned from the window.  Chris was holding the door for him leading into the sanctuary.

“Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and man ...”  already he felt himself losing his usual smooth delivery.  He cleared his throat and went on, wanting at every point to say something gracious to his beautiful daughter on her wedding day.  She came down the aisle with a woman’s grace, none of the silly girlish grins he so often witnessed on the younger brides.  Veronica’s dress was also perfect, not the strapless, bosomy getups that seemed to be the fashion for brides these days.  But he had not managed to veer one moment from the standard service to say anything extra for his daughter’s wedding.

He always offered a prayer at the end, asking the Lord’s blessings on the home that was about to be created.  “Let us pray,” he said and raised his arms.  “Thank you Heavenly Father, for this happy day when our beloved daughter has joined her life to that of a man worthy of her love.”  He felt the heat in his face and was about to say Amen, but went on.  “May their union be as–“ where was he going with this?  “As comforting, as tender—” Stop!  “As joyous for them as mine has been for me.  Amen.”

 

After Chris and Veronica had dashed away from the reception on the church lawn, Thomas sank down on a picnic bench amidst the debris.  Plastic cups and paper napkins blew across the grass gathering into the ankles of the rosebush hedge.  A few ladies from the Circle Guild hustled about cleaning up.  He was shaken, and remembering the personal nature of his prayer, he felt embarrassed.  What had the congregation thought of this unstoppered self.  It was partly the dress that had moved him, that simple, sleeveless affair with a flowing skirt that fluttered as the couple came out of the church for the reception. She must have been thinking of him when she bought it.

Janet came now to sit beside him and kiss him on the cheek.  “She was a beautiful bride, wasn’t she.”

Thomas sighed.  “I guess it’s just us now.”

“Yep, Tommy.  It’s just us now that she’s married.”  She patted his thigh.  “That’s what marriage is, separate worlds.”

“It isn’t all a bad feeling.”  He smiled, and she looked surprised.  “I kept thinking about us,” he said.

“Us?”

“You were so…”  His voice faltered.  As usual Janet didn’t coax him, just waited.

“I just feel so lucky,” he blurted.  Tears floated up, and he looked at the sky, hoping to let them slide back down inside.  He wasn’t hurting the way he’d expected.  Veronica and Chris had had it all planned just as he had planned his own escape into a separate world.  They were just two different visions, theirs not even as defiant as his and Janet’s had been.

His heart filled remembering Janet lugging that terrible green suitcase, red-faced and dripping sweat as she kicked open that bus station door.  He let the tears slide and drip off his jaws.  Every night.  Every night for 37 years he had counted on that swell of comfort each time she climbed back into bed, folded herself against his back and put her arm, now softer, over him to pull him to her.  What a lucky son-of-a-gun he was, blessed beyond all deserving. A Scrooge who every night was visited several times by a forgiving ghost who enfolded him in a loving embrace, asserting her possession, a comfort that would outlast sex and perhaps still be there in senility, the central delight of his life.

He would do better.  Try to deserve her.

The End

1st Place, 2020 Short Story Contest Winner: Amy Blaine

Company Calls

by Amy Blaine

Mrs. William Hancock inserted her finger tip into the telephone dial, but only just. Arthritis had made the first knuckle of her finger swell up and the holes on the rotary phone were unforgiving.

She began to dial, reciting the exchange in her head. There wasn’t any reason to remember the exchange, she knew that, but still — it was habit. Devonshire 4-8372 . The wheel spun round.

The phone on the other end rang once, twice, three times. She knew if she waited two more rings, Amanda’s answering machine would click on. Or what was it called now? She could hear what her daughter would say:

Mom, we don’t call them answering machines anymore. Nobody has an actual machine. And stop calling the house. If you want to reach me, it’s better to call my cell.

Five rings. Mrs. Hancock replaced the handset in the cradle. She looked down at her wrist, at the slender gold watch she had received from Mr. Hancock on their fiftieth wedding anniversary. It was just as well Amanda wasn’t home (or not answering the phone, more likely). Juliette would be calling in three minutes. The arranged time was 10:00 a.m. but Juliette’s watch was a bit slower than Mrs. Hancock’s.

At 10:03, the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Hancock! Why don’t you just answer, ‘Hello Juliette!’? You know it’s going to be me!”
Mrs. Hancock smiled despite the admonishment. “May not be. My daughter might call.”
“At 10:00 in the morning on a Thursday? Isn’t Amanda at work?”

Mrs. Hancock realized she was. She wouldn’t have gotten an answer from her daughter, even if she had called her cell phone as instructed.

“Of course. It’s just that sometimes she has a break.”
“Ah, well.” Juliette left it there.
“How are you doing, dear?”
“Oh, just fine. What have you been up to this week?”

Mrs. Hancock looked around her well-appointed apartment to see if she could remember anything that had happened to her since she’d spoken to Juliette the previous Thursday.

“Not much. Staying put, mainly.” She didn’t want to admit it, but her stumble the month before had scared her. What if she had fallen? She’d had a friend who’d broken her hip, and never recovered. It was one of the reasons she’d moved out of the multistory house she had once shared with Mr. Hancock, leaving it to her daughter.

She thought about her recent visit to the doctor for her annual checkup. Nothing abnormal - actually quite well for her age. Eighty-three was nothing to sneeze at but perhaps she was lonely? The doctor gave her a card with the telephone number for Company Calls.

It’s like having a pen pal, except over the phone. The same person calls you, once a week. Just to chat. You never meet. You don’t even have to exchange names.

Juliette’s voice brought her back to the conversation. “I thought you were going to make an effort to see a show at the Kennedy Center. Don’t you have season tickets?”
“Yes, two as a matter of fact.” She and Mr. Hancock had had two season tickets for years. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of anyone to go with now that he was gone.
“Two. How lovely. We should go together.” Juliette’s voice sounded conspiratorial.
Mrs. Hancock bit the edge of her lip. She tasted a smudge of lipstick. “I don’t think we’re allowed to meet.”
“No, you’re right. It’s the rule.” There was silence over the phone.
“That doesn’t seem right,” said Mrs. Hancock.
She heard Juliette’s sigh on the other end of the line. “Well, I guess there are a lot of people that might take advantage. Sign up for the call program just to scam people.”

Mrs. Hancock supposed this was true, and she said so. It had happened to her mother, hadn’t it? Oh, many years ago, when she was just a little girl. After her father died. Her mother lost all her savings. Convinced by someone to just hand it over. Couldn’t have gotten it any easier if they’d had a gun.

“Mrs. Hancock?”
“Yes, dear?”
“Why don’t you invite your daughter to the Kennedy Center?”
“Oh, not really to her taste. Performing arts isn’t her cup of tea.”
“Shame. Speaking of, I would love a cup of tea. Have you had one today?”
“No, not yet. I was just waiting until after our call.”
“Why’s that?”

Mrs. Hitchcock didn’t want to say. Sometimes Juliette was the only person she talked to all week — well, besides the grocery delivery man, or sometimes the doorman, if she had a package waiting for her in the lobby.

