The cream of the crop of Chattanooga writers
Every year for the past nine 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 William Mitchum, had a very difficult time picking the best of the best—and the results are, simply put, amazing!
First Place
Lest We Forget
By Ford Knox, Jr.
The force of the impact across his cheek was unlike any pain Montgomery had ever felt before. He heard a crunch but couldn’t tell if it was his teeth jamming together or something even worse. He didn’t have time to process. The hairs on the back of his neck were raising again in anticipation of another blow.
He maneuvered to escape a fist filled with hatred. But he was too slow. The hit caused the crowd to drown out in silence only to be replaced by a high-pitched ringing. Montgomery fell to his knees and groaned.
In his bizarrely muffled silence, Montgomery looked up in just enough time to see his assailant’s lips part and watched as his front teeth pressed against his bottom lip producing a firework of spittle ...
“F,” his chin dropped
“a,” then came back up
“gg,” dropped again
“o,” as finally his top and bottom teeth clanged together like a cymbal with another explosion of spit “t”.
So this was why he was being beaten. In the middle of the street. By a stranger. Many strangers, actually. From the ground in the streetlight, he could see the mob of stonewashed jeans, different colored polo shirts, and high-tops pushing in and swarming around him. It was like looking in multiple mirrors at once, but none of his reflections had blood on their faces.
Panic screamed its way into Montgomery’s chest as he realized he couldn’t get away. His captors surrounded him. He looked back at the first man’s mouth and saw how beautiful his cocky smile was. How could something so full of hate produce something so lovely? Was it really hate, or misunderstanding? Can you hate something you don’t know? Montgomery’s thoughts narrowed as he heard the unmistakable ‘click click’ of a hammer and felt a barrel on his head. He closed his eyes in pained torment and let out a sob. All of this because he loved.
Trembling and waiting, he felt a hand gently brush his face. Montgomery yelled and then realized- it was a different type of touch. He choked in breath and squinted his eyes. A woman was at his side. Her eyes were wide yet tender, but her face was set like steel. She shouted something at the men.
Montgomery could only hear muffled noise. She yelled again. Little by little all the mirrors disappeared into the night. She said something in his ear. “Pod gloves new.” He looked at her not understanding and shook his head. “Odd laws who,” she said again. He tried to stand and everything went black.
Montgomery woke up in darkness except for the faint glow of his smartphone. 6:28 am. He rubbed his eyes and squinted. He looked next to him in bed. He saw the wedding ring on his husband’s hand and scooted closer. He leaned over and whispered, “Remind me to tell you about the dream I just had.” As he drifted back into sleep, he unconsciously mumbled, “God loves you.”
Second Place
That Look
By Heath Long
She pulled her blue Pontiac carefully between the faded white lines, killed the ignition, slumped back into the seat and tried to pull herself together. Yes, it had been a difficult night, but nothing she hadn’t seen before.
So there was a little blood, a little excitement on the ward, some frantic phone calls and tears. She’d seen it before and she was certain as the sunrise that she would see it again too soon.
If she were honest with herself—and she tried not to be, these days—she was seeing it still.
And so, with weary bones and a sore back, she composed herself and stepped out of the car into a rain puddle, soaking right down to her compression socks. She swore loudly.
The woman in scrubs and squeaky sneakers thumped a six-pack onto the counter.“I’m sorry, ma’am, no alcohol sales before eight,” he said evenly, “but-”“I watched a man die tonight and I need some damn booze.” His eyes widened and she pinched her nose with regret, eyes red. Licked her lips, suddenly aware of their dryness. Rainwater pooled out of her shoes into the floor.
“I’m… I’m sorry. It’s—it was—I’ll put it back. Not your fault.”He spoke without hesitation. “You’re not the first.”
She had done the thing she had promised herself she wouldn’t do, which was spilling the horror of the night onto a random stranger.
And now here he was, this kid who couldn’t be old enough to drink himself, telling her with that pitying face that it wasn’t quite time, that she could either waste the next ten minutes or go home empty-handed, and how dare she feel frightened by that thought when there was a woman out there at home in an empty bed.
