Our congratulations to our 5 winning authors. There were 132 entries of which these stories were the ones which the judges chose as the top stories.
In this contest we tried to pick out not only those stories which were from seasoned authors, but also some from beginner writers, as this is what my website is all about. So, while some stories were better written from a Creative Writing standpoint, we also wanted to highlight writers who showed some real promise.
Keep an eye out for the next short story contest to run from July 1st - August 1st, 2007. The genre chosen for this contest has been Historical Fiction. The contest entry page and rules and prizes will be posted on this site within the next week.
Once again, congrats to our winners and thank you all for taking the time to submit your stories. My heartfelt gratitude to those who helped me judge this contest. Also to Randy Ingermanson for his gracious donation of our third prize. You are all winners in my book!
YOUR WINNING STORIES
FIRST PLACE WINNER
Dateline. . .Afghanistan
By: Ramona Cecil
“I need to use your computer.”
Rob lifted his head from scribbling notes he’d use in his next on-air report.
“They told me I could probably use one of yours.” Brushing a strand of golden hair from her brow, she shifted impatiently in the doorway. Her motor appeared stuck on fast idle.
“What’s wrong with yours?” As primitive as it looked, this was a newsroom, not a lending library. Her assumption that she could simply waltz in and make herself at home at his computer rankled. Rob returned his gaze to the notepad in his hand. “Who are you, by the way?”
“Lindsey Payton from The Star, and I don’t know what’s wrong with my computer. I’m not a computer geek, I’m a journalist.”
“Rob Avery, BTN,” he said, his terse introduction as dry as the Afghan desert.
“I don’t have time to play games or wait for an engraved invitation. I have a report to file!” Her comment crackled over his head, and Rob caught a flash of green lightning from her eyes as she passed.
Clad in khaki slacks and white T-shirt, she maneuvered through the cluttered room with the agility of a dancer.
“Huh-uh. Not so fast!” He was up like a shot, barring her way with a hand on her shoulder.
Her glare blazed into his. “We are all reporters and need to get the story of this war out.”
“Right.” He gave a sarcastic snort. “I’m sure the world is waiting with bated breath to read ‘Bin Laden Meets in Cave with Extraterrestrials.’”
“What?”
“What if I should need to use my computer and you have it tied up?” Rob couldn’t bear the thought of a tabloid journalist using a legitimate news computer. He wasn’t going to let her run over him, no matter how cute she was.
“This will only take a minute.” Shrugging off his hand, she plopped into the computer chair.
Rob saw that he would have to extricate her bodily. He considered it. It could be easily accomplished and not without a certain amount of enjoyment on several levels, but decided it wasn’t worth the trouble.
“Well, make it snappy.” Bristling, he returned to his desk.
The quick clicking of her fingers on the keyboard punched into his thoughts, destroying his concentration.
Later, while opening his e-mails, Rob read, “Great story, Lindsey. Send more of the same, Dan.” The address was The Indianapolis Star.
Dan groaned. She was legit!
He began frantically searching the room for the little box headquarters sent last week.
* * *
“If I had a hat, I’d have it in my hands.”
The quiet voice jerked Lindsey’s face up from her desk. The good-looking, British reporter whose computer she’d commandeered this morning stood in the doorway.
Lindsey’s heart quickened. She wished her senses were immune to his charming English accent. “Well, what’s brought you down from Mount Olympus to the lowly Paper Building?” Feigning disinterest, she turned back to her work.
He stepped across the threshold. “I got an e-mail for you.” He handed her the print-out. “Sorry, thought you were tabloid.” He pushed his fingers through his wavy auburn hair. Rob Avery seemed unpracticed at making apologies.
Lindsey took the paper but continued to gaze at the BTN reporter fidgeting in his rumpled green polo shirt and wrinkled chinos. She knew it wasn’t polite to stare, but he was the best looking guy she’d seen for a long time.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve got a peace offering.” He brought his right hand from behind his back and thrust a gold-foil box toward her. “Hope you like chocolate.”
Lindsey’s eyes widened. “Chocolate? You have chocolate?” Western luxuries were like found treasure.
She accepted the box with shaky hands. “This better not be some kind of sick joke,” she warned, prying off the lid with unsteady fingers.
A delicious aroma escaped, teasing her nostrils.
She licked her lips and gazed at the dark nuggets nestled in their ruffled brown paper beds. The only thing she wanted more than this candy was to learn more about the man who’d brought it.