“No reason. I just didn’t want to miss it.”
“You know I would call back if you didn’t answer the first time.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Or I’d leave a message. Don’t you have voicemail?”

That was the word Mrs. Hancock thought: voicemail.
They chatted for exactly thirty minutes, covering the news, the weather, Juliette’s overfed cat, and Mrs. Hancock’s sister who lived 2,000 miles away.
At 10:33, they hung up.

***

“I think we should do it!”
It was the following Thursday.
“Do what?” asked Mrs. Hancock.
“Meet at the Kennedy Center! For a Thursday matinee!”
Mrs. Hancock steadied the receiver with her right hand. Her hands were shaking more these days and it embarrassed her, even with no one to see.
“I thought you said that we’re not allowed to meet in person.”
“It’s true. We’re not. Well, not technically. We’re not going to plan to meet in person,” Juliette said.
Mrs. Hancock pressed the phone closer to her ear as if the sound of Juliette’s voice might leak out and give them away.
“How?”
“We’re going to meet ‘by chance’. No one can tell you who you can sit next to or not sit next to at the theatre. It’s a free country, isn’t it? You’re just going to tell me the seat number on one of the tickets and I’ll happen to show up.”
“But how are you going to get into the theatre without a ticket? Past the usher?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that. I’ll find you.”
There was silence.
“Mrs. Hancock?”
“Well,” Mrs. Hancock said, connecting the dots. “If we’re going to do that, I suppose you’d better start calling me Ida.”

***

The day of the performance, Ida Hancock woke up and tested her body gingerly. Stomach seemed fine, no pains in her back, no aching neck, teeth. She sat up. No dizziness.
Ida followed her usual morning routine, until about 11:30 when she changed her clothes for the theatre. She had just finished checking her purse and making sure she had the tickets, when the telephone rang. She jerked.

Oh, I suppose it’s Juliette, having to cancel.

She picked up the phone.

“Hello?”
“Hello, Mom!”
“Amanda? What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
“Nothing at all. I’m just calling. I have a break so I thought I’d say hello. And I have a surprise!”
“A surprise?”
“Yes, it’s a teacher planning day, so I’m free for lunch. I’ll be there in about twenty
minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?”
“Yes. Mom? Is everything alright?”
“No, yes, everything is fine. I just have plans, that’s all.”
“Plans? Well, can’t you postpone them? I can’t usually get out during the school day.”
“Yes, well, okay.”
“See you soon! Twenty, thirty minutes at most. I’ll call you from the lobby when I get
there.”

Ida Hancock hung up and then she sat down. She took off her earrings. She wrung her hands. Getting up, she went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. She turned on the flame. She turned it off. She stood looking at the clock.

She sat back down again. She thought about all those times she’d waited. By the phone, by the door, in the lobby. All the tickets that had gone to waste because she was scared of falling. Or maybe she wasn’t scared of falling. Maybe she was just hoping. At the last minute for someone to go with her.

She thought of Juliette. If Ida was going to meet her at the Kennedy Center, she should be well on her way now. She clipped her earrings back on, and put her jacket on. She made sure she took her purse, checking one last time for the tickets.

Just as Ida was leaving the apartment, the phone rang. She stared at it as if it were a ghost. She already had her hand on the doorknob. Disappointing herself, she went to pick it up.

“Hello?”
“Mom, I’m going to be another thirty minutes, I’m sorry. Just wait there. We can go to
the Greek place right nearby. Think about what you want. My treat.”
Ida Hancock thought this might be one of the most important decisions of her widowed life.
“Mom? Are you there?”
She had learned a lot from her daughter, she supposed. She closed her eyes and said into the phone:
“Amanda? Amanda? Are you there? I’m sorry. It’s a bad connection. Please. Call me back.”
She hung up and before the phone had the chance to ring again, she picked up her purse and left the apartment. The door made a resounding click as the lock hit the latch.

***

A couple of times in the cab she felt slightly dizzy, but Ida knew it was excitement and not her health. She checked for her tickets a half dozen times, latching and unlatching her purse.

The cab pulled up to the Kennedy Center. It looked different in the daylight. She had always thought she’d preferred evening performances when the facade of the building was lit up, ghostly shadows lurking between the columns. But now with the sun glinting off the Potomac and the tidy edges of the roof slicing through the blue of the sky, this seemed lovely.

Her cab stopped at the taxi stand that was filled with ordinary-looking cars. Ubers, she supposed. She would have liked to try an Uber, but she didn’t have a cell phone. The taxi driver did help her up the broad wide steps, even though the parking attendants kept telling him to move along. She wasn’t sure if an Uber driver would have helped her do that.

Ida found their old familiar seats. Mr. Hancock would have sat to her right. She wondered if Juliette would have a preference. She checked her watch. She turned her head and then her body frequently to see if she could see Juliette coming down the aisle. Of course she had no idea what Juliette even looked like, she realized, so her constant checking was useless. To take her mind off Juliette’s arrival, she scanned her fellow audience members. The house was full; the performance of Howard’s End seemed to be a popular choice. Most people were in groups of two, mostly elderly like her. Some larger groups of four or six. Some kind of outing club, she thought. There were no children.

“Here she is! Ida, I am so sorry!”

Ida looked up into a smiling face who was giving her wide-eyes over the usher who was with her. “Silly me, Ida. I thought I was picking up the tickets at will-call.”
“Oh...I…” Ida recovered. “Yes, I’m so sorry.” She gave a wan smile at the usher. “Thank you for bringing her down - I have the tickets right here.” She had been clutching them in her hand for thirty minutes.

The usher took a quick look at the crumpled papers and, satisfied, walked away.

Juliette perched on the edge of the velvet-covered seat and leaned in to Mrs. Hancock.

“He was a bit of a stickler. But finally! Mrs. Hancock. Ida! So nice to meet you in person!”

The two shook hands and then sunk comfortably into their chairs, sighing with the same relief.

The lights dimmed and the overture began.

***

After the performance was over, Ida and Juliette sat on the rooftop cafe, having a snack.

“It’s funny talking to you like this. In person.” Juliette gave Ida a smile.
“Why do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Talk to old people? I’m sure you have other things you could be doing.”

Juliette stirred what remained of her small glass of ice cream.

“I suppose. But I do it for myself as well. Not just for you or the other people that I call.”
“You call more than one person?”
“I call three per week.”

There was a silence.

“Oh, Ida. You’re the only one I’ve met in person. The only one I’ve gone out to the theatre with.”
“Why me then?”
“Well, William needs a little medical care and Vanessa’s family would never let her go anywhere with a stranger.”
“Ah, but you’re not a stranger.”
“I kind of am. I mean, what do you know about me? Truly know. I could have made everything up.”

Ida gave her a look.

“Oh, I don’t think you’d do that.”
“No, you’re right. But I could have.”

Ida took the last sip of coffee.

“This has been nice. I’m so glad you came. I’ve been looking forward to something like this — for a long time.”
“You are so welcome. What a lovely day. How much do I owe you for the ticket.”
“Don’t be daft.”

The two walked down the wide, carpeted steps of the performing arts building.

