I sat at my desk working late as I normally did on Friday nights, but events were already in motion that would change my view of life forever. A stabbing pain in the small of my back announced it was time for a break, so I punched the computer’s print key, commanding the next-to-last batch of invoices to run. I picked up the phone intending to call Joann, my bride of twenty years. She usually waited up for me or at least waited until I called before she went to sleep, but my phone was dead. Odd, I thought, but then I remembered a news story said solar flares might play havoc with communications for a day or two.

Intending to take a stroll, I stepped out of my brightly-lit office onto the deserted factory floor. Only a few night-lights far overhead gallantly fought the clutching shadows. Row after row of idle machinery stood like phantoms stretching away for a distance of two city blocks before ending at the loading docks. The short hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood up on goose bumps because the murky shadows seemed alive, just waiting for me to turn my back so they could resume playing some eerie game, unobserved. Instead of walking, I decided to take a look outside, wondering if the aurora borealis would be visible in Georgia.

Opening the back door leading into the parking lot, a February chill gripped my bones. Through the slowly swirling mist I saw one car sitting in a lot constructed for hundreds. It was mine. Fog shrouded the few parking lot lights, making them appear as portals to another dimension, and only muted traffic noise from the freeway a block away tied me to reality.

From the inky depths of the deserted factory, a howl sliced through the stillness sending chills running up and down my spine before I remembered the family of wild cats that slinked around by night and hid by day. The cats lived on unlucky rodents and the goodwill of the Pinkerton Guards, but never before had I heard them scream such a heart stopping cry.

I propped the door open, leaned against the outside railing, and lit a cigarette. "Good evening Gregg," came a voice from just inside. My knees turned to jelly and my heart relocated somewhere around the pit of my stomach.

My friend Bobbie, the Pinkerton Guard, leaned out over the doorjamb and smiled at me. Her brilliant white teeth seemed to glow against her charcoal colored skin. She stood just inside at the fire call-box ready to turn her key at the stroke of two. She giggled, "Didn’t scare you, did I?"

"No. Of course not," I lied, happy that she couldn’t see my bald head turn red from embarrassment. "Stay and chat a while?" I pleaded.

"Can’t right now," she answered. "I’ve got to make my rounds."

I watched her hurry away. Almost immediately the slight figure dressed in dark blue coveralls was consumed in the shadows. Even her flashlight beam was lost to me when she cut across two rows of metal megaliths. I hoped I’d see her again before the night was over. Almost frozen, I flipped my cigarette away and closed the door.

Returning to the office, I found Joann smiling up at me from her perch on the couch, sitting on her blue-jean clad crossed legs. Although it’s a short drive to the factory, she seldom visited me late at night, and I was happily shocked. "I, uh, I didn’t see you come in, Sweetheart."

"Wanted to surprise you," she said, her round face smiling, "so I came in the front."

"I’m delighted you’re here . . . what’s up, Hon?"

"The kids are out, and I couldn’t sleep," she explained in that soft, husky voice that made my heart flutter. "Chris is pulling an all-nighter, studying over at Gary’s, and Barbara Ann is staying the night with a friend."

I sat down at my computer, pulled up the last folder, and hit sort. "Now," I said, watching her pale face carefully, "that’ll keep this electronic brain busy a while. Why did you really come down here in the middle of the night?"

"I just had to see you and touch you," she said in an odd, gentle tone. I’ve never told you how much I miss you when you’re away. I know you have to work. It takes so many sacrifices to put two kids through college."

I glanced back at my computer screen, noting that it was about a quarter of the way through its task and asked, "There’s something else . . . isn’t there?"

A tear spilled from her ocean-green eyes before she answered, "I let you get off without a goodbye kiss this morning."

Who can fathom the mind of a woman? I thought, but said, "We can remedy that right now. Can’t we?"

As I stood up, she seemed to float into my arms. Her familiar plump body molded against my slightly pudgy torso. I ran my hands through her wavy blond hair that rolled down over her shoulders and felt her arms circle me like a vice.

Looking down into her up-tilted face, I returned the hug, and bent down to kiss her generous lips, losing myself in her gentleness, her sensuous fragrance and the passion.

Presently, she broke the embrace and smiled up at me. I smiled back. "Hold that thought," I said. "I can get these invoices in the mail pretty quick."

