Dear Journal: Flash Fiction Challenge — And the winner is …

This has been a great Flash Fiction Challenge where I asked Harborites the question, can YOU write a story in 200 words? Twenty-one writers took up the challenge and over the course of one week, entered their work. I was so impressed at the sheer creativity, the breadth and depth of the entries. A heartfelt “Thank-You” to every writer who got up the courage to enter your stories and poems. I know from experience how nerve-wracking that can be!

Judging was difficult, I won’t lie! But myself and my fellow judge, reader Corby Varness, were able to narrow down the entries and pick one winner, and several selected pieces. Enjoy!

— Karen Harris Tully

And the winner is …

On Reflection

By Lisa Kemmerer

One day cars stopped coming to the beach. Receding seas washed clean the scars even as wind and water reshaped the landscape into miniature furrows and rivulets, diminutive volcanoes, and tiny crusted bluffs. Whole sand dollars and seashell whorls washed ashore and were not crushed, but instead nestled safely in sculpted sand. At the shoreline, stream-lined birds with knobby knees hurried up and down, back and forth, their reflections scurrying with them across the wet sand. When they were tired, they folded down on spindly legs, resting peacefully in place. Nearby, a group of gulls also took a break on the dark and sparkling sands, undisturbed. An eagle coasted low over the water, pulling back and reaching out to land on a bleached and contorted root twisting skyward.

Though I had been there many times, I felt as though I were seeing the place for the first time. On reflection, I never turn to the sea in search of yet another busy street, but in the hope of finding a place of peace and grounding. And now it seems difficult to understand how it is that we have mistaken such a rich and remarkable habitat for a state highway.

OTHER TOP ENTRIES

Underwater

By C. Larson

If you bear a burden, will it bear fruit? You stand at the edge of the world, ocean spreading before you like a stain, flanked cliff-side by coarsened cedar and wind-whipped spruce. One Bitter Cherry, pale as the moon, blooming. How uncompromising. Even from this height you feel the salt sting on your cheeks. For weeks now you’ve been trying to out-swim your dreams, those fathoms too dark for sparking. That’s when you sleep at all. Come nightfall you give in and brew the coffee, grab the mug and the car keys, back out the long driveway, and head again to the shoreline. Some things make more sense at the margins, like how the headlights illuminate the fog line even though the shadows refuse to disperse. You come back to the water’s edge to dangle memories. Drown them.

Untitled

By Maureen Buley

I’m going through a tough break up with milk right now. I’ve known for a long time it’s over. It’s been a one sided relationship. I always wanted more. I couldn’t let go. Time and again I’d say, “That’s it. I’ve had enough.” But for days, I would mope. I ran back, and my love was there waiting for me. No questions asked, just memories, soothing comfort, joyous refreshment.

But the truth was, I’d become dumpy, lethargic, lacked ambition, my creativity dried up, and I experienced more pain than joy. My love was my obsession. Instead of feeling better, I felt worse. The time had come to break up for good.

Water and I have dated, but it’s taken me three days to drink a gallon. It’s not the same. Besides, water and my other best friend, cereal, don’t really get along.

So now I’m dating someone new. We’re taking it slow and easy. Tonight, we cooked together. We made homemade cream of mushroom soup. I think it’s too early to know if it’s love or just a passing fancy. But I can see us being friends. Here’s to oat milk. I hope this one lasts.

Eleanor’s Deep Dive

By Steve Mathisen

Doctor Eleanor Milford stepped onto the diving board, looked around the pool at the gathering of her friends and colleagues, and then refocused on the water. Taking measured steps forward, she pushed down on the end of the board, and as it pushed her back up into the air, she launched herself into a backflip with a twist that pointed her straight back down toward the water in a perfect vertical line. She entered the water with barely a ripple.

Once in the water, she looked downward at what should have been the bottom of the pool — but wasn’t. Instead, she saw stars in a night sky and found herself flying through the air in an arc toward another type of pool in a completely different setting. She entered the water, hoping to resurface back at the party she had been at but instead was in a river by-water, deep in a dark, green forest, filled with bird songs and buzzing insects. She swam to the edge of the river, found the shore, and began to climb out when she was greeted by a tall, sturdy man who said, “Welcome home, Eleanor. My name is Regan, do you remember me?”

