The cream of the crop of Chattanooga writers
Every year for the past eight years, we've challenged Chattanooga area writers to come up with a 500 word or less story. As any writer knows, that's quite a challenge. Our team of judges, including last year's winner Ever Flanigan, had a very difficult time picking the best of the best—and the results are, simply put, amazing!
Here are the top three finalists, along with three honorable mentions (yes, the voting was really that tight). Enjoy!
First Place
Empathy
By William Mitchum
It was the buzzing that attracted my attention first.
The abnormal, low hum of way too many wings all buzzing at once.
I’d been walking in the woods on that trail for at least 20 minutes, so the normal noises from the road had faded away. That low hum by the water’s edge perked up my instincts as I imagined how unpleasant it would be to walk up on a swarm of yellow jackets on a hot Summer day.
But almost as soon as my eyes locked in on the center of the sound and I began to see the whirling mass of blurry wings, my nose was assaulted by the unmistakably putrid smell of decaying flesh. Soft, fibrous tissues breaking down at a cellular level. The yellow, dappled heat of the midday sun overhead was accelerating the process. The smell so thick it hung in the air like a sheer, wet curtain. Clinging to your skin, permeating your clothes, overwhelming your senses.
A dented up Ford Ranger, parked on the shoulder of a rarely used access road had an envelope tucked beneath the driver’s windshield wiper. The envelope was inside a Ziploc bag. The consideration of weatherproofing the letter had impressed me and almost immediately, by that tiniest of associations, I felt a hollow sort of empathy for the man who’d written the letter. I imagined that wherever he kept his tools, they were tidy and neat like mine.
The discovery of that truck and the hand written letter on the windshield started a series of events that eventually led to me stomping through the woods and approaching the cloud of flies and vapors at the edge of a feeder creek.
This wasn’t my first body recovery. Not by a long shot. That smell, although never pleasant, was as familiar to me as my father’s Bay Rum aftershave that he would splash on when we were headed to the hardware store so many Saturday’s ago. No, nothing really new for me and as usual, I felt a sense of calm accomplishment come over me, as I realized that we’d be able to bring some closure to the people who had loved this man.
I’d outpaced some of the other volunteers who’d been with me, and I was alone, at least for a little while. I sat down next to the tree he’d chosen and tried to look out on what had been his last perspective. It was a pretty view. Nothing spectacular.
A small creek running through a small stretch of woods. But for him, I suppose it had been enough. I kept my eyes low, knowing that there was no sense in rushing the inevitable unpleasantness. Worn work boots at the base of the tree, resting on pine needles and Summer moss.
Worn, but well taken care of and again I felt a thump in my chest for the soul who had filled those boots.
Second Place
First Date
By Adam Cook
Mason was a guy who didn’t usually do nervous.
He’d always had a certain confidence about him that was unrivaled. He was honest, quiet, and reserved most of the time. However, Friday night was different. It was his first date since his divorce.
After six years of countless, never-ending disagreements, he and Amy had finally called it quits. They didn’t hate each other, but were both afraid of it ending up there if they kept trying to make it work for reasons other than actually wanting to be together. They made their decision and were sticking to it. It was the first thing they’d agreed on in ages.
There was interest in Mason from women in his circle; a teller at his bank, a co-worker, the lady who cuts his hair. They were all intrigued by him, and he wasn’t oblivious to it, but it always came down to the same issue. He just wasn’t ready.
Friday was the exception. A beautiful blonde with captivating blue eyes had asked him to go to a dance with her. It was a different proposal than he’d ever encountered. People just don’t go to dances as often as they used to. He loved that it felt different with her.
Besides, there was no way he could say no to the kindness and warmth of her smile when she asked. Her presence could calm storms and make even the darkest places shine with hope. Females have an effect on men that can’t be explained. Her name was Catie, and she was enchanting.
Mason knew that nothing short of being the best possible version of himself would be good enough for Catie. She was the type of gal who made people better just by simply being in their lives. That’s where the nervous stemmed from. After years of being less than he could have been, Mason didn’t want to fall into the same habits that contributed to his half of his and Amy’s fall from marital grace.
Like most strong, silent types, Mason was a hard man to know. That was the part that Amy had the most trouble with. She thought of him as a closed book; impossible to read even though she desperately wanted to.
Mason knew he’d have to finally let that guard down one day. He wanted Friday to be that day.He dry-cleaned the only suit he owned, shaved the stubble and insecurity from his face, and then stood alone on her porch with flowers in hand and butterflies in his stomach as he knocked.
Amy answered the door with a smile, the first she’d given him in a long time. They shared a moment uncluttered by words, both knowing it wasn’t about them anymore.
“Are you ready to go, Daddy,” an innocent voice asked from between Amy and the door.“You bet I am, sweetheart,” Mason replied.