“Now where is this cab stand?” Ida’s purse dangled from her arm.
“I think it’s over here.” Juliette guided her gently.
“How did you get here?”
“I walked over from the Foggy Bottom metro, but it’s so lovely I think I’ll walk across the bridge back to the Virginia side.”

When Ida’s cab passed Juliette walking across the bridge, Ida smiled. Maybe she could move like that again: confident with not a timid step.

***

When the cab pulled up to her building, there was a police car occupying the car port. She paid the taxi driver and stepped out, up the front steps, and into the elevator. When the doors opened she saw two police officers at her door along with her daughter.

“Amanda?”
“Mom! Oh my God! Here she is, officers. This is her.” The three of them stood waiting for an explanation. None came.

“Mom, where were you?” She was grabbing her mother’s wrist now. “I came to pick you up for lunch and you weren’t in the lobby and you weren’t answering your phone. I wish you would give me a key. I thought something had happened to you.”

“Something did happen to me. I went out. I went to the theatre. I told you I had plans.”
“The theatre — what?”

Each officer closed their notepad.

“Are we all set here then?” the first one asked.
The second officer gave her daughter a smile. “Seems like it was just a missed connection. Glad everything’s okay.”
The officers took the stairs back down.

Ida took her key out of her purse. “Do you mind if we go into the apartment? I could do with a second cup of coffee.”
Her daughter followed her incredulously.
“Second cup? Where have you been?”
“I told you. The Kennedy Center. Seeing Howard’s End. You know ‘Only connect’ and all that. They’ve made it into a musical. You’ve seen it? At least the movie.”
“Mom, that’s not the point. And besides. You went by yourself?”
“No, I went with a very nice young person named Juliette.”
“Juliette? Where did you meet her?”
“She calls me. Every Thursday. We chatted and so we decided we might meet up at last.”
“A stranger?”
“Hardly.”
Amanda sat down at the kitchenette table and ran her hand through her hair.
“Mom. You know you can be taken advantage of quite easily.”
“What time?”
“What time what?”
“You said you were going to be here around noon and then you called again to say you’d be late, so what time did you actually get here.”
“Actually get here?”
“Yes,” she spun the gold watch around her wrist. “What actual time?”
Her daughter looked down at her fingertips. “About four o’clock.”
“After work.”
“About then. I left a little early.”
“I would have been quite hungry for lunch by then. So yes, I see how I can be easily taken advantage of, which is why I decided this time to meet a friend to see a play. Do you see where I’m coming from?”

***

Now it was dark. Ida opened her bedroom window with the crank handle and let the breeze come in. What a day. She had not known a month, a year ago that she would have been spending the day with her friend, watching a live performance with someone other than Mr. Hancock. She had not even predicted the extra call from Juliette making sure she’d gotten home alright. She didn’t tell Juliette about her daughter and the police and the “missed connection”. She’d tell Juliette all that — next time they met.

The End

2nd Place Short Story Contest Winner: Jess Stork Glicoes

The High Cost of Coupons

By Jess Stork Glicoes

Many people think perfect motherhood is impossible. Piper Winterbean believed they just weren’t trying hard enough.

A mother of three, she crafted stunning organic, gluten-free bento box lunches for her two school-age children, daily. As an active member of the PTA, she single-handedly organized a successful peloton-themed fundraiser that saved organized sports in the district.

Piper accepted nothing less than perfection.

When her husband’s company transferred them halfway across the country, she accepted this challenge in much the same manner that she approached other challenges in family life: with a neatly organized spreadsheet and lots of packing tape.

Nothing was broken or misplaced in the move.

Piper knew she would continue life in her new suburb in much the same manner as her old. Forty-eight hours after moving, she attended her first PTA meeting.

“Have you gotten the grocery ads for the week?” asked Tricia, a mother of a fourth grader with a sucker permanently tangled in his hair.

Piper put on her polite smile. “I can’t say I’ve kept track of coupons in the past.”

Tricia nodded eagerly. “The regular ones aren’t worth your time of course. But the Super Saver Booklet that you can get in the mail—I reduced my bill by ten percent using that.”

Piper looked at Tricia’s mismatched socks and thought surely she could do better than that.

“There’s a website where you can request one,” said Tricia. She wrote the address on the meeting agenda and ripped it off. Her greasy fingers smudged the writing. “Every little bit helps, doesn’t it?”

Piper nodded graciously, careful not to touch the greasy print as she accepted the scrap. They both turned back to a serious discussion about what type of headgear should be allowed in toddler rugby.

The booklet arrived two days later in the mail.

At first, Piper just clipped for staples like toilet paper and bread. They needed those anyway. But the more she looked at the booklet, the more possibilities she saw.

By the end of the month, she had the bill down a hundred dollars, just by using coupons.

Piper hadn’t been this excited since she scored a deal on gourmet sushi catering for the neighborhood block party. She bought a rhinestone-studded fanny pack for the coupons, clipped together by section. She practiced extracting stacks of coupons in the mirror. A month in, she could find the latest two-for-one butter coupon in three seconds flat... without looking.

One cold November morning, she managed to corner a college student at the grocery in lane 6 with her newest achievement.

The cashier seemed confused when she hit total after scanning all thirty-seven of Piper’s coupons.

“But—how can your total be zero?”

Piper brushed a speck of dirt from her coupon fanny pack and smiled. “Double coupons,” she said. She loaded her cloth compostable bags into the cart and breezed back to the van.

Late that night, Piper was sprawled on the couch snipping coupons. Her children were all at prearranged sleepovers, armed with homemade vegan cookies. Her husband was dutifully working late. She was free to relish in her task, the coupons spread around her like a halo on the coffee table.

There was a knock at the front door.

Piper bolted upright. Had one of her children forgotten something? Impossible. She had thought of everything.

She’d made lists.

When she opened the door, the porch was deserted. A thick fog covered the street. Something skittered in the darkness. Piper stepped onto the porch and shoved her hands on her hips. She had no fear. She was a capable mother of three and she could handle dangerous situations. Like when the clown had shown up drunk to her youngest son’s birthday party.

She scanned the yard and porch and finally noticed a cream envelope lying on her welcome mat. Her name was written in calligraphy. Piper slipped the razor end of her scissors underneath the envelope flap.

Inside, a thick ivory card was embossed with the words, “your presence is requested.” On the back, was an address, a date and time. Piper suspected a prank, possibly by neighborhood teenagers. Still, she was intrigued.

So, on the allotted night, she kissed her husband and slipped out the door.

The address was a laundromat.

It was dark inside. Business hours were clearly over. But, the back door was ajar.

The hairs on her neck prickled, but she shook it off. Much in the same manner she had shaken off a promising career as a marketing executive when she became pregnant.

Light was coming from the back office.

“Piper Winterbean,” said a voice. “Enter.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but I’d like you to know that I played volleyball for four years in high school and I took state-approved self-defense courses with my daughter.” Her voice echoed back to her oddly from the silent rows of dryers.

She pushed the office door open.

Inside were four robed figures. Their hoods fell in shadows across their faces. Candles were arranged on the desk next to packets of powdered detergent.