A Poem

By Rudy Sandoval

Little boy lying in the grass, study the trek of the beetle making its way through a miniature world.

Someday you too, will be making your way through your world. But for now, the world can wait for little boys.

Little boys need to lie in the grass and study the trek of the beetle.

“Escape to Paradise”

By Sandra Sisneros

It was coming! April 6th, 2020. We couldn’t wait. Then it happened. You know what happened. It is on the news and in our faces every day.

But I’m going back. I’m going to escape to paradise. Listen and think.

It is like being on another planet there. One side like the moon and the blue, the beautiful blue ocean. So many flowers. I cross the deserted landscape with only cinder cones and rolling hills. Then go deep into the jungle coming out the other side. I can smell the flowers, the cool, clean air and the escape from life as we know it. The waterfalls so vivid and peaceful, and the people walk slow and are gentle.

The roads are covered with a canopy of vines, the sun shining through. I can breathe here! All stress is gone. Then I see it, I see the crystal black sand, I walk with my feet surrounded in the warmth from the black pebbles. I look and see an amazing, large, majestic sea turtle come out of the ocean, up onto the sand to bask in the sun with me. The waves are so soothing.

I have escaped to paradise.

Jim Bob and Leticia

By Ken Martinson

Since being admitted to the hospital with the coronavirus, James Robert Payne, known as Jim Bob, had been vocal about his disdain for being cared for by black nurses. Now in critical condition and being admitted into the ICU, he was troubled to see that his primary care nurse was a 35-year-old black woman named Leticia.

A 65-year-old assembly line worker living in a suburb of Lansing, Michigan, Jim Bob had grown up with racism. He had moved his family from Birmingham, Alabama some thirty years ago where his father had been active in protests against school integration. His children were educated in all–white private Christian schools, and his hard–line stance had not softened over the years.

Recently Jim Bob had been part of the protests against the Stay-At-Home orders of Michigan, feeling that his rights had been violated. He scoffed at the idea of masks and social distancing, and carried a sign that read “Unconstitutional.”

Now, with no family allowed in the ICU, Jim Bob’s final hours were spent with Leticia. She comforted him as best she could, and in his final moments held his hand and silently wept.

Bliss

By Wade Iseminger

He shivered.

The early morning sunrise was magnificent. Hues of purple, orange and yellow were filtered by sparse clouds in the Brobdingnagian sky.

The rolling hills of the Palouse were coming alive.

The smell of damp, worked soil was almost sweet. A slight breeze from the west made goose bumps appear on his arms.

Robins flocked to the alfalfa field to gorge on their morning breakfast of insects. Doves cooed. Pheasants cackled.

Three white-tail deer bolted from the orchard as he approached. Who was startled more – the deer or him, even if it happened nearly every morning?

The hills cast shadows over the farm equipment. Soon the men would be showing up to work.

He walked the trail to the shop to start the morning’s coffee. Quail scampered across his course from one outcropping of brush to another.

He returned home for breakfast. The aroma of bacon greeted him at the door. Orange juice was on the table and the toast was just buttered. She knew he needed a good meal because she wouldn’t see him until evening. He smiled. A perfect morning.

“Inmate 027694. Get up!”

Wiping the sleep from his eyes he sighed as he remembered his dream.

He shivered.

Where There’s a Will There’s a Way

By Sandi Furlong

“Where there’s a will there’s a way,”

my mother always said

and she was usually correct.

It’s since been proven

time and again,

that for almost every problem

there is a solution.

A few years ago I went with a friend

to check out a cattle auction.

She hadn’t planned on buying,

but prices were excellent.

She had to call her husband,

for she’d purchased three, day old calves.

She called and called to no avail.

We found ourselves in a pickle.

Three calves to get home,

and we’d come in a convertible.

But as my mother said,

where there’s a will there’s a way.

We drew an audience

Laughing as they saw what we were planning.

We lined the back seat with plastic,

cut slits for the seatbelts to poke through.

We did it, yes we did.

We seat belted those calves in the back seat,

placed a rope chest high to support them,

and smiled as we drove away.

And the calves enjoyed it,

held their heads up

to feel the breeze on their face.

So it just goes to show

that mothers are indeed right.

when they say

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”