The father/daughter dance with Catie was the best first date of Mason’s life. It’s the only one that ever mattered.
Third Place
Here’s to Nothing
by Mason Gallaway
The Rolex and smartphone peeked from the folds of the Armani jacket lying on the bridge. It was the chicest pile of shit Ellis had ever seen.
He turned and climbed over the bridge’s railing, toeing the edge where security kissed the broad emptiness over the river below. He loosened his tie and extended a leather-soled shoe over the water, letting himself sway in the breeze. Before he could plunge, a voice sprang up behind him.“You won’t die.”
The words were like rusted machinery. Ellis stumbled back into the railing. He turned and saw a man standing on the bridge. Clumpy dreads, monstrous beard, ancient Columbia jacket, loose cargo pants. A fashion statement with no punctuation.
The man gazed at the river, pulling smoke from a rolled cigarette nestled between two blackened fingers.
“Hey, I was just–”
The man silenced Ellis by blowing a thick plume of pale blue smoke in his face.
“What the hell, man?” Ellis coughed.
“Just enjoying the view, huh? I was sayin’ the fall might kill you, but you gotta really want it. I tried twice. Broken ribs the first time. Smashed coccyx the second. Hella bruises…The fall’s incredible though.”
“Move along, man.” Ellis said, turning away.
The man swiveled forward and rested his elbows on the railing, eyeing the city’s luminance shimmering in the black below.
“What reason could a guy like you have?” The man asked.
Ellis sneered. “Reason?” He swept a dismissive arm over the expanse of the river and city before him. “I have everything. But it’s all worthless. It’s nothing. I don’t even need a good reason. That’s my reason.”
The man chuckled and snuffed out the cigarette on the railing, smoke sailing from his lips. Then he eased the half-spent cig into his jacket pocket as though it were a delicate creature.
“Why haven’t you tried again?” Ellis asked, studying the man’s charred fingers, stained garb, the beard consuming his face. “I mean…no offense.”
The man smiled. “I got nothing. No purpose. No nothing. I don’t even have a good reason. That’s my––”
Ellis groaned and began massaging his forehead. “Just mind your damn business, huh?”
“Fine. It’s your death.”
The man bent down and rifled through Ellis’s things. He stood back up and threw the jacket over his shoulder and slid the Rolex onto his wrist. “You should be able to swim back if you don’t die. But you might want to let them pass first.”
He nodded up river at an approaching boat. “Don’t wanna ruin somebody’s evening.” Then he whirled around and limped toward the sleepy East side as if summoned.
Ellis watched him for a moment then faced the boat. A luxury party cruise, carrying people who probably still had purpose.
So as the boat passed, Ellis gripped the railing and waited, watching the shimmering water, listening for murmurs of purpose rising up like pale blue smoke over the laughter, jazz, and clinking glasses. Here’s to nothing and everything.
Honorable Mention
“Drawbridge to Thunderbolt”
By Carol Hardy White
Moms know what to do. They have all the answers. Real moms take care of things. Only now I’m an addict, so maybe not a mom.
I got my license back Friday and drove to my sister’s in Savannah. What was that trip like after a year of not driving? Was I nervous to see the kids? What about passing that Citco where I first met Travis--where we split his last Oxy all those years ago?
He’s in the passenger seat now, just another addict like me, head conked back, snoring off a hit. If I were a woman with kids, I’d be checking seatbelts, wiping faces, dispensing snacks. Not squinting in the rearview mirror for flashing blue lights.
All I know is as I drove down I-75, I noticed the cars. The sleek ones with fancy electronics and aroma therapy, just like my Lincoln, the one I bought after the divorce. I waved at the Beetles, similar to the yellow one I drove in high school. That one always looked so friendly and game.
Then there were the performance cars, the Camaros and T-birds. I had to laugh because they were all driven by a Travis. You know--thirty-something year old boys scowling hard into the sun, peddle to the metal. I’ll tell you from experience, if you look close enough, there’s dings on those exteriors, from when the Travises were reckless and high. And the interiors-- caked with dirt, cigarette butts, and Hardee’s trash heaped on floor boards.
And what about the cars with feet dangling out the windows? The ones with Baby on Board plastered on the tail? I mean if those moms care so much about their kids, then why do they let the older ones stick their feet out? Surely this is unsafe?
I drove past that exit north of Macon where the outlet malls start. If I were still a mom, I’d have stopped at Toys “R” Us, and the kids would have insisted on McDonalds. Or maybe not. Maybe I’d have knocked them out with Benadryl for the ride. They wouldn’t have liked Travis, so better if they slept on the way. Only real moms turn on the radio and sing with their kids.
So these are the things I thought about as I drove and smoked and smoked and drove.