Piper mentally ran through the contents of her purse. She thought she had pepper spray in there…somewhere.

The central figure in a faded grey robe chuckled. “We’ve noticed your talents.”

Piper looked around at the darkened office, the candles and the robes. Was this a swingers club? “I appreciate the flattery, but I’ve got a grocery list to plan—”

“This isn’t flattery,” said the grey robe. “This is a secret society. An ancient masterful order…”

A hand appeared from the folds of the robe. In the palm was a pair of silver clipping sheers.

“We are The Society of Advanced Coupon Clippers.”

The scissors were a thing of beauty. Perfect edges, comfortably angled handles. Piper’s hands itched to grasp them in her slender fingertips. With those excellent points—she could skirt the edge of the dotted line, avoid those clipped corners she hated so much. She could practically hear the cool sounds echoing off the blade, “snip, snip, snip.”

“You crave them, don’t you? You’re clearly a gifted clipper. That’s why we’ve decided to extend membership to you. We bend sales to our will and meet to share in the triumph of our conquests. All that remains is for you to take the oath.”

Piper would have promised anything to get her digits through those finger holes.

“Do you swear to use your powers only for the good of your family and not for personal triumph or glory?”

Piper nodded and the palm held the scissors out to her.

She snatched the proffered scissors and tested the edge with her pointer finger. Razor sharp. The weight of the blade was magnificent. Perfectly balanced.

“Bear in mind, this is not a light oath. There are consequences for your actions.”

Piper had stopped listening. She was fanaticizing about all the perfectly clean edges.

“Of course,” she said, absently.

Membership to the secret society had perks. Access to gold level store membership cards. At meetings, she learned about different apps to organize digital coupons, though she still preferred paper. Something about the satin feel of the weekly ads beneath her fingertips. Deals for platinum credit cards arrived in the mail with money back rewards.

All of the added intricacies took time, so Piper implemented a few shortcuts. She decided to give up organic foods. She realized that processed foods offered more of a challenge when it came to coupons anyway. She donated her gluten-free cookbooks to the library, leaving the stack of books late at night next to the “No Donations Accepted at the Moment” sign.

One night her husband came and stood next to the couch as Piper snipped two for one deals on toilet bowl brushes after a dinner of jalapeno poppers and mozzarella sticks.

“Sweetheart.” He paused, shifting from one foot to the next. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Inwardly, Piper rolled her eyes. She did not have time for conversation.

“It’s just—you don’t seem yourself.”

Piper had no idea what he was talking about. She shifted the piles on the coffee table. She wondered if maybe she should start working on the dining room table for more room. They could eat on TV trays instead.

He hesitated. “I’m just concerned… that you want to skip Thanksgiving this year.”

“I have too much preparation to do for Black Friday.”

“But your parents are coming to visit. From across the country.”

Piper didn’t say anything.

He took a deep breath. “Okay, maybe, you should take a break from this coupon thing for a bit.”

Piper brandished her silver scissors in front of her. The tip glistened in the lamplight. “Don’t. Ever. Say that.”

He blinked, astonishment flashing across his face. Then it was gone and his face fell flat. “Fine.” He went off to the bedroom.

Piper didn’t follow.

Piper threw herself into her task with more zeal. She cut all the distractions that had plagued her in the past. Laundry piled up in corners and behind the couch. The kitchen counters overflowed with dishes and crumbs. In a moment of clarity, Piper quit the PTA because it interfered with a weekly sale on dishwashing soap.

Later that week, a summons arrived from the Secret Society wrapped in the weekly grocery flyer.

Piper donned her own charcoal-colored hood pulled from the trunk of her minivan. It sat next to an emergency pair of travel scissors. Just in case there were instore flyers.

A circle of robed figures waited for her in the back office.

“Piper Winterbean, it has come to our attention that you quit the PTA.”

Piper made a disgusted noise in her throat. She was missing valuable shopping time for this.

Her hand shook slightly at her side. She hadn’t snipped a coupon in a full hour and she itched for the cool steel and that… snip, snip, snip.

“Piper,” the grey hood held up a flat palm. “Do not lose yourself in the glowing allure of double savings. Remember your purpose. Remember your oath.”

“Use savings only for the good of our families,” intoned the other figures in unison. “Not for person glory or gain.”

They reminded Piper of a Greek chorus she’d heard in a play once with her daughter. She’d read in a news article that knowledge of classical Greek literature had a high effect on test scores.

Her words were sharp and clipped. “Is that all?”

“If you keep drawing attention to yourself—your actions will have consequences.”

Piper threw up a hand—still shaking. “I get it. You’re scared. That I eclipsed your silly society. Maybe, I’ve outgrown you.” She finished with a triumphant smile. Piper had always wanted to say this to several people in high school. Somehow, she felt she’d finally gotten the opportunity.

She staggered out of the laundromat, grabbing her emergency scissors from the trunk. Running her fingers over the smooth edge helped her calm down a bit.

The next week, Piper threw herself into clipping with renewed vigor. She would show those idiots in the secret society. She visited five grocery stores, forgetting to pick up her kids from school. She skipped dinner to drive to a new store on the other side of town, acquiring a jumbo pack of Q-tips.

When she got home, her husband informed her that a reporter had stopped by to do a story on, “her coupon thing.” He hesitated, the piece of scrap paper in his hands with the woman’s phone number.

Piper wrenched it out of his hands.

She arranged to meet the reporter at the store, the cameraman following her around as she shopped. She slid through the aisles, checking deals out of the corner of her eye and chatting with the reporter.

“And how did you get this good at using coupons?”

Piper laughed. “Well, I’ve always been competitive at heart. Just chasing that perfect deal, I guess.”

“That must take a lot of time and effort. Is it hard on your family?”

Piper stopped with a can of cooking spray clenched in her fist. She turned a bright smile at the cameraman. “They manage just fine on their own.”

At the cash register, Piper pulled out her special money-back platinum credit card. There was a beep as the cashier ran it through. He cleared his throat as the screen flashed red.

“Try it again,” said Piper cheerfully.

The cash register beeped again.

“Do you—have a different card?” asked the cashier.

Piper rolled her eyes. Honestly, these cashiers. Enrolled in college and couldn’t even run a simple credit card without messing it up. She slid another card onto the conveyor belt.

More beeping.

She pulled card after card, until she’d used every credit card in her wallet.

An uneasy feeling was growing in the pit of her stomach.

The reporter’s smile faltered. “Do you have any cash?”

Piper didn’t. She’d stopped going to the ATM, labeling it just another waste of time.

Finally, the cameraman produced a couple of crumpled bills. The reporter’s smile was icy as she thanked Piper for the interview. Piper didn’t care. She needed to get home.

Her hand shook on the steering wheel.

On her welcome mat at home, she found an ivory envelope. Inside the card said simply: All privileges of membership are hereby revoked.

Piper shoved open the door. The mail was on the table, but there were no weekly ads. Her stomach lurched. She raced around the house, pulling open drawers and cabinets, looking for her silver scissors.

They were gone.

