The cream of the crop of Chattanooga writers
Every year for the past decade, 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. And with a record number of entries this year, our team of judges had a very difficult time picking the best of the best—and the results are, simply put, amazing!
FIRST PLACE
Legacy
By Adam Cook
Before that morning, Jackson had never owned a necktie.
Likewise, he’d never been shown how to tie one, for his father had created a reliable vacancy in his life that failed to lend instruction of such basic skills every boy might one day need.
Jackson’s father was a hellraiser in his day. He frequented bars, pool halls, and poker games. Those activities culminated with him fatally shooting a man Halloween night of 1973, which landed him in the state penitentiary and branded his boy the son of a killer.
A person’s past is like a shadow—no matter where you go or how hard you try to outrun it, you can’t—it’s never far behind.
Twenty years later, on that March morning when the brisk winds of a fading winter briefly coincided with the perky intrigue of spring’s ascending warmth—that was the first time as an adult that Jackson’s appearance required the most formal of male clothing accessories.
Of course, the gas station and general store on the outskirts of town where he lived didn’t offer such an item. He instead drove into town where Weaver’s Department Store was getting by as well as could be expected in a town battling recession.
That’s all anyone can hope to do really…just get by.
Jackson faced that truth daily after returning home from Desert Storm. No longer a celebrated member of the U.S. Army, he now faced the war of civilian life amid battles of finding employment in his hometown’s stagnant economy while also attempting to raise his son alone after his wife squandered their savings and ran off with another man during his tour of duty.
Despite heartbreak and hardship, Jackson was upbeat about his interview at the chair factory that morning. The company employed half the community and paid well. In a town full of nothing to do, people always need good chairs to sit in while taking part.
Jackson hoped the job would spark a better future—he desperately wanted his son’s life and relationship with him to be better than what he endured growing up.
The middle-aged man sitting across the desk seemed impressed with Jackson’s personality, work history, and military service. They swapped stories, talked sports, doted on their children, and seemed destined to cement a working relationship.
As the meeting’s crescendo approached—formalities in sight, Jackson noticed a raise in the man’s eyebrow as he glanced at his resume a dozenth time.
Something was amiss.
Jackson’s throat contracted with anxiety as he succumbed to fear of the unknown.
“Jackson Riley,” the man said. “Why does that name sound so familiar to me?”
All the hope he had mustered that morning began fleeted from Jackson’s heart and mind.
“I’m junior,” Jackson sputtered. “My father was Jackson Riley, Sr.”
Sound ceased to exist and time stood still as the man’s demeanor shifted from jovial to somber.
“You knew him,” Jackson asked.
“You could say that,” the man replied. “That son of a bitch killed my father.”
SECOND PLACE
Random Thoughts
By Steven McNichols
“Why do you think the way you do?”
The question was odd. I looked up from the stick I was polishing with an old rag and glanced at the man.
“What way?”
He cocked his head a little to the side and raised an eyebrow. I always wished I could do that.
“Your way.”
I looked back at the stick. It was smoothing up nicely.
“It’s just the way I am, I guess. Never gave it much thought, the thinking.”
He stood tall. Almost as tall as the door, but not quite as tall as the old smith. No one was as tall as the old smith. He raised a large hand and pointed a finger at me.
“Well maybe you should. You ever thought about that?”
I set the rag down next to the bucket at my feet, and placed the stick alongside my leg. It went from the floor right up to my knee. Perfect.
“I never gave much thought to should, either. Seems there’s always someone to tell you when you should do something, so no need to think about it yourself.”
He was wide. Not as wide as the door, but wider than the preacher. Though the preacher was wider in the middle. He was wide a bit higher.
“You mean you never think at all?”
I rummaged a bit through the bucket and found another stick. It needed polishing, so I picked my rag back up and started in again.
“Never said that. In fact, I think a lot.”
He was angry. I had never thought about whether the door could be angry, but I would be willing to bet he was angrier than the door could be if it could get angry. My might even be angrier than Widow Sanderson. And that’s an awful lot of anger.
“Do you think this is fair?”
I kept polishing the stick. It needed it and I wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else at the moment.
“It’s not for me to think. About fairness, that is. Seems to me too many people do too much thinking about things that don’t need thinking about.”
He was silent. The door creaked a little from his weight. It was a solid door, though, worn nice and smooth from the hundreds of feet which had stood upon it.
The stick was finished. I put it back in the bucket and picked up the hood. The crowd stood quietly as I placed it over the man’s head.
I pulled the lever and the door opened beneath him.
“Some people just do too much thinking.”
THIRD PLACE
In The Shadow Of The Valley
By Marcus Patrick Ellsworth
The sun rises slowly in the valley, spooling up shadows in long sheets as it crests over the high ridge. Time doesn’t flow steady down here. Days roll in lazy and soft, then rush right by you in a blur. The nights, though. The nights come quick and stay long. Too long.
Sitting on the front porch, you start to remember. There’s no one around to help you forget. He had light brown eyes that shone like polished brass—
No.
Best not to think on it too long. You focus on the waves of cricket chirps and frog calls rising and falling on the night air like the valley’s own breath. Softly droning Summer songs.
He used to sing. Silly and strange songs. Songs about fairies getting tangled in your hair. Songs about the secrets that rocks in the river whisper to each other. Songs about being here forever. Songs that were fantasies. Songs that were lies.
You stand up and force a small cough to clear that creeping sorrow from your throat.