The sight of the dead man’s crumpled chest crashed into her vision and she scowled.
“This isn’t me,” she said, anger blazing in her voice. “I know what you think, buying booze at eight in the morning-”
“I wasn’t talking about the beer,” he says. “I mean that I don’t see anybody walking into this store happy with that look in their eyes.”
She is horrified to realize that the tears are welling without her permission. A fat, burning droplet lands on the back of her hand and she looks away in shame.
“I work the night shift too, I don’t care when you drink, you know? But I see y’all in scrubs pacing the aisle, making your choices, and you all got that same look.”
She looks down at the shiny brown bottles, their caps glistening in the morning sun, and sees her reflection. A choice to be made.
She called into work sick today, and she wasn’t lying. The receptionist calls her name and she walks back to the office, warm and calm.
“What brought you to therapy today?” she is asked, and she chooses her words carefully.
“I watched a man die last night, and I need some help.”
Third Place
The Butterfly Girl
By Adam Cook
When I was a youngster, I read a story about the life cycle of butterflies. They evolve from eggs into caterpillars; grow more while tucked in a cocoon, and when they’re ready to face the world, they break away to become the best possible versions of themselves.
My grandparents had an oddly perfect butterfly terrarium in their den when I was a kid that was strategically littered with butterflies from around the world. My favorite was a Blue Morpho. It donned the electric blue color of lightning in a night’s sky, which was seamlessly accompanied by a jet black outer rim and dusted with traces of white as if someone had dabbed the wings with a tiny paintbrush to add finishing touches to the masterpiece.
Grandma explained that the creatures were dead, and had been injected with fluid to open their wings back up for the world to see. Little moments can stick with you over time, even if you don’t fully understand or appreciate their significance when they happen.
A few months ago, I was thinking about life and pondering my future with nothing but the open road in front of me. I was leaving Tennessee headed for the California coast when the storm hit.
I found shelter from the downpour at a roadside diner in the middle of Colorado.
I couldn’t help but notice the only other patron in the diner; a blonde-haired lady with an intoxicating smile and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, both of which floored me instantly and continue to whenever I close my eyes and remember her.
Later, as I sat outside on the store’s porch swing watching the rain, the lady exited through the creaky screen door and asked if she could sit with me. I obliged.
We discussed the rain, the store’s charm, and where we were headed on our respective journeys as if we were old friends, rather than what we actually were…complete strangers.
We sat on that porch swing all afternoon until the rain finally subsided. Her physical beauty was unrivaled, except for the gorgeous soul I got to know over a few short hours.
She was engaged and embarking on one final solo road trip before her wedding. We didn’t exchange names. We instead observed the day and those moments of ours, which were simple, elegant, meaningful, and as important to me as any I’ve ever experienced.
Eventually, just before the Colorado dusk capsized the mountains in front of us, she thanked me for the kind words we shared and went back to her life.
I never saw her again, but she sparked the fluttering feeling of butterflies in my stomach while reminding me that my best days are ahead. She injected hope into my heart and inspired me to spread my wings again for the world to see.
Moments are fleeting, but I’ll never forget the precious ones I spent with the butterfly girl that stormy afternoon in the middle of nowhere.
Honorable Mention
Metropolis, Illinois
by Jason Tinney
The tic-tac clack of long claws taps along vinyl wood flooring. A shadow cuts the slither of light slipping into the room. Outside, the Ohio churns muddy.
Cottonmouths twist the ripple, hissing beneath heat lightning tickling the darkness. Humid flashes illuminate her tender breasts defined by a too-tight t-shirt with the words “Bourbon State” scripted inside the white lines of Kentucky. I want to be inside that bed, inside that t-shirt, inside those breasts. I want to fly deep down into that heart. I want to soar inside of her.
But I stand petrified, stunned into some panic I can't reconcile. Holding the doorknob, holding my breath, a pulse hammers through my palm. The slightest twitch will send the three-and-a-half-pound Chihuahua on the other side of the door into a violent volley of firecracking barking fits.
