Announcing the July Short-Form Writing Competition Winners!

The Garden Gnomes

    Michelle Macy

  Sacramento, CA

Excerpt:"Well if you could accuse anybody of being downright evil it would be him." Grams said as she set down the pitcher of homemade iced tea.

When she spoke I just nodded and continued working, after a moment her actual words sunk in and I paused pondering her meaning. My first thought was that she was having another one of her 'spells' as the doctor liked to refer to them. He wasn't exactly sure what triggered them other than stress but I'd begun to suspect that the weather might be playing a role as well.

As winter gave way to spring and the temperatures rose I noticed that she'd been acting peculiar. I tried to keep her indoors as much as possible but the effort was more often than not in vein.

Like today for example, no sooner had I finished breakfast then she went on to declare that the yard was a horrible disaster and how it must be tended to. I told her that I'd be happy to call a gardener but she didn't want a gardener. She wanted a nice garden and she wanted it done today. I'd been warned not to cause her additional stress so rather than argue I simply conceded.

So we'd been working in the front garden all day, taking advantage of the nice weather to pull out all the weeds and ready the earth for new plants and flowers. Technically, I was the one doing all of the work but I didn't mind. Grams was nearing seventy and one of the main reasons I'd moved in with her was to make sure she followed the doctors orders; Rest, relaxation and recuperation.

The surgery hadn't been easy on Grams and she was no spring chicken to begin with. It seemed like an easy enough task at first but I'd since learned otherwise. Grams had always taken to the notion that idle hands made for an idle mind, as she was apt to say and age hadn't mellowed her beliefs one bit. Unfortunately she wasn't supposed to be doing much, which meant that I was regulated to doing her bidding like some sort of present day peasant girl.

"What was that Grams?" I asked hoping that my inquiry sounded casual.

"You heard me, child. I'm talking about that evil old man over there. I don't know what the neighborhood is coming to, when people like him are allowed to move in."

Gather Members Respond:
Maria G. says "... I like your writing style & I hope you keep at it, I would like to read more of your work."

The Art of Finding

John C.

Braintree

Excerpt: I hear the old man stalking the back yard.  The tool shed door scrapes over the warped plywood floor; the stockade gate thumps.  I know his lips are pressed shut, his jaw is set as he walks toward the house.  The iron bulkhead reverberates on its hinges with the sound Godzilla makes.  Then his steps thud down to the basement.

        I lose my place on the page and let the book sink on my chest like a collapsing prayer.  My mother ascends the staircase.  I think I hear the clicking of her knees, but that may be just the old treads. 

 Morning light has passed into something dimmer, not meant for reading.  My room is suddenly close and my stomach cramps, as though I might have to use the bathroom.

        "Joe?"  My mother knocks.
        "Yeah," I answer, sitting up, putting on my shoes.
        She cracks the door.
        "Maybe you could give your father--"
        "I'm going to," I say, before she can finish.
        "Okay," she says, giving me the tight smile she makes when you try to take her picture.

        This is what happens next.
        I either go out front to the driveway and wait for him, or I go down to the basement--which seems more enthusiastic--to report for duty.

        This time I drift toward the open bulkhead.  Odors of chemical compounds, paint, grease, metal filings and cool concrete seep into the outside air, spoiling the smells of fresh cut grass and spicy weeds.

        Tools clatter in the cellar.  High whistling, like moments of song through radio static, rises above it.  Whistling is a good sign.  I step down into the dim workshop, ducking a funnel web that winds out of a crack in the foundation.  There's a vice on the scarred workbench, and a drill press I have never even touched.

Gather Members Respond:
Wilhelmine Estabrook says "I can't think of a single thing to improve this story. I could feel my chest tighten as when I worked around my father when I was a kid and, no matter what I tried to do, it seemed I'd let him down. Excellent."

The White Taxi

Beryl Singleton Bissell

Schroeder, MN

Excerpt: Massimo painted "Taxi D'Angelo" and his telephone number in bright yellow enamel on the front doors of both the right and left side of his taxi even though most of Rome's residents and even some of its tourists, knew the white taxi was driven by the poet who called his taxi Farfalla Bianca, White Butterfly.