She smiled up at him. “You can’t leave me alone with this whole box, Mr. Avery. It wouldn’t be responsible. I’d eat till I was sick.”
A grin crawled across his handsome face. “Please, call me Rob. ‘Mr. Avery’ makes me sound as old as Walter Cronkite.”
Lindsey hurriedly cleared a tiny island amid the chaotic mounds of research material and faxes littering the area in front of her desk. She sank to the floor and he joined her. They sat with their backs against her desk, the box of chocolates between them.
The next two hours sped by.
Between bites of chocolate, they talked of journalism, the war, and life.
“So how did you draw the short straw?” he asked before popping a piece of candy in his mouth.
“My parents are Christian missionaries. We were here for a couple years when I was a kid.” She paused to lick her lips. “I’d learned some Farsi—thus this assignment. I feel that in a way, it’s an extension of my family’s mission here.”
Instead of the bored eye-roll she expected, he responded with a look of admiration. “While growing up in Surrey, I used to attend church regularly with my family.” Regret tinged his tone. “But I’m afraid the last time I saw the inside of a church, I was doing a story about its architecture.” He plucked a chocolate covered almond from the box. “I suppose when you see so much suffering in the world, you have to wonder how God could allow it.”
“Free will,” Lindsey replied around a blissful bite of dark chocolate. “I’m sure God is as disgusted as we are that man uses his free will to hurt others.”
She couldn’t decide which was sweeter——the chocolate, or Rob’s smile that tugged into a sheepish grin.
“I must say, I’ve always hoped God remained on my side,” he admitted. “A few close calls in Bosnia and Sri Lanka did help remind me how to pray.”
“I have no doubt God is on your side, Rob.” During their shared smile, Lindsey allowed her gaze to melt into the soft brown depths of his, contemplating what she saw. Amber, she mused——tiny flecks of gold glinting from languid pools of polished amber. . .
Rob glanced at his watch, breaking the connection. “Blimey!” He scrambled to his feet and helped her up. “I’m due for an on-air report in ten minutes!”
Lindsey needed to find a reason to see him again. “The office in Indy will be opening at eleven o’clock this evening, our time. May I use your computer again to send my next report?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks for the candy,” she called after him as he raced down the hall toward the outside door.
“My pleasure.” He tossed a smile and wink over his shoulder.
The next five hours could not pass fast enough for Lindsey.
* * *
Rob sat staring at the wall clock. Would eleven o’clock never come? Now he knew what love at first sight was all about. Lindsey Payton had it all—looks, brains, and heart—wrapped up in one delectable little package.
A deafening explosion shook the building, nearly knocking him off his chair.
Simon, his cameraman, grabbed his hand-held camera and ran for the door. “Looks like it might have hit the Paper Building!”
“Lindsey!” Rob bolted after Simon, his heart pounding. Lindsey’s face flashed in his mind’s eye——her beautiful green eyes, her golden mane of hair shimmering as she threw it back in laughter. “Oh God, please just let her be okay!”
The Paper Building was in ruins. Picking his way through the rubble, Rob peered desperately into the darkness. “Lindsey? Lindsey!”
Whining sirens swallowed his desperate calls.
Bodies were being taken out. None of them looked like her. Blood was everywhere.
“Lindsey! Lindsey, where are you?”
“Rob.” A tiny voice quivered behind him.
He turned, relief drenching him. “Lindsey.”
In the strafing searchlights, shock registered on her tear-streaked face. “I’d already started for your building when. . .”
Rob closed the space between them in two quick strides. “Thank you, God, thank you,” he breathed, pulling her into his arms. He clung to her, as if his fierce embrace might exorcise the terror that had held his heart hostage since the blast.
“Rob.” Trembling, she sobbed against his chest. “Don’t let me go. Just don’t let me go.”
He held her close against his hammering heart. “I’ll never let you go,” he murmured against her hair and sent up another thankful prayer that Lindsey was right——God was still on his side.
She pushed away to looked up at him, a brave smile quavering on her lovely lips. “I think I’ll need to use your computer for quite a while.”
He had to snuggle her against his heart again.
THE END
2ND PLACE WINNER
Cold Eggs, Hot Coffee
By: Lady Dru Sterling
“Charlie, I'll stop for breakfast by 4:00 tomorrow morning, but it'll be grab and run.” Doc Dennis crushed the paper napkin, and dropped it beside his plate on the diner counter. “Could you make my order ‘to go’?”
