We are excited to announce the fiction winner of the August 2024 Chattanooga Writers' Guild Monthly Contest is Kate Landers with the submission "What Happened Monday" and runner-up is John C. Mannone with the submission "Robert's Lesson".
This month's theme was "School Days." Thanks to all who participated. And thank you to our fiction judge, Alexandria Kelly!
What Happened Monday
Look, Mr. Smarty Pants Police Officer, I never asked them why they named their daughter Sarasota Florida. That wouldn’t’a been too polite of me, would it? Howdy, new neighbors, welcome to Poppy Street. Hey, why’d you give your kid such a dumb name? See how that would’a sounded? And anyway, me and Missy Hampton, the Floridas’ neighbor on the other side, speculated that pustule stuck to the stinky side of America’s great turd must’ve been where the little hellion was conceived. If her folks had had their honeymoon in Impsville, Kentucky, or Sadistic, Mississippi maybe we’d’a received a heads up, but as she went by Sara, it took all of us a few weeks to realize our new neighbor was the devil incarnate. From what Principal Ortega must’ve told you, Officer, I’m thinking it took Eastwick Elementary about as long.
Oh sure, Ruthie Florida mentioned at the Dryer’s welcome party that little Sara was special. That was the term she used: special. Looking back now, I can see she used that term specifically ‘cause it’s got more than one meaning. I remember asking her what does little Sara like to do that makes her special?
But Ruthie Florida didn’t answer me, not really. She just said Sara likes to experiment, and right then Dolly Dryer came by with a tray of her famous pigs-in-a-blanket and Ruthie said they was vegetarian and they all left so I never got a response from her. But I remembered what she had said and the week before school started, I went and bought Sara one of those 10-science-experiments-in-a-box kits from Ollie’s. Just trying to be neighborly, you know, not looking for a big thank you or anything.
Three days later I found that kit at the Goodwill. Officer, I know it was the same one because I’d actually bought it for my boy Deacon only once he’d broken the beakers and lost the syringes he didn’t want it no more, and this one on the shelf was missing the same–
You listen here, that’s not the point! The point is that it struck me as real strange that this “special” child who “liked to experiment” didn’t want a science experiment kit. Dolly said maybe they was the kind of snooty family that shopped at Target and didn’t even know what a discount bin was, but they had sheets hanging in their windows and a LeSabre in their driveway, same as the rest of us.
Now you know Sara was in the first grade at Eastwick, and my youngest, Jenny is in third so their paths didn’t cross much, but Jenny would still mention Sara every so often if she’d seen her in the halls or, more often than not, waiting outside the principal’s office. David Ortega and I used to work together at K.C.’s Diner when we were in high school and we still shoot the breeze a little every now and then, a little more now that we’re both divorced but that’s neither here nor there. Wait, why are you making a note of that? What’s going on between him and me’s got nothing to do with what happened on Monday. We all saw it coming and if the FPD had taken my suspicions seriously, there might still be a science wing attached to the elementary school!
So like I was saying, Jenny’d report to me sometimes that she’d see Sara waiting her turn outside David’s office, kicking her feet and staring up at the ceiling like it didn’t bother her a lick to be in trouble again. Eastwick’s got about 800 kids to deal with, and about half of them are surely bound for the nuthouse or the pen, so it’s easy to blend in when you ain’t even four feet tall. So for Sara to keep getting called out to warm the seat in the Green Mile, she must’a been awful. By the way, have you been to visit Ms. Weatherby? I was told they moved her out of the ICU yesterday. I don’t reckon she’ll be back in her classroom before Christmas, though, do you?
Anyway here on Poppy Street, we keep an eye on one another. Someone’s always sitting on their porch or looking out their window, noticing which cars are pulling U-ies in whose driveway and whatnot. That’s how I learned Sara was flinging her uneaten lunch on top of my roof, heading home after school each day - Missy saw her. I reckon I got a dozen or more PB&Js up there on the flat part where I can’t reach ‘em from my ladder. I need to get Deacon up there, but when he ain’t taking 45-minute long showers, he’s asleep. ‘Bout as useful as a box fan on the sun these days, that boy is.