"It’s OK now," she said. "I’m going home."

"Wait. I’ll see you out to your car."

"No. You finish your work. Everything will be just fine."

With a parting smile and a click of the door-latch she was gone. I gathered up the invoices from the printer, punched print for the last batch and started putting postage on the previous batch, all the time telling myself to hurry.

My work finished, I stepped into the darkened factory which was still lightly scented with Joann’s fragrance. The night shadows were just shadows. As I walked to my car, I noticed the fog had blown away just as quickly as it had rolled in. Then I glanced at the clear four a.m. sky. If there had been any northern lights, they had dissipated.

Traffic on the way home was nonexistence except for one lone ambulance which wasn’t in any particular hurry. My street came up just as I passed the church we occasionally attended. I was glad to see the lights restored that light up the giant cross on the side of the three-story brick structure. Then my thoughts turned to the mystery of what really lies on the other side of the grave and concluded that no man can really know until it’s his time.

Turning onto my street, I was alarmed. Flashing red and blue lights in front of my house turned the morning into a nightmare. Surreal ghostly figures of firemen crossed in front of police headlights. This can’t be real, I thought, I must be on the wrong street, but I had not turned wrong. It was my street.

What had been my house lay centered in the fire truck’s spotlights. Charred, smoldering, ashes. A burned out hulk sat beside the collapsed carport on melted tires. My mind screamed that can’t be Joann’s car. I just talked to her!

The Fire Chief rushed up. Over the din of engine noise, he shouted, "Sir, you live here?"

"What happened?" I demanded.

He just shook his head and repeated his question a little softer.

Numbly, I nodded, "Yes . . . yes I did." Confused, I asked, "What time was the fire?"

"Your wife called in just before two a.m. She said she was trapped in the master bedroom. I’m really sorry."

I stared at him dumbly thinking this can’t be real. I just talked to Joann.

"Was your wife the only person home?"

"Yes," I answered without emotion. "Joann said earlier the children were out for the night."

His eyes met mine and again he said, "Mister, I’m really sorry." Then he turned away and went back to his men.

In despair, I watched the eastern skies grow pink, wondering how I was going to get through the day. I wanted more than anything to trade places with Joann. But suddenly, I was enveloped in peaceful calmness because just then I knew without a doubt, the grave is not the end. Everything will be just fine. Joann said so.

Copyright © 2000 Hoyt Brown. All Rights Reserved

Second Place

 A River Song

By Thomas Spencer

Some may think it as any other night of any year, this night of nights. Let me tell you it is not like any other underside of day this year. This is a night that comes but once a year. The night of living dead.

The kids are in the streets. The wet wind-swept leaves are dancing in the air, twisting in the wild eddies, then resting on the ground momentarily only to catch another ride, a rip tide, up and into the cold night currents of the All Souls River, a river of spirits. Mankind has never known this night without the winds of the All Souls River.

Be it the lunar calendar, or the solar calendar, this is the night of recompense. Souls are tallied and marked for the coming year. Father Fate will know by morning what lies ahead for each and every soul.

No - even to think that you believe, that you can hide, Ha! It brings a chuckle to those that know this night. The All Souls River is made up of every soul that has ever lived. They rest in the quietude of the woodlands and forests during most of the year. That is, most of them are at rest, at rest during most of the year. There are some that just won’t rest. They wander through the living world creating nervousness and fear. These souls are chosen on this night of living dead. They are chosen from the children parading before them, swimming in the river, the All Souls River, parading in their masks and costumes.

It is not the most frightening costume, the prettiest fairy princess, a ghoul with masterful make-up, or a super hero with visions of saving the world that will be listed in the annals of fate, on the reciprocity side.

The list is not long, but it is a list that is not desirable to be on when you cross over into the woodlands of time. It is a list that will condemn souls to everlasting disquiet. No they will not have the restful reflections to look back on as they lounge in the forest of time. They are condemned to probe the minds of the living and find the error of their ways. They travel the winds of night circling the world chasing the sun as it sets leaving darkness behind. They are ever looking for the light of redemption, a way to cross into the quietude of rest. But their destiny is to wander, entering the minds of living souls, raising the hackles on the living. Sometimes causing them to crossover in fright.

