One-hundred-seventy entries on the theme of “Away” and many hours later, our Fall Contest Readers Justin Deming, Joey Hoffman (last year’s winner), John Holmes, Pooja Joshi, Bobbi Lerman, Emily Hessney Lynch, Nina Miller, Maris S. Picone, Parisa Saranj, and Jenny Wong narrowed the entries to thirteen top pieces. Fall Contest Judge Karen Zey winnowed further to her top three. (Note: While our Fall Contest Readers’ process included writer bios, Judge Karen Zey read the final thirteen pieces without names or biographies.)
From Karen:
All of the finalists zoomed into a strong scene, and offered readers an evocative interpretation of the theme “Away.” The three top stories I chose succeeded beautifully at what I consider to be essential components in the best CNF micros: precision of detail, movement toward a heartbeat or reflective moment, and emotional depth. The narrators all revealed something significant about themselves in the 100 words they shared.
Congratulations to Karen’s top pick, A.M. REFLECTION by Pamela Moss! Coming in second, HANDOFF by Michelle Linder, and in third place, Bethany Jarmul’s MOTHERHOOD. Read all final pieces, plus good words from Karen Zey and our Contest Readers, below!
First Place: A.M. REFLECTION by Pamela Moss
Each morning, I see my blurry face in the shaving mirror that you left suction-cupped to my shower wall. It's the first reminder of the day: How unrecognizable I've become. I wipe away the steam and water droplets, exposing a calcified crust on the once reflective surface. I scratch the words 'I miss you' into the limescale patina and pretend you're away. Not dead. Away. But condensation soon obliterates the note you'll never see, and I disappear with it behind the fog. This mirror of yours reveals by obscuring. You're not just away, love. And I am but a ghost.
In her winning piece A.M. REFLECTION, Pamela Moss captured her experience of grief in a small daily routine, revealing a lifetime of deep love and now great loss. Deft word choices, specific details, and the metaphor of the mirror and blurred images created a layered scene. The lyrical ending was powerfully resonant and stayed with me a long time.—Karen Zey
Pam Moss is a writer and clinical research consultant based in Cincinnati. In her spare time, she studies the mysteries of the universe, life, love, and consciousness with her part-Lab lab partner, Molly (who, quite honestly, doesn’t contribute much to the discussion and sometimes eats their homework).
Second Place: HANDOFF by Michelle I Linder
Two eyes, haunting. Ten fingers, gripping. You hike your Elmo backpack higher. Elmo’s mouth is small and tight. The airport is sleek. Sure of itself. Eleven crayons. Your one-eared bunny. The things you can’t live without. “Why can’t you come, mama?” “Because I can’t fit in your backpack. But I'll be right here.” I tap your heart. Elmo looks skeptical. Your father and I are taking turns. You are half of each of us. What will become of you, now that our halves don’t fit? When he takes your hand, I walk away. Elmo bops along. You don’t look back.
Michelle used compression so effectively to convey the mother’s emotional angst in a five-minute scene. The pivotal question encapsulated her complex inner anguish, while the final gut-punch sentence showed her dawning realization.
Michelle I Linder is a graduate of the Augsburg MFA program, with a concentration in Fiction, and a member of the Indiana Writers Center.
Third Place: MOTHERHOOD by Bethany Jarmul
On the beach we taste salt when we speak. Sand clings to the backs of our knees. The air is thick and heavy with the smell of seaweed, waffle cones, and frying oil. My toddlers squeal, whine, and toss sand.The seagulls swoop and holler, peck and tousle over discarded funnel cake and French fry bits. One gull breaks away from the squawking gaggle of feathers, spreads his wings, soars above the waves, sun reflecting his sleek side. I close my eyes. The wind whips my hair. I imagine a weightlessness in the spritz of the sea— flying away, away, away.
Bethany used strong sensory details, rhythmic repletion, and a what-if reflection to convey not only scene but also hint at the pressures of her current life. The ending surprises: the mother wanting to fly away, even if only in a momentary dream.—Karen Zey
Bethany Jarmul is the author of two chapbooks and one poetry collection. She lives with her family near Pittsburgh. bethanyjarmul.com Instagram and Twitter: @BethanyJarmul
FINALISTS
YOUR WORK TRIP by Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar
Contest readers’ praise included “so moving” and “stands out, sensory details and culture references are so strong.”
Sara Siddiqui Chansarkar is an Indian American writer. She is the author of Morsels of Purple and Skin Over Milk. More at saraspunyfingers.com.
Sara will be reworking her contest entry into something longer, so we won’t publish it here. We wish you good luck with the rework, Sara, and hope you’ll share it with us when it’s published!