“Can do, Doc.” Charlie flipped another customer’s order of “two over-easy”, and grabbed the marker for the whiteboard. In a practiced spin, he left the notation of Doc’s standing order then pulled the toast onto the other customer’s plate, and added steaming eggs.
Charlie never knew, on “grab and run” days, whether Doc Dennis headed into the hospital, or homeward. Now, Doc’s breakfast waited above the grill, in a Styrofoam box. A blast of cold air preceded squeaking footsteps. Charlie turned away from the hash browns and grabbed the box. “Here you go, Doc.”
“Since when do I order a burger ‘to go’, Charlie?” Mitch said.
“Sorry, thought you were Doc.” He put the box back, and slapped a beef patty on the grill. “You want onion?”
“Always.”
A siren’s wail interrupted them. Charlie snatched the box—4:05 a.m. Container in hand, he faced the counter, as Marianne tugged at her scarf. Snow slid down her hair.
“Coffee, Charlie, quick.” She shivered. “They finally got him loaded up. Took them long enough—it’s so cold. Hope he makes it.”
He set the container on the shelf, poured coffee, and rearranged the crisping potatoes. “What happened, Marianne?”
“Guy in a Red Sox jacket stepped between cars to cross the street—plow clipped him. What a mess.” Her hands shook as she lifted the cup. “I stayed until the paramedics came, covered him with my coat, you know.” She swallowed and sighed. “This is the best coffee, Charlie. Anyway, the guy screamed and panted, and said, ‘God, bless the kids on the ward.’ ”
Charlie dropped the spatula.
Maybe it wasn’t Doc. He could breeze in any minute, glad for the breakfast in the box. Yesterday, he’d been early, and Charlie dared ask why he bent his head over the plate.
“I pray for the kids on my ward, Charlie. Cancer is scary. I thank God for you, too.”
“Why?”
“Feeding people is good work. Jesus fed thousands, because hungry people can’t pay attention.”
Since then, Charlie’s job seemed important. He grabbed another spatula, slid the meat onto a bun, and added a generous dollop of grilled onion.
“Great burger, Charlie,” Mitch grunted around a mouthful.
Hot grease burned Charlie’s hand—he’d rapped the spatula on the grill too hard. “Did he have red hair, Marianne?” Please, not Doc.
“Dunno, he wore a stocking cap. I talked to him, but he didn’t seem to realize I was there.” She finished her coffee and dropped change from her pocket on the counter.
Charlie scraped Marianne’s payment into one palm, took Mitch’s cash, and sorted everything into the till—4:15 a.m.
The beat-cop tossed a buck on the counter. Charlie poured coffee. “Bill, did you see that guy hit by the plow?”
“Nope.”
Charlie shoved scorched potatoes into the trash, and discarded Doc’s cold eggs—he deserved fresh food. He paced. Snow blurred the people outside. None of them moved like Doc. Cooking more eggs made no sense until Charlie knew where Doc was.
He dumped grounds from pot number one, and refilled it. Soon, the off-duty cabbies would arrive for coffee, and wedges of pie. Charlie scraped grease from the grill. Every sound that penetrated the plate glass window distracted him.
As he sprayed the countertop between customers, the compressions of the trigger reminded him of Marianne’s description of the victim’s panting—4:28. “Bless the kids on the ward,” Charlie muttered. They needed it, but he sure hoped Doc didn’t.
“Eddie, you’re first today,” Charlie called, over the sounds of perking coffee and sleet spattering the window. The cabbie yanked off his leather gloves.
“Nasty one today. Something happened a couple blocks north. I drove through a patch of bloody snow in the middle of the street—didn’t see an ambulance.”
Charlie thumped a mug before the cabbie, and groped for the half-full carafe, his attention focused on the street.
“Watch it, Charlie.” The cabbie snatched his copy of the Boston Globe away from puddled coffee, and shifted to a different barstool.
The nurse’s shoes squelched in the snowmelt on the floor. “Do you know Doc Dennis?” Charlie said.
“Dennis who?” she said.
“I don’t know his last name, but he’s gangly, has red hair, and treats kids for cancer.”
“I work in obstetrics, so I’m afraid I can’t help you.” She took the seat beyond the cabbie. “Scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast, please.”
Charlie swallowed hard. Her order matched Doc’s. “Yes, Ma’am, coming right up,” he replied, and turned to the griddle. 5:00—Doc’s an hour late.