Yes, tonight all souls have the obligation to flow with the wind searching for the little girl with the over abundance of vanity, a girl that is mean to her friends not helping them with their costumes. The little boy that really means to trick no matter what the treats are. The children that are greedy taking candy from those younger than they are. You know the children I’m talking about.

And the souls will know too.

The souls are in the winds that run across your neck like fingers, the winds that tickle your ears with a cold chill and circle your head caressing your hair, penetrating your mind and finding your thoughts, recording them in the book of fate. If they find you thinking evil thoughts or you have ungrateful attitudes they rush off in a burst of wind to record your name in the book.

Now Susan, Larry, Chad, mind your manners as you do your trick or treating tonight.

What! What was that?

Now why did that - that door blow open?

Copyright © 2000 Thomas Spencer.  All Rights Reserved

Third Place

The Little Yellow Bowl

By Betty Lubinski

When Rhoda Keller died, all three of her daughters knew she wouldn't want them to fight over any of her belongings, not even the yellow bowl.

"It's a darned shame that some people are so greedy," Rhoda used to say. "I hate it when people fight over their inheritance. Nothing in the world is worth a family fight." There was so much bitterness in the families after Rhoda's own mother died that her siblings would barely talk to each other anymore. Rhoda mourned the alienation from her brothers and sisters almost as much as she did losing their mother. "I sure don't want you girls fighting over any of my stuff."

"We won't, Mom," Carrie would say, "except over the yellow bowl." Then the sisters would all laugh.

The little yellow pottery bowl had come overland from Ohio in a covered wagon--a gift from their great-great-grandmother to their great-grandmother. It was special to Rhoda and became special to each of the girls in turn as they grew old enough to appreciate its history.

"Your great-grandmother Cecily carried that little bowl in her hands all the way from Ohio. It was a special gift to her from her own mother. When she left with her husband on the wagon train, she knew she would probably never see her mother again, and that was a daily reminder that her mother still loved her. That bowl was a memory of the life she was leaving behind and a symbol of hope for a new life in the frontier."

The bowl had sat in a place of honor on the fireplace mantel all of their growing-up years, and each of the girls coveted the yellow bowl for her own.

Rhoda was a feisty lady. She was heartbroken when her husband passed away, but that didn't stop her from taking swimming and painting lessons, making new friends, and busying herself with volunteer work. She also had a passion for garage sales, estate sales, secondhand and antique stores that none of her girls shared. They just couldn't quite understand her delight in poking around in dusty old stores, but that didn't stop Rhoda. She had a dozen friends who loved antiques, and they'd go off happily scouring every secondhand store within driving distance. "I have no intention of letting the girls become my life," she used to say. "They have lives of their own to live."

Rhoda developed cancer when she was 89 years old, and the girls worried about her dying in pain, but instead she died quietly in her sleep one night--just went to bed, and in the morning, didn't wake up. It was sudden but not unexpected since she’d had several small strokes that year. The girls missed her like crazy but they were very grateful that her cancer hadn't grown painful.

There was a lot of work to do to settle their mom's estate, and the sisters spent several weeks working at their mom's house, sorting out things they wanted to keep, donating things to the Salvation Army, cleaning and painting to get the house ready to sell. For years, the sisters hadn't spent much time together--too busy with their own families-- and now they found themselves enjoying each other's company immensely. They divided most of their mom's belongings without any difficulty, but each of them knew they still had to make a decision about the little yellow bowl.

"Well," said Cecily one morning, "are you guys ready to take on the battle of the yellow bowl?"

Carrie shrugged. "Might as well," she said. "We're going to fight. I know it."

"I'm ready," said Maryann. "I got my boxing gloves on."
She started tearing the tape off the box labeled "yellow bowl."

"Should we draw straws to see who gets the bowl?"

"I’d lose," Cecily wailed. "I've never won a thing in my life."

"You know Mom would hate for us to fight over it," Carrie said.

"Look," whispered Maryann. "Maybe this is silly, but let's pray over the decision."

The girls joined hands, bowed their heads, and each in turn asked God to bless their families and help them to make a decision about the little yellow bowl that would honor their mother's love for them.

When they looked up, Maryann said , "Before you open the package, let me say something. I'd be willing to give up the bowl if I could have Grandma's favorite letter opener."

"That’s not fair to you, Maryann," Cecily cried. "You're the oldest. If anyone deserves the bowl, you do."