And so were every other pair of scissors in the house.

She couldn’t even find the emergency pair in her minivan.

Both her hands spasmed. She needed to clip. Now. She needed that clear dotted line. That neat box that made everything clear and organized and perfect in her life.

Tearing apart the newspaper, she finally found a coupon for tires at the back in the sports ads. When her husband arrived home from work, he found her hunched over the kitchen counter, her finger pressed against the dotted line like a ruler. In her other hand, a butcher knife sliced slowly down the line, just catching the edge of her finger. And around her, a stream of red blossomed against the newspaper print.

Snip, snip, snip.

3rd Place Short Story Contest Winner: David Slater

Windows

By David Slater

The window that day was smaller than usual, but I was puny back then and squeezed through headfirst with no problem. I felt that rush that always swept over me while crawling into a strange house. Like I was perched on my bike at the top of a hill, not sure if I was about to have the ride of my life or plant my face into a rough-barked tree.

Below the window, within arms’ reach, was a sturdy cabinet with a smooth marble top. I braced my hands on the cold surface, and as my feet cleared the window frame I glided from an awkward handstand into sort of a sideways flip. I landed on my feet, steadying myself against the dining room table.

A shiver went through me as I surveyed the room to get my bearings. The shades were pulled against the afternoon sun, but enough light broke through for me to see that the house was a ritzy one. The dark dining room chairs were heavy and unscratched. Even a fine layer of dust couldn’t hide the matching table’s polished shine. As I moved from the room, I slid the small, folded stash bag from my back pocket. Then I froze.

To the right of the fireplace, a man who looked to be around sixty stood unsteadily in front of a plush armchair. His head was cocked at a weird angle and he held a gun loosely in his hand.

I may have been stupid back then, but I was no fool. Many nights that year I had gone to bed thinking about what would happen if I ever got caught in one of those strange houses. I worried about the cops, worried about ending up in a juvie home. But never had I considered that I could get shot.

I stood there now, dust specks dancing around me in a beam of sunlight, and literally tried not to piss my pants. The man motioned me into the room with a jerk of his head and pointed the gun at the plump, pinstriped couch. “Sit down, son,” he said softly.

I sunk into the couch, eyeing the gun and the off-kilter look on the old guy’s face, hoping that maybe the worst that was going to happen to me was that I’d soon be in a police car.

The man plopped wearily into his chair. I remained still as a rock as he sized me up. I was slight and looked young for sixteen, and I could tell he was having trouble getting a bead on me.

He had a thick head of silver hair and a long, thin face. His nose was straight but slightly large. His tie was loosened and his stiff white dress shirt was open at the collar. I could see where it had rubbed his neck a raw pink. His black wing tips were sturdy and neatly polished. Despite the expensive clothes, he looked slightly rumpled, like he’d been up all night with a toothache.

Across the room, I saw his suit jacket thrown over the back of a stubby couch. Lots of questions ran through my mind. Why is this guy home from work at two in the afternoon? How recently did that bottle of brown liquor on the table become near empty? And how the hell did he get to the gun so fast? At this point in my life, I hadn’t been in too many houses like that, but I assumed the families who lived in them didn’t usually keep a piece in the living room.

“What’s your name, son?” When I hesitated, he added, “Your first name will suffice.”

“Richard, sir.”

“Why are you breaking into my home, Richard?”

“Well…to rob it, sir.”

He squinted at me while he decided if I was being a smartass. I wasn’t. I was nervous and just being frank.

“Do you rob homes often?”

He seemed genuinely curious, so I was tempted to tell him the truth. But of course I knew better. I said, “I swear to God, sir. This is my first time and I’m so sorry I ever did it.”

“Your first time. I guess you’ve got my kind of luck,” he said, without smiling.

I just raised my eyebrows.

“Well, if it’s your first time, then I should assume it was not you who broke into my neighbor’s house two weeks ago? Three doors down toward Donaldson Street?”

Now, let me tell you. That had been a righteous score. A kick-ass stereo, expensive watch, and $300 cash right on top of the dresser in the first bedroom I went into. We were in and out in ten minutes.

“Absolutely not, sir,” I answered.

“That’s unfortunate,” he said. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he laid the gun on the end table and poured the remaining liquor into his glass. I noticed that his knuckles were slightly swollen and wondered if that’s what arthritis does to you.

Then he said, “You see, son, there’s a good-looking young man who lives in that house. He, too, is a thief. And he stole something that is precious to me.”

I wasn’t sure how he wanted me to respond, but I took a stab at it. “Was that thing taken from the house recently, sir? Maybe I could talk to some people I know? See if they’ve heard anything about it?” What an idiot I was.

“Oh, you could make inquiries, could you?” He looked into his glass and snorted. “No, Richard, the thing that Teasdale took from me, let’s just say he’s still in possession of…it.” He took a drink. “And I’m not, and perhaps never was.”

His eyes were unfocused and a dribble of booze slipped down his chin. He took a handkerchief out of his hip pocket and wiped his face. Then he narrowed his gaze at me.

“So now you’ve come to steal from me also,” he said, his voice rising. “Well why the hell not? It seems that everything I have is being taken by boys…”

He stared off in the distance for 15 seconds or so. I didn’t say anything. A few minutes earlier I had been afraid I was going to get shot. Now I was starting to worry about the old guy. He thinks his day can’t get any worse? I thought. Wait ‘til Dante smashes through the kitchen door. The guys in town didn’t call him “the Animal” for nothing.

And then I heard it. Not the sound of a door caving in, but a car starting up in the alley behind the house. Dante’s muscled-up Camaro.

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I tried to show no reaction, but the man’s eyes burned a hole through me as the roar of the muffler became fainter.

“You thought he was coming to your rescue?”

Why shouldn’t I have thought that? He had always told me he would have my back. I didn’t think he was someone who would ever leave me jammed up like this.

“How’d you know I wasn’t alone?” I asked.

“I might not look like much anymore, Richard, but I’m still coherent enough to know a child your size doesn’t jump through a ten-foot window without assistance.” He frowned and cocked his head. “How old are you?”

I trimmed off a year for good measure. “Fifteen, sir.”

“You have lots of nerve.”

“Sir, I’m so sorry…” He cut me off.

“Quit the ‘sir’ nonsense,” he snapped. “I meant it as a compliment. Nerve is something I’ve always lacked. Would you believe I’ve spent my whole life being afraid? Always feeling like I was ten minutes late, rushing to meetings and hurrying home from work so I wouldn’t inconvenience Margaret…” He took another sip and became quiet.

I looked past him to a large, framed photo on the mantle above the fireplace. Obviously, the guy’s family. Four of them, sitting on the front steps of a house. On the first step, a boy of around 12 and a girl who looked a bit younger. Behind them, a fine-looking tanned mother, and the man, looking probably ten years older than her, but much younger and happier than he looked now. The whole thing was like a TV ad for a life insurance company.