“Should hit the road,” Eddie said, and flipped a bill on the counter. George Washington’s hair absorbed coffee like dye.
Charlie’s grease burn had blistered, and he gripped the nurse’s plate gingerly. He set the food in front of her, and tried to ignore the stinging. As he turned away, Charlie shook his wrist.
“Did you burn yourself?” she said.
“It’s not bad.” Charlie spread bacon on the griddle then grabbed a fistful of paper towel and moved Eddie’s dollar from the pool of coffee on the counter.
She chewed toast and opened her purse to pay. “Have it looked at, and don’t break the blister.”
He dropped in the bills and quarters, and shut the cash register drawer—5:15. Charlie flipped the bacon, and more grease spattered his wrist. He could stand pain, but Doc hadn’t stopped for his breakfast, and Doc was more reliable than even Mitch. Mass General stood a few blocks away, and Charlie felt sure Doc worked there.
He shut off the grill, flipped the light switch, and turned the sign on the door to “Closed” for the second time in ten years—a good record.
Charlie jammed his fist into the sleeve of his jacket. The blisters tore. Wetness stuck his hand to the lining—too late for ice, now.
He forced his hand past the elastic in the cuff and gritted his teeth.
Charlie wrapped his hand in a clean towel, pressing the flap of skin on the raw flesh. Marianne said the man panted, and screamed and prayed. Charlie could understand why, but he shivered at the memory.
Please, let the first person he saw at Mass General be Doc Dennis.
Charlie slipped and skidded along the sleet-covered sidewalk, but he couldn’t move any slower. Even more than relief for his burns, he wanted to know Doc was okay. Another ambulance passed. If he didn’t find Doc, he’d try another hospital.
Maybe Doc stayed at the hospital all night, with one of the kids. “It’ll be grab and run,” he remembered, and knew it wasn’t so. God bless the kids on the ward, especially if they faced the day without Doc Dennis.
Charlie entered ER. An intern with a clipboard met him.
“Name?” The man concentrated on the form in his hand.
“I’m Charlie Harrigan.” He scanned the room—no sign of Doc Dennis.
“Do you have insurance, Mr. Harrigan?”
“Yes, but this is more important. Do you know Doc Dennis, who treats kids for cancer?” Charlie relaxed his grip on the towel, and almost dropped it.
“You’ll have to show your card. How did you injure yourself?”
“A grease burn.” Charlie dug out his wallet. “Please, do you know Doc Dennis?” he asked.
“I haven’t worked in pediatric oncology, Mr. Harrigan. Take a seat here.” The intern pulled a curtain aside. Charlie stepped through, and found a chair.
As Charlie balanced the clipboard on his knee, and struggled to fill in the blanks on the form with his towel-wrapped hand, he heard women’s voices beyond the curtain that enclosed him.
“What a shame. Dr. Flannery’s still in surgery.”
“Looked bad when they brought him in. He might lose a leg.”
Charlie dropped the pen and clipboard. A woman’s hand pulled the curtain aside.
“Are you having problems?” She bent, and gathered the items.
“Please, will you tell me if the Doctor Flannery you mentioned treats kids for cancer?” He accepted the pen and clipboard.
“Is one of his patients your child?” She tilted her head to one side and waited.
Charlie shook his head.
“Then I’m not allowed to give information,” she said.
“Wait, Miss.” Charlie said. “When they brought Doctor Flannery in, was he praying for the kids?”
“How did you know that?” She stared.
“I learned he prays for his kids yesterday.”
“What do you do?” She stepped closer.
“I own a diner. Doc Dennis never arrived for breakfast today.” Charlie took a deep breath. Three steps down from the door of his diner to the sidewalk—a man with one leg would have trouble with those. “When you see him, you tell Doc Dennis that Charlie Harrigan will make sure he can get in, and his breakfast is on me. Every day.”
THE END
3RD PLACE WINNER
A Thirsty Heart
by: Michele Cushatt
It was midday. Her routine was so predictable, so unchanged after many years. She hardly thought about what she was doing as she grabbed the clay jug and hefted it on her shoulder.
Thinking was risky. Each morning began with a briefest moment of hope, right before dawn, as her mind began to gain consciousness but before reality betrayed her dreams. In that tiniest fraction of time, she would forget she was an outcast, unloved and unnoticed. She would forget about her reputation, losses, and repeated failures. For a few moments she was a child again, full of imaginations of love, family and an abundant life.