"I don't think it has anything to do with who deserves it," Maryann said. "We all deserve it. Just because I was born first doesn't make it any more mine than anyone else's."

"I don't even want it," Carrie said flippantly. "It doesn't match a thing I own."

"Oh, knock it off, Carrie. You know and I know that you'd redecorate your whole kitchen around that bowl if you had it. Mom didn't like liars anymore than she liked fighting."

Carrie blushed. "Okay, so you found me out. Maybe Cecily should have it. She was named after great-grandma."

The three girls stared at each other. They hadn't really been close when they first started working to divide their mom's things, but somehow they'd grown closer during that time and now none of them wanted to hurt the others.

Maryann sighed. "Let's open the box and look at it. Maybe that'll tell us something."

"Maybe we should just pass the bowl around, like a team bowling trophy. We could rotate. It can go home with Maryann the first six months, then six months at Carrie's house, and then finally six months at my house. That way we all get to have it--and Mom will sleep peacefully, knowing we aren't fighting."

"That's a great idea," Maryann said, and Carrie nodded in agreement. "I like that idea better than drawing straws."

Then Cecily tore open the wrapping, peeked inside the box --and looked stunned.

"I don't believe this," she said, tipping the box so the others could see, too.

In the box were three little yellow bowls, all exactly alike. The sisters took the bowls out and examined them closely. Carrie tipped them over to look at the markings on the bottom. Even the markings were exactly the same.

All three of the sisters burst into laughter.

"That Mom of ours. I'll bet she had to work like crazy to find two other yellow bowls exactly like the one great-grandma brought from Ohio. She really didn't want us to fight, did she?"

"Where do you suppose she found the other two?"

"That's probably why she haunted second-hand stores for years before she died. I thought she was looking for antique frames for her paintings."

"Tricky old lady, wasn't she? Can you imagine keeping this secret?"

"Oh, but now we'll never know which of these bowls came west in the covered wagon with Great-Grandma Cecily, will we?"

"No," Maryann said, "but you know, I guess it really doesn't matter. Each of these bowls is a precious symbol of our mother's love for us. I'd be proud to have any one of them."

"Me, too," Carrie said.  

Copyright © 2000 Betty Lubinski.  All Rights Reserved

Fourth Place

 The Ritual

By Linda Barnett-Johnson

"Hey Jannay, what you want fo you birt-day?" asked her friend, Sarid.

Jannay knew that no one could give her the gift she really wanted.

"Unless you ken give me a plane ticket outa here, den you cana not help me."

Sarid stared at her with huge brown eyes. "Whata do you mean?"

"You know I be coming of age and the ritual waits fo me. I dona wan it! She said fearfully, as if it were happening that very moment.

Sarid knew that Jannay was talking about "The Ritual". She had already gone through it and remembered the horrible pain she suffered. She also knew it was a necessary part of their life and culture.

"Where you ken go, anway?" asked Sarid.

"I wanna go to United Steetes of Amerca. I been readen bout a place called Caleforna. Dey hava great schools dare an freedom, freedom from dis torture."

Jannay said good-bye and left her friend staring after her.

Jannay walked slowly through the market place where vendors sold food, shoes, clothes, cloth, and live animals. She’d been sent to find some vegetables and some swaddling cloth for the ritual. She grimaced whenever she thought of it. Why did she have to be born in Kenya, where it was their culture to practice such agony?

She had witnessed her two older sisters’ circumcisions, and the screams that came from them reminded her of an animal caught in a trap. The midwife literally cut off their clitoris and sewed up the vulva, leaving just a small hole. This was done with the barga, a knife-like instrument. Men wanted this done to ensure the faithfulness of their wives. Jannay didn’t even want to get married, so why go through with it?

Jannay had made up her mind that she would find a way to escape such torture. She didn’t know whom she could trust, because anyone helping her would be banned from his or her families. She would have to do this by herself. But how could she get the money for a plane ticket, and have enough to survive on? She would worry about that when she was far away from here. Being only eleven, was going to be difficult enough. But then she wasn’t a typical eleven-year-old. She was well read and excelled in school. She longed to be a doctor of women, so she could educate and help mend them physically as well as mentally.

Jannay handed over the food to her mother Chalda. "Where is da swaddling cloth I ask you to git?"