The old guy must have caught me staring at the photo. “Ah…you’re admiring the old family portrait? Thomas is the boy. Haven’t heard from him since I made his last college payment. And my daughter? It seems like the only chance of seeing Julia would be at one of her meetings. Children of Frigid Parents or some such…”

He trailed off, took a sip of his drink, and whispered, “Lovely girl, really. Just needs to work a few things out, she says…” Then he looked at me, sat up straight, and cleared his throat. “And Margaret? Well, I believe I told you where she is. So now you know the entire family!”

I didn’t have any clue what to say so I just sat there, scared and alone. When Dante and I had started this stuff six months earlier, I thought it was a game or something. We were a team, like a couple of circus acrobats. The way we could get me through any window with just a few precise moves was beautiful. Dante would crouch below the window – you’d be surprised how many people leave a window cracked open, or at least unlocked – and make a stirrup with his hands. I’d put my foot into it and he’d quickly hoist me up to the ledge.

And then would come that rush, better than a bong hit. It was the danger, sure, but also the unusual feeling that I was good at something, and that Dante needed my help.

Of course, by the time my head had cleared and I’d opened the door for Dante, I would want out as soon as possible. But Dante never seemed nervous. While he filled his bag, he would check out people’s bookshelves, go through their closets, try on their hats, that sort of stupid stuff.

After every job, Dante and I used to go to the Meadowlands Diner, right off Route 17. We always sat in the same booth, next to a window that even back then was made translucent by years of accumulated grease. We went there often enough that the waitress had our order down pat. Dante got onion rings and a bacon cheeseburger with a fried egg on top. He called it a “one-eyed cheeseburger.” No matter what time of day it was, I got steak and eggs with home fries. Dante never gave me any grief when I poured warm syrup over everything on my plate. But he also never had much to say to me when I tried to draw him into a conversation.

I looked again at that photo on the mantle and thought back to a month earlier, in a big house on Elmwood Place, when Dante pulled me over to laugh at a framed picture of two square-jawed brothers in matching V-neck sweaters and blazers. The older one had his arm around his brother and their similarly cocky smiles made it clear that they knew they would rule the world someday. Believe me, I never wanted to be like those guys, either. But I remember how, as I pulled away, I saw Dante’s and my reflection in the glass. He looked handsome and imposing, with his dark skin and longish, slicked-back hair. I was even trying to wear mine that way, but I looked at my reflection that day and realized it just wasn’t working. Nobody was ever going to mistake me for a young Dante. And the truth was, I already had a big brother. But he had left town two years earlier, just like my dad three years before that. And I knew neither would care even if they found out I was skipping school and getting boosted through windows by the toughest and dumbest guy from our neighborhood.

For the first time in a while, I thought about my mom, who had been busting her ass behind a receptionist’s desk her whole adult life, and always gave me her last dollar, no questions asked, without ever complaining. And as I sat there in that dark house, I realized how it was going to kill her when she found out about this whole racket I was involved in.

I could feel my eyes dampening when the man clapped his hands loudly. “How else can I entertain you, Richard? Would you like to hear the one about how I lost my desk at work today?”

“Your desk…?”

“Yes. My desk. A younger man got that, too. A desk I’d had for nearly twenty years. And my office with it.”

There in that living room, I looked up at him, and his shaking hands and his gun that he just kept picking up and putting down, and I asked myself what the hell I was doing there. I started getting dizzy just thinking about how I’d been left hanging by Dante, and about how my mom’s heart was going to sink when she got the phone call from the Lyndham police. I looked at the old man again, at his tired face and the gun he held loosely in his hand. And I really wanted to tell that poor guy how sorry I was for breaking into his house; how truly sorry I was for making such a mess of everything. But I didn’t say a thing.

He stared intently at me, and I felt like he could see right through me, see how weak and worthless I was. He buttoned his shirt and slid his tie back into place snugly against his neck, like he must have done a million times before. Then he cleared his throat and whispered hoarsely, “I don’t suppose you want to hear any more about my life, son. I’ve probably told you more than enough.”

I figured he was heading for the phone. Instead, he sent me a tired flash of a grin and said, “You’d better leave now, Richard. Just close the door behind you -- and promise me you’ll only use doors from now on.”

As I stepped off the porch, I noticed a large tree in the manicured yard. In my dreams, it’s an oak, but I don’t really remember what species it was. What I do recall is the symphony of bird song that came from deep inside it. I couldn’t actually see the birds; all I noticed were the leaves shuffling in the breeze. When the shot echoed through the open dining room window, what seemed like a hundred starlings exploded out of the tree. They cast a long shadow of shame over me as I ran.

1st Place Short Story Contest Winner: Kelton Russell

Takakura in Decline

By Kelton Russell

She knew the name was important. Through an hour on the train and another wandering the unfamiliar streets in a cold early autumn rain she held it, as though it were the memory of a dream, liable to vanish the instant it slipped from the tip of her mind. She muttered it over and over, a mantra to steel her nerves, as she found her way to the humble church at the edge of the village and knocked on the parsonage’s door.

“Makoto Takakura… Makoto Takakura… Makoto—”

The door sprang open and she jumped backwards on the rickety stairs.

“Yes?” asked the old man. He was tall, though time and toil had bent his shoulders, like a willow stooping to reach a stream. He was thin everywhere but his round, watery eyes, which reminded her of blue springs. The ends of his quilted gown flapped in the breeze.

“I’ve come for…” But when she reached for the name, it was gone. She hadn’t expected a Westerner in Japanese clothing to answer the door. “I’ve come to care for…”

“Father Takakura?”

“Yes,” she said with relief. “Can I see him?”

“Of course.” He held the door open, “Please, come in from the rain.”

Though it was as bare as a monk’s cell, the parsonage filled with a friendly warmth. She looked for Takakura as they walked to the kitchenette, but he was nowhere to be found.

“Let’s get to it then,” the foreign priest said. They sat across from each other at the Formica table, sipping hot tea and listening to the jazz spilling from the transistor radio. “What tasks can you perform?”

“I am a capable homemaker and nurse.”

“You hold a degree?”

“From the prefectural hospital.”

“I go there often.” He watched her through the steam. “I haven’t seen you.”

“My last patient required home care, like Takakura.”

“Perhaps I shall call him for a reference?”

“She’s passed.”

He paused. “I’m sorry.” There was genuine remorse in his voice. “Are you a Christian?”

“No. My mother was, before the war.”

“And after?”

“After the war she wasn’t much of anything.”

The priest studied her for a moment, before reaching for the breadbox at the end of the table.

“Well, I should like a demonstration of your skills.” He slid open the box’s accordion door and withdrew the few items it contained: a pat of butter, half an onion, and two eggs. “Do you think you can fashion something edible?”

She stared at these paltry ingredients, vexed by their simplicity, until the whisper of a childhood dish sounded in her mind.

“Yes.” She smiled. “I know just the thing.”

Soon, with the cottage filled with the buttery aroma of browned onion, she hovered beside the table, chewing her thumbnail as the priest took his first bite.

“Well…in all my years in Japan, I’ve never had anything quite like this.” He skewered another piece and studied it like a newly discovered insect. “Where did you learn it?”

“My mother.”

“A clever woman. She was your previous patient?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what afflicted her?”