Yeah, yeah, I know you got other interviews on your list. I’m just tryin’ to give you the details, you know. I listen to podcasts and watch them murder shows. Sometimes it’s the little details you don’t originally think matters that’s the ones that solves the crime. Well I know that crime has been solved, but ain’t you trying to figure out where the Floridas could’ve run to? Running from justice is still a crime in this country, idn’t it? Y’all looking into their financials? They got criminal backgrounds or stays in the loony bin? Come on, Officer, you can tell me. They ever been in the system? Oh, hey, speaking of - were they able to find Mr. Walsh’s finger? Jenny told me she heard from Dolly’s daughter that it got flushed down the toilet during all the kerfuffle Monday morning.
Well anyway, another detail you might be interested to know is that in addition to feeding my shingles everyday, sweet little Sara was also fond of such pastimes as Ding Dong Ditch and Stuff the Squirrel. That was where she’d cover a bird feeder with rat trap paper and wait for a squirrel to stick itself, then take that squirrel and stuff it in various locations such as a tailpipe, a mailbox, or - her personal favorite - wrapped up in an Amazon box and left on my front porch.
Officer, you ever had a terrified squirrel with one foot still stuck to rat paper rippin’ around your house? Sarasota Florida’s lucky she made it to her seventh birthday this year, is all I’ll say about that.
I’m sure you’ve heard about that party, haven’t you? Well when you get back to the station today, ask Officer Kim about it. She was the one who responded to my 9-1-1 call and I’m willing to bet she still thinks about it before she goes to bed at night. We’re still finding chunks of that bouncy castle around here. Some of them chunks are still covered with that…stuff.
Hey, will you let us know if and when you find the Floridas? I can’t locate my curling iron and I’m thinking Ruthie must’ve taken it with her when they skedaddled. No, I didn’t lend Beelzebub’s mother my curler, but where else could it be? We leave our doors unlocked on Poppy Street, and I wouldn’t put it past either one of those Florida gals to sneak inside and take whatever it is they wanted. And they packed up so fast Monday, Ruth probably just threw it in a box like it was hers.
I’m willing to bet money they’d had to do this all before, you know what I’m saying? This weren’t their first rodeo, no sir, no way. In hindsight, there were signs something like this was going to happen. Oh, yeah, Officer. For instance, Ruthie told me that Mr. Florida - Rick, I think his name was - drove for Old Dominion and that’s why he was only ever home on weekends, but I think now that he was either keeping a second home ready for them or scouting one out, always ready to relocate the family at a moment’s notice. And they never finished unpacking, or decorated, or hung anything on the walls. How do I know? Well, I mighta peeked in the windows a time or two when I knew they was out. Don’t give me that look. I ain’t the one on trial here. Besides, looking in on a half-empty house ain’t a crime.
What I’m trying to say is that what happened over at Eastwick Elementary was a completely avoidable tragedy, and I’m hoping that you and the rest of the FPD will remember this little incident, and when in the future another concerned citizen such as myself makes repeated calls reporting on a little 62-pound she-devil scamperin’ about Flugerville, you will take them seriously. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta get ready for the fundraiser to rebuild the science lab. I’m donating that science kit - yes, I re-bought it! - for the raffle and I need to scrub the Goodwill sticker off. Someone’s gonna appreciate this kit, dadgumit!
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Kate Landers writes short stories, poems, and children's stories. She is also an editor, artist, and roller derby skater. Many of her short stories begin with an idea for a first sentence and grow from there. Kate has never been to Sarasota, Florida, and apologizes to its residents for calling their city a pustule. It's probably not. Read more at KateLanders.com, or VulgarSculleryMaid.com.
Robert’s Lesson
One child, one teacher, one book, and one pen can change the world. —Malala Yousafzai
Robert Allan Chadwick II heard it all his life. His father’s words echoing in his young mind, get an education and become a doctor like your father. But his mum would say to his father all the time, Robert, let the boy be a boy first, he has a lot of time to grow up and make up his own mind! The scene at the kitchen table unfolded in his recollection, even the night before his first day in school.
Robert was from a devout Catholic family, so they enrolled him in St Philip and James Elementary School. He would be starting first grade, and this would be his first exposure to other children his age. His mum taught him at home instead of sending him to kindergarten. His mother didn’t encourage him to play with strangers, so he often played alone at home, for he had no brothers or sisters. His mum helped him with the navy-blue tie collaring his white shirt and brushed his curly blond hair. He didn’t know what to expect; he was very shy.