However, before the sun’s beams poured through the crack under her door, the truth of her past and present descended heavily upon her heart like a dark cloud of desperation. The dreams evaporated and the nightmare began again.
She finally decided that to think was to die. She could not survive if her mind kept exploring dead-end roads. With determination, she focused on tasks and meaningless chores, those activities that did not bring enjoyment but made the minutes toward the end of her life tick a little more quickly.
Today she mindlessly walked to the well she had visited hundreds of times. The protective, invisible wall surrounding her kept her from being aware of those that she passed. She ignored the whispers, the stares. The words “harlot” and “unclean” had been uttered her direction so many times, the words no longer stung. Still, other insults expertly found their mark. Venturing too close to a group of children playing, she pretended not to notice as the women frantically beckoned them home, as if their innocence might taint by accidentally falling under her shadow. Had they forgotten? She ached. I was a child once, too.
She continued toward the well, through the business district toward the heart of the town, noting the blatant stare of a local tradesman she passed. Her heart still hungered for attention, hoping it meant she was special, beautiful, and desirable. She knew from experience, however, that her heart had betrayed her; there was no love in his gaze. As so many others like him, his eyes saw only a means to an end – a temporary source of satisfaction for his momentary ravenous appetite.
She quickened her step and reached the well, barely noticing that yet another man—a traveling Jew by all appearances—was watching her. The man opened his mouth to speak and the woman tightened her shoulders, bracing herself for the inevitable.
“Will you give me a drink?” the man asked.
Involuntarily, she glanced up, surprised at his question. Expecting an unconcealed perusal, she was furthered surprised at the absence of innuendo on his face. Looking into eyes that brimmed with sincerity, she suspected his request for water was simply that; no more, no less. He was obviously unaware of both her heritage and reputation. She briefly considered ignoring him, but her reckless curiosity won out.
“You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan woman. How can you ask me for something to drink?”
Ignoring the sarcastic bitterness of her rebuff, the man replied, “If you knew the gift of God and who it is that asks you for a drink, you would have asked him and he would have given you living water.”
Living water. Hope? She grabbed her throat, and steadied herself on a rock. No, don’t go there. He is simply asking for a drink. And offering to give me one. Nothing more. Nothing less. Still, how can he offer water when he has nothing with which to draw it?
After pointing out the obvious, the woman went back to her task, concluding the man must be confused and dehydrated from his long journey. Undeterred, the man continued. “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life.”
Never be thirsty again? Is he joking?
In a voice thick with sarcasm, she replied, “Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.” Wouldn’t that be something, water that would permanently cure the need to walk here ever again.
The distrust was entrenched so deep within her soul came out like acid; daggers aimed directly at the one who dared tempt her to hope once again. Men were alike in one thing at least—they always promised her rainbows, but required payment up front. In the end, all she ever received was empty promises; one more storm and the resulting broken pieces from her tormented life.
“Go, call your husband and come back.”
That’s a new one, she thought. Rarely did the men who sought her out give any thought to her family connections.
“I have no husband,” she replied.
The man said to her, “You are right when you say you have no husband. The fact is, you have had five husbands, and the man you now have is not your husband. What you have just said is quite true.”
Stunned, her solid protective shell began to crumble in the face of the stark truth. Yes. What she had said was, in fact, quite true. However, his response was even truer. Feeling grossly uncomfortable, as if standing next to the town well fully exposed, her instinct was to turn and flee. Stones would start flying any moment.
Other thoughts troubled her. How did he know these things? He was a stranger, and a Jew, no less. She had never seen him before, and she knew most every man within miles. If he was, in fact, familiar with the reputation of the one to whom he was speaking, the kind of worthless filth he was addressing, why did he still ask her for a drink, and what compelled him to offer his “living water” instead?
Both curiosity and defensiveness warred within her. A part of her wanted to run. His exposure of her true self was almost more than she could bear. Still, something in his eyes put her at ease. So she remained.
“Sir, I can see that you are a prophet. Our fathers worshiped on this mountain, but you Jews claim that the place where we must worship is in Jerusalem.”
Turning the conversation back around to his snobby Jewish heritage, she once again erected her protective shell, hoping to escape further accusation. Undiscouraged in the least, he continued as if he had anticipated her response.