She looked down at her hands. “I don’t wish to exhume the past.”

“Fair enough.” He popped the piece into his mouth. “Alright, Yoshiki. The job is yours.”

“Truly?”

“A woman who can cook so much from so little must be kept at all costs.”

“That’s wonderful!” She beamed. “When do I meet Takakura?”

“You already have.”

“I have?”

“Well, not formally.” He bowed his head. “Father Makoto Takakura.”

She froze. “You’re Takakura?”

“A pleasure.”

“But…what’s your real name?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know, the name your parents gave you when you were little and pink and new to this
world.”

“Takakura is my only name.” Something between them had changed; a bit of warmth had
left the room.

“But surely—”

“You bury your past”—his chair screeched as he pushed away from the table—“and I shall
bury mine.”

The next morning, she woke to find the cottage cold and still. Takakura, too, had changed. A
sharp stiffness had crept into his joints in the night, which made it impossible for him to rise from bed unassisted. As she worked her small frame under his arm and levered him onto his feet, she prayed his wobbling legs would not give way. The collapse of so large a frame would
leave them both shattered on the floor.

As the weeks slipped by and his health only worsened, she realized the strength he’d shown on that first day had been an act. He’d prepared for her arrival, gathering his strength about him like a cloak, but now that she was with him always, he could no longer hide his pain. Gone was the genial, energetic priest she’d known only for a day. But she stayed by his side, sponging his
forehead as she tried to not think of the last time she’d seen so swift a decay.

Her only respite came when they traveled to the city for his checkups. She hadn’t meant to snoop, but once, while the priest was changing into his paper gown, she’d caught a glimpse of his medical chart. What she saw there confirmed her worst fears. The doctor poked Takakura’s throbbing knees, told him to drink more water, and sent him on his way again.

Later that same day, as they walked through the forest behind the parsonage, Takakura told
her, “I saw you looking at my chart.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Do you know what afflicts me?”

“Fatigue, flu-like symptoms, joint pain…”

“But do you know the cause?”

“I’ve suspected,” she stared at the leaves crunching under foot, “you are a Hibakusha. A
survivor of the bomb.”

“Hibaku-sha. Explosion people. Ours is a literal language. And you’re familiar with…” He closed his eyes. “Of course,” he sighed. “Your mother…”

“Yes.”

“Had you known I was like her, would you have taken this job?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “No. I wouldn’t have. The way she wasted away… I can’t watch that again.”

He stopped. “And now that you know what’s happening to me, will you stay?”

“I don’t know.”

The trees went bare, days grew short, and Yoshiki stayed. If asked why, she couldn’t have said. Every day spent watching Takakura’s deterioration was torture, a grim reminder of her failure to ease her mother’s passing, but still she couldn’t bring herself to leave, not yet.

On an unseasonably warm November morning, Father Takakura decided it was time Yoshiki learned to drive.

“Everyone should know how,” he declared at breakfast.

“Why?” She dunked a triangle of toast in her coffee. “I’ve made it this far not knowing.”

“Only someone who’s never experienced the thrill of the highway would ask that. I still sometimes dream I’m steering a Mercedes down the Autobahn.”

“That would explain the strange noise you make in your sleep.” The toast dropped from her hand. “So, you are German?”

“No. I am Japanese, same as you”

“But you said Mercedes and Auto—”

“I have the citizenship papers to prove it.” He rose shakily. “I’ll get them right now.”

“No,” she said quickly. “Let’s go driving.”

“You want to?”

“It would be good to enjoy the weather.”

“Excellent.” Takakura shuffled towards the door, his slippers scuffing the floorboards like fine-grit sandpaper. “I’ve already borrowed the keys from Mr. Yamato.”

“Does he know that?”

“Perhaps not, but if an old priest knows anything, it’s how to ask for forgiveness.”

She learned the basics of operating the car easily enough, but when asked to try anything more complex, tempers flared. By the time the lesson was over, the only sound in the car was the squeaking of brakes and grinding of gears. But when they pulled into Mr. Yamato’s driveway and saw his toad face ripening like a tomato, they both fell into a fit of laughter.

“It would appear Mr. Yamato thinks we’ve ruined his car,” she said between cackles.

“He can afford a new one,” said Takakura. “He tithes only five percent.”

Winter made up for its late arrival. They spent a week inside, trapped by falling snow that refused to end. Cut off from his fresh air and exercise, the priest’s strength ebbed.

“It’s been so long since I’ve performed a baptism.”

“Mhhm?” Yoshiki didn’t look up from the wool socks she was knitting for him. “Baptize someone in this weather they’ll catch their death.”

“A family of lizards has taken up residence in the font.” His grin erased forty years from his
face. “I should like to fill it and give them relaxing grotto.”

“But who would you dip? You’ve picked the village clean of willing converts.”

“There is one that I’ve yet to convince.”

“Is that so?”

“You know who I mean.”

“I cannot read your thoughts.”

“It would be small. No one would know besides you, me, and God.”

“Perhaps.” She set aside her needles. “If you answer my question.”

“Which?”

“You know which.”

“I’ve told you. That life is off limits.”

“It’s only a name.”

“I am Japanese.”

“You are not Japanese,” she scoffed.

“What?”

She didn’t need to look to know she’d hurt him. She searched for a way to take back her careless words. “I only meant, that since you weren’t born here, you can’t really be Japanese.”

She was chest deep in the quicksand, her flailing only sinking her deeper. “I just mean, people here will always see you as foreign, no matter what you do.”

“My whole life, I’ve tried…” He trailed off, his face twisted with a new kind of pain.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

“Were you so nasty to your mother before she died?”

“What?”

“Is your cruelty what killed her?”

Now it was Yoshiki’s turn to hurt.

She couldn’t be there any longer. The cottage was too small, its walls too close. She dashed towards the door, threw it open, and disappeared into the growing storm.

The house was empty without Yoshiki. Takakura turned the radio up as far as it would go, but the blaring jazz only reminded him of her absence.

“Forget her,” he said to no one. He’d lived for seventy years without a caretaker. He could manage just find without a nurse. And he was sure she’d be back soon. The storm had turned into a blizzard. She’d come crawling back any moment, cold and contrite.

But as the sun fell and Yoshiki failed to return, he began to worry. What if she’d gone into the forest and gotten herself lost? The snow was deep enough to cover their usual path. How would she find her way back to him?

Yoshiki returned after dark with a bag of noodles from Takakura’s favorite food stall.

“I’m sorry. I had to clear my head and the weather turned nasty –”

Takakura’s chair was empty. So too was the rest of the cottage.

She stepped outside and yelled his name into the frigid night. The snow, falling softly now, had turned the whole world into a quiet room. Her voice carried for miles, but she received nothing but silence in response.

At the corner of the yard she found a single set of footprints. Slipping her own feet into the twin impressions, she looked up and saw that they pointed to the forest.

She found him under the branches of a maple tree, half-frozen and wholly incoherent.

“Ah.” One eye was frozen shut. “There you are.”

“What are you doing out here, foolish old man? Do you have a death wish?”