The woods are still. The frequent evening breezes are not visiting the valley. Fireflies leave pinpricks of light in the trees, but that is the only movement you can see.
It was windy on the starless night he left. The trees bowed and twisted in the gusts. His brass colored eyes looked so bright in his dark brown face. He was smiling when he offered his hand out to you, the other hand held his bag at his side.
“Come with me.”
Three words spoken just a breath above a whisper. The wind was high, but you heard him clear as day. You could almost feel his lips moving against your ear as you had felt with so many sweet nothings before. But this was not nothing. This was your love asking you to leave everything. To go where Time flowed steady and night didn’t linger so long.
You turned to face the yellow glow of the light inside your house, where mama was setting the table and daddy was reading the paper by the fire. Then you went inside to tell mama he was leaving the valley. She kissed your cheek and said she knew you would miss your friend, but maybe he would visit or write.
He never did.
Now they’re all gone. It’s just you in the valley after all these years.
You hear footfalls just beyond the reach of the porchlight.
“Come with me.”
A dark hand reaches out to you. Eyes like old brass look up from the shadows. You don’t hesitate. You rush out into the trees to meet him. You want to beg his forgiveness, to make up for all the lost years in a moment.
But you don’t. You only hold him. Two men freed by being bound together in the dark. And when the sun comes to spool up the shadows, there is no one in the valley.
HONORABLE MENTION
The Cat’s Meow
By Barb Bowen
Robin was parking at the shopping mall when something caught her eye in the next car.
“A beautiful orange tabby cat stuck in a hot car,” she thought, angrily. “I bet it’s 100 degrees inside that car!”
The cat meowed. The car was not locked, and the late model Chevy had manual windows.
“Perfect!” she thought, “If I can open the door just enough to get my arm inside, I’ll crack the window and save the cat’s life.”
And the cat was out of the car in a flash, racing across the parking lot.
Chagrin turned to horror when she heard the screech of brakes. Robin found the cat’s lifeless body sprawled on the pavement. With no visible injuries it almost appeared to be sleeping. She carried the limp form back to her car with tears in her eyes. Robin put the cat in a box she got from the nearby department store and set it on the trunk.
“I’m going to leave them an apology note with the box and hope they aren’t too shocked when they realize what has happened,” she decided.
While she was sitting in her car writing the note of explanation, two teenage girls walking by noticed the gift box sitting on the back of the car. They hesitated only a moment before snatching the box and racing toward the mall entrance.
Robin hurried after them, into the mall and followed them all the way to the food court. The girls grinned at each other as they opened the box. A dead cat. They screamed and ran. Robin quickly reclaimed the box and returned to the parking lot. The cat owner’s car was gone. With a heavy heart, Robin put the box on the seat next to her and headed home.
Her bad luck continued. A car ran a red light and spun her car around. Robin ended up in the hospital with a concussion and broken shoulder. While she was hospitalized, her husband Jackson arranged for the car to be towed to their neighborhood auto repair shop.
The mechanic finally got around to assessing the damages and discovered the dead cat on the floor of the car. Certain the cat had been trapped in the vehicle while parked in his lot, he was heart sick. When he called Jackson about the repair estimate he cautiously mentioned the cat but did not admit it was dead.
“Oh great, another stray cat,” Jackson said. “My wife is a magnet for a lost animal. With the accident and hospital stay, she hasn’t mentioned it. I’ll pick it up later today.”
The mechanic knew he had a chance to salvage the situation, but he had to work fast.
Robin came home the next day and was stunned to find an orange tabby cat asleep on her couch. With the cat in her lap she told Jackson how it all began. She finished the unbelievable story and sighed. The cat meowed. They named her Déjà vu.
HONORABLE MENTION
Mr. John
By A.D. Birchwood
My name is Mickey and I am 9 years old. My favorite animal is a frog but my mom won’t let me have one. If I had a frog, I would name him John because my neighbor is Mr. John. Mr. John sits on his porch every day and I see him when I come home from school. His garden has many plants. My mom says that his pepper plants look better than hers. She told me to pull them up and plant them in her garden. But she was kidding. At school we had a frog once. It was a class pet but our teacher said he had to stay at school because he would die if he did not have water. My mom said to pretend that Mr. John is a frog so that way I could have a pet that did not live inside. Mr. John is nice. He teaches me about plants and how to grow them. I have not told him that he is supposed to be my pet frog because it’s in my imagination. I don’t think he would like it if I told him. I helped him water his plants one day and he gave me five dollars. One day I watered them before I went to school and he got mad. He said too much water hurts the plants. I cried and my mom got mad. She talked to Mr. John and he smiled. He said he was not mad at me. I told him that he was my pet frog in my imagination and he told my mom that I could come over any time I wanted. My mom was still mad. Yesterday I was sick. Mom said I had a fever and that if I went to school that I would get the rest of the kids sick too. Mom said I was old enough to stay home while she went to work. My mom is a lawyer and she is good at it. When my mom was at work I went outside and saw Mr. John. He did not see me but I saw him. He was dragging a big black bag to the woods behind his house. He took the bag to the woods and then went back to his shed to grab a shovel. I wanted to help him but mom said I could not leave the house because I am sick. Mr. John saw me and asked me to come to the fence. He said that I could not tell my mom about the bag because if I did that I could not come over anymore. I like Mr. John but I can’t have a frog. Mr. John saw my mom come from work and invited us for dinner. He told me to promise not to tell anyone about the bag. I will pretend he is a frog.