But if I were a mom, I would have smiled toward the end of our trip, as we crossed the bridge from Savannah to Thunderbolt, a blistering wind whipping up the rotten egg smell of salt marsh. Because the kids would have loved that bridge. They would have craned their necks high to watch the river. They would have clamored for the beach, their aunt, and their cousins.
Only thing, the drawbridge was open and a large boat was passing. And so Travis and I joined a line of dusty cars, strung out lumpy along the road. Waiting. Like a snake who has eaten, so full it’s not moving.
Honorable Mention
“Sparrow”
By Mary Meroney
Have you ever looked at your hands and just marveled at them? The way they grasp the shape of every object with such accuracy and strength.
The feeling you get when your hands reach out and touch something cold, made of steel, it’s powerful. I never knew there could be such commanding force in just the weight alone of a gun until I shot him.No one even asked me why I did it. The witch-hunt for a sinner seems to be more valuable than my motive.
The small-framed window on the wall lets the light in my tiny cell shift around as the day descends into night exposing the darker corners of the room every now and again.
I fade in and out to the moving light clasping the wool covers over my cot.
My fate now lies in the hands of the conservative choir, rejoicing in the victory of their newfound delinquent.
How could I have known that the intentions of a good man were to shove a knife in my back?My blonde, curly hair now saturated with the smell of car oil and mud. I didn't know the ground was that deadly until gravity took hold of me.
I am a bewildered child of God, but I feel as though his people have forsaken me. "Why me?" is what I whisper back and forth between a conversation with God and myself, but I don't get an answer. The voice in my head is intense enough to be someone else, but I don't recognize her.
I see it now; a little Field Sparrow flew and sat on the bumper of an old Chevy while I was face down in the earth. It started to sing, and I lifted my head with full strength as if it said my name.
Once the sun went down a bible was slid under my cell door. The people on the other side were trying to save my soul before my execution in five days time. I looked at it on the floor, then looked at the window, my only light is the moon now.
The confidence behind my index finger pulling back on that petite trigger was simply my eagerness to live. When he hit the ground, I realized he was just a man, nothing more than a man. His blood looked just like mine, and his last breath was the same air I still breathe.
"Am I forgiven?" I cry out softly until I see the sun again. My room lights up, and a sparrow appears on the window seal and is then that I know I am forgiven. The powerful voice returns to my head, and it tells me you killed a man, not God. The man was a preacher, not God. I am relieved enough to let the shifting light entertain my cell again.
Honorable Mention
“The Gibbous Moon”
By Claire Richard
The moon slipped past the oak tree, into a small gap, and tapped me on my right shoulder. My eyes opened slowly at the intrusion. The moon wasn’t to blame. More than a month living here and I still hadn’t put up curtains. Why hurry? The trees and the field were the only Peeping Toms around.
A gibbous moon. Waxing. Aunt Clarissa had taught me the phases of the moon when I was 11. At that age it seemed like I was closing in on the secrets of the universe by being able to recognize a bird by its song or an animal by its tracks, knowing the names of trees, and how to gather seeds from spent flowers. Thirty years later, I was, if anything, farther away than I’d ever been from cracking the code.
This moon, days away from being full, looked pregnant, about to give birth. The ancients saw it instead as hunch-back—less a promise of things to come and more of a promise denied. Well, I knew how that felt.
I put my legs in the lotus position and folded my hands in my lap. I turned my face to hers and began Ujjayi breathing. I concentrated on the whooshing noise it made, almost like the ocean tides coming in and going out. Seemed apropos, what with the moonbeams on me, exerting her tidal pull on me. It was the only pull she had on me anymore.
This was the new normal. Waking up to the light of the sun instead of to his alarm clock, set for 5:15 so he could work out before going to the job site. A bath instead of a shower, and the night before instead of in the morning, after he had clouded the mirrors and made the tile slick from his careless dripping. Yes, a long hot bath before sleep, with lovely lavender bath salts. It felt like an aphrodisiac when I slid bare-skinned and alone between the crisply cool sheets afterwards.
Later today I would pour orange juice into a chilled jelly glass and take it out on the deck. I would fill up the bird feeders and set out some peanuts for the squirrels, then sit back and wait for them to join me for breakfast.
Two months ago I would be in the van, pulling up to the McDonald’s window for a large black coffee and a buttered biscuit. I would rush through traffic to the site, hoping to beat him there but, for all my haste, never succeeding. Our phases never synchronized, even after 14 years of marriage.
But this girl up in the sky, the one with promise, she and I might just hook up. I had nowhere I to go and no one I had to see. I didn’t follow anyone else’s schedule or anyone else’s orders. For now, I would sit with the pregnant moon and I would breathe in her tides. For now.