“I was looking for you.”

“Well you found me.” She opened her coat and pressed her chest against his.

“That’s right,” he said, slipping back towards unconsciousness. “I found you…”

“Takakura has fallen,” she told Mr. Yamato. “You have to drive us to the hospital.”

“The bottle of wine I had with dinner says I don’t.”

“Won’t you help?”

“Sure.” He underhanded the keys. “Bring it back in one piece this time.”

Takakura woke only once on the way to the hospital. “Ah,” he said blearily from the back seat. “Du fährst ein auto.”

“What?” But when she turned to look, he was already gone.

_____________________

“You stayed.”

Yoshiki awoke to find herself slumped over in a chair beside his hospital bed. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” She wanted to tell him something, that maybe she’d realized the
only thing worse than dying is dying alone, but she couldn’t find the words. Instead, she took a
jug of water and a clean bed pan from the nightstand.

“What’s this?”

“A baptismal font.” She filled the pan. “Do it quick, before I change my mind.”

“At long last.” He smiled. “But first you must confess your sins.”

“Really?”

“I don’t make the rules.”

“Fine. I once stole a watermelon from Suzuki’s Grocery.”

“Anything bigger?”

“Bigger than a watermelon?”

“I meant metaphorically.”

“Oh.” She bowed her head. “I once hurt a dear friend with my thoughtless words.”

He looked up at her, his eyes for a moment clear. “You are forgiven.” He dipped his fingers and flicked drops in her direction. “I’m afraid that’s all I’ve got. The words…”

“That’s okay,” she said, wiping the water from his hand. “That’s all I needed.”

He shifted as a new thought occurred to him. “That dish you made me all those months ago.”

“Yes?”

“My mother used to make something just like it, when I was a boy in Essen. Back when my
name was—”

“You don’t have to say,” she gently interrupted.

“But you’ve always wanted to know.”

“That’s alright.” She smiled. “I already know it. And besides, I’d rather hear about your life here.”

“Truly?”

“Of course.”

“Settle in then.” He smiled. “There’s a great deal to tell.”

He told her of his flock and the fine church he’d built for them before the war. He told her of
the first wedding he officiated, and of the last funeral—a Hiroshima Maiden who died on an operating table in New York trying to regain her stolen beauty. He told her everything he could, for hours and hours, until they both felt sleep approaching.

“You’d best go,” he said, his eyes drooping. “There’s a couch in the hall.”

“What if you need me in the night? I’d rather be here with you.”

“My vows… sharing a room…”

“I phoned the Father Superior before you woke.” Only a Christian for a few hours and she
was already lying. “He said it would be fine, given the circumstances.”

“Good.” He closed his eyes and shifted to make room for her on the narrow bed. “That is a relief.”

The room was cold when Yoshiki awoke. So, too, was Takakura. She stayed with him until the
nurses forced her to go. As she left, she stopped in the doorway to take one last look at the man named only Makoto Takakura.

His face was relaxed and finally free from pain.

Yu-hsin Hsu: Growing Generosity

Everyone Has A Story

Yu-hsin Hsu, Library Garden Volunteer, and friend

"It would take some work, but if we start soon we could have a new garden in that unused space by spring." - Yu-hsin Hsu

Several years ago, when Yu-hsin Hsu moved from the Courthouse neighborhood to Virginia Square, and started using the Central Library instead of the Plaza Branch Library, she also took note of the Central Library gardens.

So when she happened to pass by the Library’s native pollinator garden and saw a staff member weeding, she offered to help - and has not stopped helping since, eventually taking over the care of the pollinator garden.  (This garden is particularly special to Library staff, as it was created and nurtured by former coworker Lynn Kristianson, who died in 2015.)

An ardent supporter of Arlington’s natural resources, Yu-hsin Hsu has also volunteered with Long Branch Nature Center, the Natural Resources Management Unit and Arlington Regional Master Naturalists. As a result of her combined volunteer work, in 2017 the County Board honored her as one of two of that year's recipients of the Bill Thomas Outstanding Park Service Volunteer Award.

Yu-hsin continues her oversight of the pollinator garden, making improvements each season. She has extended her care of Central Library's green spaces to the native plant garden at the 10th Street entrance, and recently built two new rotating compost bins as well.

Her work also helps other local gardeners. When she and her colleagues thin plants from our pollinator garden, those plants are then available for transplant to other gardens. This fall, the Thomas Jefferson Middle School's teaching garden recently inherited a car load of button bush, iron weed, swamp milkweed, blue flag, copper iris, blue mist flower, mountain mint, sundrops, golden ragwort and black eyed susan!

 

Susan Parker: Friend of Books

Everyone Has A Story

Headshot of Susan Parker

“I love working with books first, but that is closely followed by working with a very engaging and bright group of people."

With a Library degree, and a passion for Russian history and Scandinavian mysteries, Parker has spent the past 9 years lending her talents to the  Friends of the Arlington Public Library's all-volunteer book donation team. She says of her fellow volunteers, whom she clearly enjoys working with, "We have a team of 18 and fill daytime shifts 7 days a week. It is both intellectually and physically challenging.”

When she's not volunteering, her days are filled with helping to care for her two granddaughters, knitting, indulging in local culture and planning her next cruise to Copenhagen via the Russian Arctic.

Parker, who has called Arlington her home since 1981, advises others who want to make a difference:

“There are many good opportunities. I recommend volunteering at a library book sale as a start—it is so much fun.”

Diane Kresh: On Coming Out

Everyone Has A Story


"Before there was a 'coming out,' there was a coming of age."

"To me, a relative latecomer to this party, it means something more. It means standing up for yourself. It means opening yourself up to risk and disappointment. It means finding your voice, and speaking out with that voice, and not only when it's safe to do so. It means telling yourself you can, when everyone else says you can't, or shouldn't."

Listen as Arlington Public Library Director Diane Kresh tells her moving coming out story at Arlington County's 2017 Pride Celebration.

Zadie Smith: Empathetic Voyeur

On October 4, 2018, author Zadie Smith reflected on writing, the state of the novel, and many other things:

On whether the novel will persist, or be replaced by some other form: “I think it’s already happening now… I’m not one of those people who is desperate about the state of the novel.”

On radical empathy: “I think women are extremely able to imagine themselves into other people’s lives.”

On different forms of storytelling: “I think of actors as writers with less control over themselves.”

On social media: “To add another layer of curation, of idea, I can’t live in that. I can’t do it. My feeling of life is so foreshortened, that there isn’t time to get to the next thing before I go, that the idea of spending that time inside something Mark Zuckerberg made, is just – I can’t do it.”

On Brexit: “If it wasn’t such a disastrous thing for so many people’s lives, it is comic instruction.  They’re having to lay down medical supplies as if we’re in a war. they’ll have to redo electricity between Northern Ireland and England, because there’ll be no electricity for Northern Ireland. Planes might not land. A comedian described it as watching a country punch itself in the face. It’s absolutely extraordinary, I’ve been away for so long that it has an air of surreality to me but of course to all my family, and everyone else over there, it’s unbelievable.”

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