AWAY. AND BACK. by Debbie Feit
It was a cozy room with plush chairs, but no amount of throw pillows would make me comfortable. Our son’s therapist recommended the residential treatment center in Texas after Max’s unpredictable moods left us bruised, our walls bashed in, our family broken. It was fourteen hundred miles away; nothing compared to how far Max’s rage episodes had taken him. We hugged goodbye amid tears. Then, words of comfort: “It’s going to be OK.” I was shaking, but Max’s voice held steady. He was still in there. And we thought—we hoped—sending him away would bring him back to us.
Contest readers’ praise included “good sensory detail” and “difficult subject, written well.”
Debbie Feit has written prose for The New York Times, angry letters to her insurance company, and texts to her children that go unanswered. debbiefeit.com Instagram and Twitter: @debbiefeit
WASHED AWAY by Mark Hendrickson
With blue and purple powders, the artist had chalked the pavement while watching the skies. All around him starving masses of people begged for money, begged for food. I watched as he finished the drawing of the Hindu god with its pink elephant head, just as the first drops of rain started. Tourists had thrown coins onto the image. The devout crowd dared not tread upon the god to get the coins. The raindrops came, and the artist gathered up the money just as the image was being washed away. Perhaps the gods provide after all, but timing is everything.
Contest Readers’ praise included “excellent piece of writing” and “included all the elements a reader wishes for.”
Mark Hendrickson is an emerging writer who worked for many years as a mental health technician in a locked psychiatric ward. www.markhendricksonpoetry.com
ARCHIVE by Tess Kelly
After a two-year virus hiatus, she opened the door on the first knock. "Well look at you," my 92-year-old aunt quavered. White slacks and blouse swallowed her thin frame. "You don’t ever change, do you kid?" I wanted to say she doesn’t change either. I want time to backpedal to the woman who waltzed across my parents' parquet, the artist who spawned quirky ceramics, the gambler who’s luck Atlantic City couldn’t beat. I want my uncle to return from the bay where she sprinkled his ashes, where one day we’ll sprinkle hers. Instead I hugged her. She welcomed me inside.
Contest Readers’ praise included “fresh” and “love the repetition of want; effective.”
Tess Kelly's work has appeared in Cleaver, Dorothy Parker's Ashes, and Sweet Lit, among other publications. She lives and writes in Portland, Oregon.
LIKE FALCONS by Ashley McCurry
We braved the Daredevil Dive at Six Flags a month before you left. I thought a dose of adrenaline might fix everything, so we dangled by a cabled harness, face-down toward the crowd, fifteen stories in the air. You volunteered to push the release button; heart thundering, I begged you to wait. But you pressed it without warning, and we soared through clouds like falcons, joyful screams echoing above cheering spectators. We glided across the park and away from our lives— a fused, suspended pendulum, revisiting a phantom-glimpse of what we once were, until our feet again touched the earth.
Contest Readers’ praise included “great moment and interesting action” and “could feel the wind in my hair.”
You can find Ashley McCurry’s flash fiction/nonfiction in numerous literary journals. Her story, "Warehouse Dream," was recently awarded Honorable Mention in the Scribes Prize contest. Twitter: @amacwriting
AISLES AWAY by Oona Metz
Luckily, my partner knows I am constantly searching for a new title for the self-help book I have written. One way I keep track is by texting her the ones I like. Friday night we are at a bookstore where she browses for books about plagues and shipwrecks while I look for books on parenting and relationships. Aisles apart, I have an idea too good to forget “We should talk about divorce” I text, then realize the gravity of my words taken out of context. “Love it” she texts back. We may browse in different aisles, but she gets me.
Contest Readers’ praise included “original situation and great stakes” and “love the integration of humor.”
Oona Metz is a psychotherapist and writer who self published her first book, The Cat, The Dog and The Pig, at age 5. www.oonametz.com
EPIPHANY by Marya Miller
I visited Saint Conval’s Cemetery on a long-awaited trip back to Scotland. The neighbours had promised to look after my brother Stephen’s grave, but the graveyard lay locked and abandoned, littered with condoms, bottles, and broken needles under a bleak Glasgow sky, its uncut grass higher than the tombstones. I left, muttering in my bitterness that God was dead—until a car cut in front, rudely interrupting my despair. Nose pressed against the windshield, I found myself staring at a bumper sticker. “GOD IS ALIVE!” it shouted in Stephen’s cheeky voice while a sudden beam of sunlight parted the clouds.
Contest Readers’ praise included “really good narrative” and “lots of good sensory description.”