The Mother Superior greeted him while he held on to his mother. Another nun led him to class; Robert kept turning back to see his mum until he rounded a corner down the echoey hall to his classroom. The desks all lined up in rows and filled up with kids he’d never seen before, but he was dressed like the other boys, and the girls wore blue and gray skirts and white blouses and wore black and white saddle shoes. Robert scanned the room for something familiar, marveled at the decorations, and almost cracked a smile when he saw the alphabet strung around the classroom above the blackboards, both the capital letters and their lower-case ones, all of them in cursive. The scripted capital A looked like a waterbug to him and didn’t like writing that one. His first-grade teacher didn’t smile much either. He didn’t remember her name.
Right after recess, he had to pee. The Boy’s lavatory was very strange; he never saw a urinal before—a vertical toilet—nor did he know how to use it. He figured it out and dropped his pants to the floor. A bunch of kids started making fun: pointing fingers, giggling. He thought he did something wrong or that his wee-wee looked funny! After that, he’d use the toilets hidden behind doors. Eventually, he got more comfortable in the classroom and actually started to learn; however, he remained timid and quiet, he didn’t want the other kids to make fun of his accent.
Sister Marie, a Franciscan nun and second-grade teacher, knew how to smile. She was motherly to Robert, but more adventurous than his own mother. Like that time the yellow school buses were packed and going to the amusement park in Gwyn Oak Junction every late May around Memorial Day. It was the highlight of the school year. His mother gave him money to buy some tickets, it was a skimpy roll; other kids had two or three times as many, but he understood. His mum and dad would say they were on the poor side, especially after the tuition, and couldn’t afford to buy more tickets.
I suppose it was when Sister Marie saw Robert counting and recounting his tickets to see what rides he would do. She came over and took Robert on the Loop-de-Loop, on her dime. He was pretty scared in that wired cage that rocked, but it got worse, the man threw the lever, he was flipped upside down, and yelled out for it to stop. However, his second-grade tears were quelled by this nice lady in a habit. Robert could barely see her face hidden by her garb and the ride’s screen, but above the noise he could hear her as she spoke softly with understanding and compassion, just like his mother would. Afterward, he had a bit more courage to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl with Sister Marie, which was great because he could sit close with her on that ride.
But the ride she took Robert to next was another story. It was named The Comet, but some of the kids called it the Green Monster. The awful smells in the nearby garbage. And—putting it in kinder words—the stench of “bodily fluids” on the ground, the lumps tainted pink (probably from cotton candy), discouraged Robert; his stomach started to churn. But the good Sister, who had already induced a bit of courage in Robert, took him by the hand through the long line, where the air smelled fine. When the clacking coaster-cars of the rickety wooden-track roller coaster pulled into the covered embarkment point, he didn’t want to go and started whimpering again; he had never been on anything larger than the kiddie coaster. But her words, once again, comforted him and gave him a bit of bravery. The ratcheting of the 6-car train up the first hill was intimidating. He clung to Sister Marie. When the coater finally crested the “giant” hill and sped down, butterflies fluttered in his stomach. Yet, he screamed in exhilaration along with the other kids. When the coaster came to a stop, he staggered out to the exit, stomping down the wooden boardwalk-like ramp. And for the first time in his life, he felt brave, and he stood a little taller, ready for the summer and less worried about third grade next fall because he learned that there are mothers everywhere when he needed one when he is away from his own.
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John C. Mannone is widely published (Poetry South, Dog Throat Journal, Songs of Eretz, Sublimation, ETTT…). He won the Jesse Stuart Prize for Young Adult Fiction (a conflated fairytale, 2024), Dwarf Stars Award (2020); Horror Writers Association Scholarship (2017), Jean Ritchie Fellowship (2017) in Appalachian literature; he served as celebrity judge for the National Federation of State Poetry Societies (2018). His fifth full-length collection (horror fiction), Dark Wind, Dark Water, is forthcoming from Mind’s Eye Publishing. He edits poetry for Abyss & Apex and Silver Blade. He’s a physics professor who recently taught mathematics and creative writing in a Tennessee magnet high school. Learn more at jcmannone.wordpress.com
The Monthly Contests rotate through a pattern of Poetry, Fiction, and Creative Nonfiction throughout the year, with a new theme each month.
Go to the Monthly Contest Series Info page to view the genre and theme for each month.
This contest is free to enter for members of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild. To become a member, click HERE.