“What are you doing?” she whispers. I put a finger to my lips and point to the door.
Seth clears his throat in the next room. Rico growls in the hallway.
“Rico!” Seth's Asian girlfriend, Lucy, calls for the dog's silence. Seth is 72. Lucy is 50. I'm 44 and my girlfriend, Seth's daughter, is 40. Rico is six, the same number of dollars in my pocket—what’s left of the $20 Seth gave me and his daughter when he took us across the river to gamble at Harrah's in Metropolis. Lucy is a Total Rewards member. Her nickname is Black Widow.
They'd brought Rico with us for good luck. Left him in the car, parked in space eight, with his Superman kerchief around his neck.
“Hey. Margot Kidder died.” My girlfriend stares at my phone.
“There's something weird in Rico's mouth,” I hear the Black Widow say in the next room.
The dog, hearing its name, launches a barrage of snap cracking yelps and bolts up and down the hallway in that tic-tac, claw-clacking dance.
“Who died?” I say.“Margot Kidder—Lois Lane.”
In the next room Eddie Rabbit is singing “Every Which Way But Loose”. Seth clears his throat. “I think Rico's got a messed up tooth. His breath is foul. Maybe an abscess.”
“Oh, you need to take him to vet,” the Black Widow says.
“We were just in Metropolis,” my girlfriend says. “That's kinda weird, don't you think?”
“Lucy, you know how much that's going to cost?” Seth says.
“Where were we?” I say.
“Metropolis. Casino. Where were you?” my girlfriend says.
In the next room, Clint Eastwood is getting into a fistfight. I hear Seth say, “Ole Clint sure can give a pounding.”
I let go of the doorknob. Rico sounds like he is going to devour himself. I let go of my breath. I couldn't spin our world backwards to reverse time.I hear Seth say to the Black Widow, “Lucy, we need to go to McDonald's. We're out of cream and sugar.”
Outside, the Ohio is on fire. For a moment I feel like we can fly, but where.
Honorable Mention
Near Ross’s Landing
By Clayton Jones
Abandoned brick buildings hover above the banks of the river; I’m told these foundries made the city what it is today. They bottled the Coke in all that glass, but the pollution used to be so thick you had to change your shirt at lunchtime.
There are stories of women who had their panty hose melt right off their legs because of chemicals in the air. There are the ruins of the ruins of a train depot casting shadows on the water: bitter-soft spaces where the river boats used to run.
They’ve retired the Delta Queen, and they’ve better ways of transportation: even the cabs have been replaced by Ubers, and the stories told on the porches by those old women are now shared on Twitter, but here the fishing is still pretty good as long as you aren't alone and mad like all the rest of us.
I see him: a fisherman, a boy, not quite but maybe twelve years old casts a dead minnow into the current. Upstream the turbines are wailing. The air smells rusty. Kurt Cobain is on his t-shirt. The traffic dangles in the breeze by the footbridge. The water churns and deepens as the boy and line and current become connected by the prowess and strength of the river; by the beer cans, milk jugs, and bottles that float by without messages in them. I can smell the stink of rotting fish, and the sun keeps going down, but it seems for one second everything is still.
But then I see the river and boy and water and churning reading each other; reading themselves as his pole blurts out another fish tale, the one you’ve heard before that never gets away, the one that keeps getting bigger with every telling like the one I’m telling now.
“Nice one,” I say.
“Oh man!” the boy roars.
And then everything grows still like something is missing. Still, something is eating at me—reading my insides like that one-eyed catfish on the bank of the Tennessee who knows he’s already trapped, who knows this fisherman, this boy, not quite but maybe twelve years old will leave with his catch, and he will eat it for dinner.
Taking one last look, all is still and the sun has all but gone completely down. Before I leave, I stare: I know I will wonder about that eye, what it saw, when it saw it, who it is with. I remind myself I am no different: a cat’s eye marble in the socket, frozen in an impartial gaze at the stars and all the aliens.