Marya Miller, author of Tales of Mist and Magic, is a former magazine editor, copywriter, and storyteller living in Northwestern Ontario because it has mountains. maryamillerwriter.com, www.facebook.com/maryamillerwriter/
WHEN DAD IS MOM by Laura Plummer
Dad appears over my right shoulder as I attempt to rub the bloodstain from my undies. “No big deal,” he says. He mechanically drains the sink, fills it with cold water, and adds a splash of bleach from the jug in the closet. My white panties billow to the surface like a parachute, then collapse and slowly sink again. With a hand on my shoulder, Dad tells me to return in half an hour. I wonder: If someone told him thirteen years ago that he would one day be raising two teen girls by himself, would he have stuck around?
Contest Readers’ praise included “every word is in the right place” and “the impact, and the way we’re in the moment, really work.”
Laura Plummer is an award-winning poet and writer from Massachusetts, USA. Her work has appeared in numerous print and online publications. lauraplummer.me
SHARED CUSTODY by Vince Puzick
When I told my ex-wife that she would need either a letter from me or a court order to move our ten-year-old daughter out of state nine years after the divorce, she yelled so loudly, for so long, that I held the Nokia flip phone far from my ear and listened, recoiled, listened to her admonition that if I separated mother from daughter “she will grow to hate you,” and when she finally ran out of breath, paused, then hung up, the man working on my broken bathroom poked his head out of the door, and said “you OK, bro?“
Contest Readers’ praise included “love this shift and how we’re in these moments” and “the one-sentence format really works.”
Vince Puzick writes about family, recovery, and nature from his home in Colorado where he lives with his wife, a dog, and a cat. Instagram: @anaturaldrift
CHILDHOOD MELTS by Julene Waffle
My child found a globe of ice bigger than his embrace. Leaves and sticks were frozen in a whirlpool inside. He held it out as best he could for me to wonder. Through it, he was captured too. “How did it get that way?” he asked. When he finally handed it to me and I put it down for the cold and melt of it, I could see his small inverted image inside, rushing toward friends. Legs running across an earthy sky, arms swimming a blue dirt ocean away from me until he was a speck inside the ice, disappearing.
Contest Readers’ praise included “great description and surreal action” and “an unusual, fun story.”
Julene Waffle is a mother of three boys, a teacher, entrepreneur, and writer. She loves her family, her pets, writing, and nature, in that order. www.wafflepoetry.com
EDITOR’S PICKS
For my picks, I looked for pieces that explored the theme of “away” in a manner not explored by the contest finalists, whether that be in terms of structure, voice, subject matter, or perspective. —Susanna Baird
PHONE WOES by Rashmi Bhopi
"When are you coming back, mamma?" asks my three-year-old. Only his forehead is visible on the screen, and then I see his lips puckered and zoomed out as he kisses the phone. Before I can answer, my six-year-old snatches the phone away from him. I hear my younger son wail in the background. Ignoring his cries, my older son excitedly starts describing how he scored a goal. The phone is snatched again and thud, the screen goes black. I hear, "Stop fighting!" and my husband appears. "How was your flight?" he asks. Before I can vocalize, my phone interrupts—reconnecting.
The use of humor gave the piece a great energy; I could feel the chaos of the moment, and I loved the interruptions followed by interruptions followed by the final disruption of the phone reconnecting.—SB
Rashmi Bhopi is a creative thinker who likes to capture life's moments in words, when not tending to her plants and her two children. Instagram: @chaibiscuitstories
NEW HOME by Bella Mahaya Carter
While my stepfather and his teenage son preen like peacocks and bellow know-it-all slurs, Mom unloads countless boxes. I step away from the sticky summer heat and windbag squalls and discover a crawlspace in the laundry room closet. I crouch and climb over cleaning supplies, leaving the door ajar to cushion darkness. In cool air, I sit undisturbed with my dreams in the belly of our abode. Footsteps creak overhead on the stairs. Muffled voices rise and fall. In this sanctum, I bask undetected, on nobody’s radar, hoping that later, Mom’s devoted hands will mend our holes and fallen hems.
The sensory details of NEW HOME impressed me, and I was taken with the idea of “away” interpreted both as “into” and “away from.” I felt myself pulled into the closet/safe space along with Bella, not only physically, but emotionally as well.—SB
Bella Mahaya Carter, an award-winning author of three books, facilitates online writing circles for writers, artists, healers, and seekers. www.bellamahayacarter.com Instagram: @bellamahayacarter
SUMMER CAMP by Jeanine DeHoney
I was eight years old. The curtains in my bedroom slow waltzed in the evening breeze. Outside, the raucous laughter of teenagers rose like steam up to my window. I lay on my bed and thought about roasting marshmallows, singing campfire songs, and listening to scary stories. The next morning my older sister took me to the bus that would take me away from Brooklyn and my family to an Upstate camp. Tears stung my eyes as city streets morphed into hushed country roads, as the bus driver drove further from home. I exhaled, knowing I’d survive for two weeks.