“Believe me, woman, a time is coming when you will worship the Father neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem … a time is coming and has now come when the true worshippers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks.”
Truth—now that is like a drink of fresh water. When was the last time someone was true to her? For that matter, when was the last time she was true to herself, to her beliefs, to her dreams? It had all seemed so hopeless this morning, but now this man was telling her that God seeks the true hearts of his followers. Her heart ached and cried out within her:
Can you see me, Father God? Can you see my heart? My life is a mess. I am everything that everyone says about me and worse. But my heart longs for you, God! Can you see? Is it too late? Is it too late to hope that there can be more to life than this? Am I too far gone to be rescued? Yes, probably too late. But maybe someday for someone else, when the wrongs are righted and evil is overcome by good. Maybe when Christ comes …
“I know that Messiah, Christ, is coming. When he comes, he will explain everything to us.” Exhausted from the emotional journey of this unexpected conversation with a stranger, she sighed and dropped her head. There was nothing more to say.
However, it was not to be. The man was not finished yet. With one finger, he raised her chin and looked deep into her wounded eyes. In that moment, his gaze seared her spirit. Like the power of the sun, it left her both raw and exposed in the darkness of her sin, yet cradled by the warmth of its beam, secure and wrapped in mercy. Yes, she thought. Messiah is coming…and with a pronouncement that for years later she would testify as the moment of her release and rebirth, he said with a smile, “I who speak to you am he.”
THE END
4RTH PLACE - HONOURABLE MENTION
Increase
By: Eric J Kregel
There was a man who was busy; busy doing all of the right things. He was born into a good family, with loving parents
who had raised him well. He received good marks in his classes, ran track in High School, and dated a high standard of girls throughout his teen years.
What made him so rounded, many believed, was that he attended his church's youth group. At the youth
group, he memorized Bible passages and learned many wonderful things about the teachings of Jesus. He
went on a lot of mission trips- feeding the poor and learning what poverty looked like outside the Canadian
borders.
He grew a lot, expanding his spirituality and morality. He increased.
When he left home, something happened to him. Either it was when he went to College and sat under a
professor who challenged his faith; or that he kept losing arguments with his friends about God's existence; or, simply, he became man with all of a man's questions. Somehow he received the message that he wasn't a good enough Christian.
He believed that he needed to grow more, become more. To increase.
So he committed himself to hours of volunteer work, working with teens at his church. He fell in love and
got married to a beautiful wife. They moved into a beautiful home, to raise 3 beautiful children. In addition to working with teens at his church, he took up coaching Volleyball and Hockey, so he could give back to the community. He was a hard worker, steady
and dependable.
During the few leisure hours he allowed himself, he read a lot of books. Deep books; written by great Christian writers. He memorized more of the Bible, never missing a church service and always attending a small group. On his vacations, he would go to
conferences and Christian theme cruises and spiritual retreats.
He grew, becoming more. He increased.
One night, he had a vivid dream. He found himself in the middle of a garden, surrounded by every beautiful
fruit tree and plant imaginable. As he walked through the garden, he followed a stream that led him to a tall ash tree. Sitting under the shade of the ash tree was Jesus Christ.
Jesus rose and bid the man to join him under the tree. When the man joined him, Jesus asked, "So, you've
been busy, haven't you? Bible study, conferences, volunteer work, hockey, family time, church. Why have
you kept yourself busy?"
"Well," the man said. "So I can grow more. I can get better. So I can increase."
"Why would you want to do that?" Jesus asked with a grin.
"So I'm a better witness. So people can look at my life and see there's a difference. And when they see
the difference, I can tell them about you. Plus, it keeps me out of trouble."
"Let me get this straight," Jesus said. "You are increasing all of your goodness to help me? You're
making yourself look and be good so I look good?"
"Yes, Lord."
Jesus chuckled, as if laughing at a joke the man didn't understand. Jesus walked away from him. "I'm
touched that you are trying to be so helpful, but no thank you. I don't think I need your help. I'm calling you off the job of increasing yourself."
Jesus left.
The man awoke from the dream sobbing.
The next two weeks for the man were spent in agony. Every time he opened his Bible he felt nothing. He
felt no joy coming home or leaving for work. One night, he lost his temper while coaching Hockey and found himself having to apologize to his team later.
Every time he went to church, the sound of his pastor's voice pained him. When it was day, he wished
it was night; when it was night, he wished it was day.