"I ah,I coulda not find eny," Jannay lied.

"You are lying to me, why?" she asked astounded.

Jannay knew she shouldn’t have lied, but she didn’t want anything to do with helping them proceed with that horrid ritual. She’d rather die than go through with it. Heck, she knew of girls that did die because they bled to death.

"Jannay I ask you a question, why dida you not git da cloth?"

Could Jannay tell her? Surely her mother would understand. Maybe she would even help her.

"Mama, I dona want da circumcision," she blurted out.

Chalda just stood looking at her youngest daughter. She knew that eventually Jannay would breakdown.

"Please seet down."

Jannay walked over to her mother and sat next to her.

"Dis is nat’ral way to feel, but it is our custom. You hava to be purified fo you husbend. Dis is da way of our peeple. Dare is nota eny tang you ken do. Now you be brave gurl. It weel be ovar soon."

Jannay just sat there staring at her mother. That’s it? She wasn’t going to help her? What kind of an explanation was that anyway? She decided to proceed with her plans.

"Okey mama. What evar you say. I understand." Jannay said that just to appease her mother. She looked at her dear sweet mother and wondered what she’d think if she knew that Jannay was planning on leaving. She felt a pain like no other. But she also knew that this pain would be easier to handle, in time.

The next day Jannay got up early and decided to do some investigating. She asked around and found that a plane would be leaving for America in four days. That was the day before her birthday, and the day before her circumcision. She had been saving for years, but just needed a little more. She knew who she could count on.

"Kame, do you hava eny money I ken borro?"

"Whata you need fo?" Kame asked curiously.

"I wana geev a leetle trip fo my mama. She wana go see her broder. Mama cry fo to see hem, an I dona have enoff." The closer the ritual got the better she got at lying.

Kame was a good friend of the family and wanted to help.

"I ken geev you tomorro." Kame was always happy to help her friends. She made a good allowance because her father was a doctor in town.

The next day came with a downpour of rain. She had secretly packed a bag and was on her way to get the money from Kame and to get the plane ticket, when her mother stopped her.

"Jannay, we hava suprize fo you. We decide to do da circumcision today when Momay come."

Momay was the midwife that would perform the terrible ritual.

Jannay froze. Her brain was screaming a loud No, but her mouth remained mute. What were they thinking? What was she going to do now?

"I have to go git some swaddling cloth mama. Remember I dida not git?" panic rising in her voice.

"Dona worry, Momay say she have pleenty. Come lets go ana git you ready."

"Mama please listen to me. I dona wan dis! Please dona do dis," Jannay begged.

Kimwah, her father, took her by the arm and led her to the room where it was to take place. Jannay tried pulling away, but he held her tight.

"You mama ana sisters weel prepare you. Dona be deffecult."

After placing her in the room, he walked out and locked the door, knowing she would try to run. Chalda had told him she was very frightened and didn’t want to go through with it.

Jannay’s heart was beating so hard she couldn’t think. Her mouth was dry and her body shook. Then she heard the lock and the door handle open. The panic she felt could only be described as wanting to die. She had never been so scared in all of her young life. This was the moment she was dreading. This was the moment her life ended as she knew it.

Chalda and Jannay’s sisters led Momay into the room. The sisters and Chalda placed a stiff and struggling Jannay on the table. They fought to remove her clothes. Holding her down, Momay took the dreaded barga and wiped it off with a cloth. She didn’t even sterilize it, and she didn’t put any anesthetic on her. She didn’t use any anesthesia either, so Chalda put a stick into Jannay’s mouth. Her screams could be heard a mile away.

The room suddenly became dark.

"She is coming around," said Chalda. She took some water and bathed Jannay’s face. The circumcision had been completed and Jannay was now pure for a husband.

Jannay didn’t want to wake up. She fought it, but her surrounding came into focus, as well as pain so acute she thought Momay was still cutting on her.

"Oh,oh,help me. Please someone help me!" Jannay could only mumble.

"You are now purfec for a husbend. It is all ovar. En a few daz you weel feel better, an you life weel go on," her mother said proudly.

All Jannay could think about was getting on a plane for the United States and seek out a competent doctor to help repair some of the damage done to her. That is what she would live for, the day she would truly be free.   

Copyright ©2000 Linda Barnett-Johnson

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