A number of finalists wrote about being a parent; Jeanine dove into being a child, and I appreciated that take on “away.” She captured well what preparing for “away” feels like at a young age, the anticipation and dread all at once.
Jeanine DeHoney's writing has appeared in anthologies, magazines and online. She is also a 2022 Honor awardee for Sleeping Bear Press’ Own Voices, Own Stories contest.
SPACE CAPSULES by Tara Dugan
Which is a joke to myself as I drop two, six, ten gelatin shells onto a buttery plate. Which is to see this morning ritual as more than it is, measuring out my life in powders instead of a poet’s coffee spoons. But let’s make believe the gelatin caps are little space pods, where for a second or two the odyssey begins, and for a second or two I am on the mend. Which is to say when facts are tough to swallow, what remains are escape pods made of empty air, whirling away into a trash can’s black hole.
The structure, the way Tara chose to tell this story, grabbed me from the first use of “which.” How she is playing with words and with facts, shifting realities in the retelling and in the moment, and how she pulls the reader into it, all so well done. —SB
Tara Dugan lives in Massachusetts. Her fiction appears in Litbreak Magazine, her nonfiction in The Millions, and her self in various Pioneer Valley bookstores.
THE ACTIVITY by Krista Hanley
Outside the classroom at the strange high school, the teacher told us to stand on a box, grasp each other's wrists, and lean out, balanced. Meanwhile, at our school, they extracted bullets from the walls. The teacher said, “What will happen if you let go?” “We will fall,” we said. Duh. So we let go and stepped down. “See?” he said. We looked at each other, at him. We missed the point. “You can support each other, so no one falls.” We nodded silently. The problem was, we had already fallen. That's why we were here instead of at Columbine.
THE ACTIVITY grabbed me not only for the subject matter and experience, but also because of how well Krista explored that giant space between what she needed, and what she was getting.—SB
Krista Hanley is a writer, artist, and violence-prevention expert living in Denver, Colorado. She is working on a memoir about surviving the Columbine High School shooting. kristahanley.com
BEFORE APHASIA by Zebulon Huset
Dad’s first flight came just years before a stroke took away his words, then spiraled him toward the grave like a penny spun into a charity funnel, round and round and suddenly gone. I’d fled Minnesota for the Pacific coast years before, slid to the bottom corner and stuck. Everything dad cared about was within a hundred miles of his birthplace—it took my wedding before he took to the sky. “Wasn’t bad. Basically a bus.” We hugged at the airport one last time with his words still finding their destinations, meanings still attached to words like goodbye, I love you.
I especially loved the order in which Zebulon told the story, from the title telling us where we’re ending, back to the flight, back to his move west, and then to that five-minute crux, the moment at the airport.—SB
Zebulon Huset is a high school teacher, writer and photographer. His writing has appeared in Best New Poets, Fence, Meridian, Southern Review, and many others.
JUST FIVE WORDS by Jessica Karki
Sitting in the truck, waiting, each minute felt longer, like ten. What is taking him so long? Finally, I see him. He has a large envelope in his right hand. He walked to my side, opened the door, placed the oversized medical envelope, the results of my scan, on the dashboard. “You have a brain tumor,” he said, calmly, as though this was a common, everyday exchange between us. It was not. He closed the door, walked around, and started the truck. I, too, was oddly calm, as though I had left my body and was managing myself somewhere else.
I appreciated the contrast between the news and the calm, as well as the space that opened up to wonder about all of it—the relationship, the future. So many questions as she is receiving this answer.—SB
Jessica Karki, aspiring to become a published author, is a wife and mom of one and lives off-grid in BCS, Mexico. She is currently working on her first memoir.
RUNAWAY by Elisa Rivera
“Lumayas ka!” my Papa said after another argument when I threw him hateful glances and spewed defiance at his face. With one backpack I left my parents' house in the middle of the night. Scared yet determined, I walked to the nearest phone booth and called my secret boyfriend. “Can you please pick me up?” Grateful that he was older than me, had a car and license. So what if Papa forbade me? I’d show him seventeen is old enough to stand on my own two feet. That night I didn’t know I wouldn't see my family again for years.
I loved how strongly teenaged defiance and certainty/confidence came through via voice in RUNAWAY. The last two sentences, one after the other, were extremely effective.—SB
Elisa Rivera is a writer living in Boonwurrung country, Australia. She writes about her character-building childhood as an immigrant. Elisa dreams in both Filpino and English.