One night, after several sleepless evenings in his bed, he drifted off into a dream. He was back in the garden, following the stream to the
ash tree. Ever step, every crunch of dirt under his foot pricked his feet. As the stream snaked around a patch of berry bushes, he saw the tall ash tree. And sitting under the tree wasn't Jesus this time, but John the Baptist.
John bid him to come over to him. The man complied and when he arrived, John asked, "So I hear Jesus put
you into a tail spin?"
"I don't understand," he said. "I tried to be a good person, grow and increase in knowledge and activity.
I thought that was the point, wasn't it? Know more, grow more, and increase?"
John chuckled, a laugh reminiscent of Jesus' the previous dream. "I used to live like you did. I preached in the desert, ate locust and honey, got a following, and kept myself in all of the books of the law. I thought that if I did more and became more,
Jesus would be happier with me.
"What a lonely life that proved to be!
"Then I learned something the day I finally met Jesus. Instead of me increasing for Christ, I had to learn
to decrease. I had to make room for Christ, so He could reign. Cut back, downsize, and trim down. In short, I had to decrease so that Christ could increase. And it has meant a world of difference."
Christ's voice rung out from behind the man. "He's right," Jesus said. "I do not want you to be busy, I want you. If the world sees less of you and more of me, that is what I call witness."
"And all of the other stuff?" the man asked.
"It's good, I guess. But activity does not mark a relationship and a relationship is what I want. I want more of you, not more work hours. So come. Come and follow me."
The man was left then with the decision to increase or to decrease. Increase, and be busy? Or decrease,
allowing Christ to fill his life more?
THE END
5TH PLACE
HONOURABLE MENTION
STUFFED ANIMALS
By: Rachel Smith
Sam slowly walked down the aisle of stuffed toys. He was surrounded on all sides by dogs, tigers, bears and rabbits. But no lions with fluffy manes or silly looking monkeys. That's what he was after, a lion and a monkey. He had a promise to keep, and this was the fourth store he’d been to that afternoon in search of the perfect toys. Denver only had so many toy stores and the twenty-three-year-old didn't know how many more odd looks he could take.
Sighing with resignation, he began to dig. They were out there somewhere, waiting for him to find them. Just like Steven and Peter had been waiting to be found and their little family re-united. Twelve years was a long time to go without seeing your brothers. The two had changed so much because of what they had been through, yet Sam could still see them as the little boys of seven and four that he remembered. Remembered most clearly from that stolen afternoon at the Leningrad Zoo…
“We’re going where?” Ten-year old Nicky kept his voice low so as not to disturb their napping grandfather. He was in a particularly bad mood.
Sergei picked up little Peter. “The zoo. To see the animals.” He reached out and squeezed Nicky’s shoulder. He worried too much. “It’s okay. Mrs. Denisov gave me the money for it. She’s been saving it so we could get out for a little while before Dmitri comes back.”
The twins, Michael and Steven, came out of the bedroom with their shoes on. “Let’s go.” Steven said softly. The seven-year old tugged on Sergei’s hand. “The animals might disappear. I want to see the lions.”
“And the elephants.” Michael added.
“Monkeys!” Peter squealed.
Sergei smiled and ushered them out the door, closing it behind them very, very quietly. If he woke up… Sergei shuddered and refused to complete the thought. None of them were going to worry today. Today, they were just five brothers enjoying a beautiful summer day.
They walked to the zoo, since there weren’t enough kopecks to ride the metro. None of them seemed to mind. Michael and Steven raced through the crowds of people on the sidewalk, playing tag, laughing when Nicky started playing too. Sergei just watched, still carrying four-year-old Peter.
At the gates, Sergei paid for their tickets and the boys entered the Leningrad Zoo for the first time. There was no rhyme or reason to their wandering down the paths. Steven led the way going in whatever direction he wanted. Eventually they stumbled across a petting zoo. Since there was no extra charge, Sergei let them go in.
Nicky made a beeline for the rabbits, stopping to pet a big lop-eared one that sported a black mustache. Peter refused to touch them, and Michael had to hold the baby ducks.
Moving on they came to the elephants. It was Michael’s turn to stare as the giant creatures moved about, flapping their ears and swishing their tails. There was a baby elephant, who dipped his trunk into the pond, then sprayed water all over his mother. Standing there for quite some time, they all laughed at the baby’s antics as he splashed through the water and tried to get his mother to chase him.
Looking up at Sergei, Michael asked, “Can we take him home?”