            Daily, Massimo vacuumed the seats of his lovely taxi and polished her creamy exterior. He took pride in the fine appearance she made among the smaller, noisier vehicles crowding the streets of his city. Her soft beige interior provided a quiet place for his passengers to unwind and relax. His gentle spirit inspired them to confidence.       
            As Massimo drove his passengers through Rome, they talked and he listened. They drew conclusions, pulled loose threads of consciousness together, made decisions. Massimo's taxi seemed, especially to his regulars, the perfect spot to unburden themselves. It was more intimate than the confines of a confessional box, more comfortable than a psychiatrist's couch. His passengers often left feeling liberated without quite knowing why.

Passengers, in turn, gave Massimo much to think about. At night, after he had kissed his children goodnight and tucked them into bed, he'd muse upon the things he'd heard. Often the insight gleaned from these stories wove their way into his poetry. Inspired, he'd then transcribe his thoughts in verse so light and buoyant that it seemed he'd captured it from the butterflies themselves. His friends put his verses to music, and when they gathered, as they did once a week, they always brought a mandolin to accompany his readings.

Every day, except Sunday, Massimo picked up tourists at their fine hotels and took them to Via Condotti where they shopped, to Citta Vaticano to visit Saint Peter's Basilica, to the Spanish Steps, the Coliseum, the fountains at Tivoli, wherever it was they wanted to go. Every day, except Sunday, he'd transport his regulars: Professor Guidini from his tiny flat on Via Giulia to the Vatican Library where he worked, the widow Carlotta Valentin to the market where she'd buy fresh asparagus and tomatoes for herself, a little liver for her cat.

Every day, except Sunday.

Gather Members Respond:  
Carol Voigts says "This has everything, Beryl. Spirituality, sibling friendship, laughter, enjoyment of material thigs in a lovely way, compassion, earthiness, wonderful conversation. Tonio's love for Jesus is so passionate that the "church" cannot bring it down. I like the way you've put this story so we can continue to enjoy the brothers, and their spirituality. It is part of their fabric, their understanding of life. Wonderful job."

A Double Life

Elaine O.

Cincinnati, OH

Excerpt: I'll tell you right up front, I never planned on duplicating. It was something rich people did, selfish people. I never knew any dupes, certainly never lived in a house run by them, like my college roommate, Kara. I still remember her jaw dropping open when I told her that at my house, we did our own laundry and cooked our own meals.

"Do you clean, too?" she'd asked, wrinkling her nose as if "clean" were some foul word. It became evident as time went on that she pitied me, that she thought we were simply too poor to have dupes. I never disabused her of this notion, as I didn't want to upset our delicate balance of civility. Secretly though, I despised her.

Every Friday her dupe would drive down from Sinton and pick up her laundry, dropping off clean, pressed clothes in exchange. I learned to avoid being in the dorm on Friday afternoons. I never knew her dupe's name, if indeed he had one. One day I returned to our room to retrieve a forgotten data key, and found her dupe standing outside our door, holding a huge parcel of folded clothes.

Like all dupes of newer cloning, he was short, thin, and hairless. It was a chilly afternoon, but he stood in the breezeway outside our door, coatless and shivering. He didn't even look up when I approached, though I could tell by the way he straightened up that he heard me coming.

"Uh, hello?" I said. "Kara's not here?"

He looked up for a second, a flicker of a gray-eyed glance. Then he looked down at the floor again. "Yes. Hello, Miss," he said tonelessly.

I unlocked the door. "I don't know where Kara is," I said as I walked a few steps into the room. "But why don't you go ahead and leave that on her bed, and take whatever you usually take?"

He stood outside the door, unmoving. "I am to wait," he said.

"But it's so windy," I said. "You must be freezing. Look, I'm just picking something up. At least wait in here. Surely Kara won't mind. I know I don't."

He never moved, never looked up. "I am to wait," he repeated.

As I scanned through my chemistry data files, Kara arrived.

"What?" she exclaimed, seeing the open door. "Oh, you're here, Pereza," she said. "Why'd you leave the door open?"

"I thought he would want to come out of the cold, since you weren't here," I said.

 
From The Gather Editors:
We found "A Double Life" an intriguing and well written story.  The unusual subject matter and narrative stimulated conversation among our staff about the protagonist's struggle with "duplication."  Staying with the reader after he or she has put it down is a sign of a truly good story.