Sergei smiled. He’d been expecting that question. “No. He has to stay here so he doesn’t get sick. I think our place is too small for him. He’s going to get pretty big.”
“Oh.” Michael looked down for a moment, and then looked back up at Sergei. “When we get adopted by Americans, then can I have an elephant?”
“Of course you can.”
That was Michael’s dream, to get adopted by Americans and leave Russia. He was too young to understand that it would probably never happen to any of them. Their father was never around- he was too busy trying to get noticed by the Army officers in Moscow at the Kremlin. He would never give them up though. Sergei had heard him say so.
Michael grinned, and then took Steven’s hand and they skipped down the sidewalk in the direction of the lions. Following Michael’s lead, Steven asked too.
“When we get adopted, can I have a lion?”
“Why not, we’ll have our own little zoo.” Sergei ruffled the boy’s hair as they stood and watched the lions. The female lion was trying to sleep, but the male lion didn’t want to let her and she kept pushing him away.
Peter was tired of watching all the other animals and he tugged on Sergei’s hand. “Monkeys, Sergei, monkeys!”
“Alright, Peter. To the monkeys.”
It took them several wrong turns to find the monkeys. When they did find the monkeys, Peter ran as close to the cages as he could, clapping and laughing at their antics. One was a banana thief, another appeared to be an aspiring high-wire walker. In keeping with his brothers, Peter announced that he wanted a monkey, one of every kind.
They stayed at the monkeys the longest, watching them play and laughing. It was with great reluctance that Sergei quietly said they had to leave.
Sam shook his head as the memory finished, wishing that day could have lasted longer. It had been the last time they were all together. The very next day Dmitri, the boys uncle, had taken Sam to a Moscow orphanage.
He moved slowly down one side of the aisle, searching carefully, and then he turned and began the same procedure on the other side. When he was almost to the end, he found them; the perfect lion and monkey, sitting side by side beneath a large teddy bear. The lion was made to lay flat so that he could be easily hugged. His mane was soft and fuzzy, just the way Steven would want it to be. The monkey was black with a shock of bright red hair, a silly little grin and a t-shirt with a banana on it.
Sam hugged the animals tightly. He had never dreamed that he would actually get to keep his promise of making their own zoo. These stuffed animals meant they were safe, and in America, and most importantly- together. He strode to the checkout counter and gently laid the animals down.
The girl checking him out smiled. “I’m so glad somebody is finally buying these guys. They’ve been back there for almost a year now.”
“Guess they were just waiting for the right person.”
She nodded in agreement. “I was about ready to buy them myself. Would you like them gift-wrapped?”
“Please.” Sam leaned against the counter and watched as she wrapped them up. He found himself wondering what the animals would be named. Would they be silly like Bo and Nick had done, or would they be sensible?
She handed over the bag, Sam took it gratefully then headed back outside. He trudged through the snow to his truck, very anxious for Friday night to arrive so he could keep his promise.
Friday night was one of the best nights of Sam’s life. Peter was smiling and laughing, ecstatic to finally see Nick again, even though his leg was broken and he could barely move. Then he'd had to explain what a Navy SEAL was, Peter didn’t like the idea of Nick being in that much danger all the time.
Steven was more reserved, sitting quietly and watching everyone else, a deep sadness in his blue eyes. A far cry from the non-stop talker Sam remembered. He’d been through hell over the last six months and was still trying to accept the fact that he was indeed safe, and that the impossible had happened. The brothers were together again, that made any place home.
Once they had secluded themselves in Nick’s room downstairs, Sam presented the boxes to Peter and Steven. Nick and Bo's animals were hidden just out of sight between the nightstand and the bed, waiting for the rest of their zoo companions to appear.
“Open them!” Bo blurted out.
They did so, at the same time. Peter lifted the lid from his box and gasped, his eyes lighting up. He pulled the monkey out and hugged him tightly. Steven gently removed his lion and smoothed its mane, then looked at Sam. “I didn’t think anyone would remember,” he whispered.
Sam took his little brother’s hand and squeezed it. “I will never forget that day, Steven.”
Steven looked at Bo, who was now hugging Squeak. Squeak was an elephant. He then looked at Nick, who had pulled Sherbert the floppy-eared-rabbit-with-a-mustache out from his hiding place and was playing with his ears.
None of them had wanted to leave the zoo that day. And now they had that day back, with their own little zoo of stuffed animals.
