Congratulations to our Latest SCWC Writing Challenge winners

 

This past month was a big one for birthdays in the SCWC family! We enjoyed birthday celebrations for several staff members, and we heard from many of our members that March is a special month in the same way.

So...March makes us think of birthdays.

For the March Writing Challenge, we encouraged SCWC members to write a fictional short story centered around a birthday--and we loved the many submissions we received. (In a way, it was like opening up a bunch of gifts just for us!)

We're excited to announce and share with you the winners of this past month's challenge. 

Congratulations to...

1st place: Teresa Smyser

2nd place: Ashley Doyle Pooser

3rd place: April McCay

Enjoy reading our winning submissions...

"The Album"

by Teresa Smyser

The old blue picture album sat in the middle of the table. My finger slid across the cover on my way to the phonograph. I looked over my shoulder to see Mom’s smile. Pulling out her favorite record, I placed it on the turn table. After flipping the switch, I carefully laid the needle against the old vinyl disk.

Mom patted the chair next to her. “Come on. It’s time.” She drummed her arthritic fingers on the table. “You know, once a year isn’t enough time to reminisce about this whole album.”

“You’re right. It’s not.” I settled into my seat and pulled the album close. Would we make it through the whole book before the needle found the deep scratch in the record? Doubtful.

“What are you waiting for? Open it.”

I grinned. “Alright. Alright.”

With a gentle touch, I turned to the first page. A black and white picture of Mom at the age of 27 stared back. My brows raised. “I sure like this photo of you.”

“Thank you, my dear. It is one of my better ones. But enough of this page. I wish to look upon our family and friends. They’re much more fun.”

She winked and giggled.

We thumbed through the first few pages remembering her parents and her grandparents.

Thankfully, I had recorded details about each picture since Mom’s memory often failed.

As we cruised through the cousin pages, Mom stilled my hand and pointed to one picture.

“Now, that was an exciting trip.”

Her gaze stared out the window with a far-away look.

“I was eighteen and dating your dad. We went with my cousins and our two married friends to the camp.” She grinned. “They acted as our chaperones.”

I knew without asking that she referred to the camp owned by her cousins, Boyd and Sib. The log cabin sat underneath Sky Bridge in Kentucky, and they called it Sleepy Hollow Lodge—a place where you never see a lizard. Humorous. Lizards scampered everywhere.

After telling funny things they did on that trip, a big sigh escaped her. She flopped back and looked at me. “As enjoyable as my outing at the camp, a dark element still haunts me.”

I’d heard these stories so many times but of what did she refer? It didn’t take a second before she repaired my memory.

“I hated and I mean really hated …”

She stretched out a long pause. “… using that outhouse!”

My eyes widened. “Oh me. Of course … the outhouse saga. On that note, I think we need some popcorn and sweet tea before progressing.”

Mom chuckled.

The smell of fresh popped corn filled the room. After a refreshing drink of iced tea, I chomped on my popcorn and avoided the outhouse episode when she got poison ivy.

I enjoyed pictures of an era when you always wore your Sunday best to Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner. When being with family was more important than any other activity.

Mom particularly savored the neighborhood friends’ pictures where my brother and I … I’m the baby … grew and played with our pals. Her finger tapped one photo. “To wear pants and ditch dresses for every occasion was monumental for women.”

I shook my head in agreement. “Look here, Mom. You, in a bathing suit. You and the neighborhood ladies were such sun goddesses.”

Of course, I knew most of the women couldn’t swim. They watched their kids swim and prayed if any got into trouble, someone would pull them out before they drowned.

My head jerked around at the horrible screeching from the phonograph. The needle sat in the deep groove on the record. I pushed my chair back and hustled to spare the ears from further suffering. I didn’t bother to restart the music.

When I walked toward the table, my eyes filled with tears. Half the book remained unseen. I closed it without a sound.

As I gazed at her empty chair, my tears fell. “Happy Birthday, Mom. I miss you.”

"Barstool Angel"

by Ashley Doyle Pooser

Kayla was so focused on the purple hyacinths withering next to her mimosa, she didn’t notice the imposing hulk of a figure suddenly appearing next to her at the bar. She was barely holding it together as it was, and she wasn’t eager to be caught in small talk with the burly, leather-clad biker who had just taken up residence two stools over in the otherwise empty airport lounge. She was usually outgoing and enjoyed hearing strangers’ stories, but the weight of her grief was strangling her spirit.

Is it even fair to call it grief when she hasn’t died? Kayla wondered. She took a sip of her overpriced drink and pretended to read her book. March 19th sure looked different today than she had planned.

“Business or pleasure?” The gravelly voice practically barked at her from two stools over.

“Neither,” she replied without looking up from the sentence she had reread at least twenty times.

“Well now I got an even bigger hankerin’ to know what you’re up to,” the voice said in a drawl that sounded a lot like home.

Kayla turned on her stool in his direction, planning to politely shut this down before it got started but was taken aback by his eyes. They stood out, clear and blue, on his worn and whiskered face.

His gray beard was wiry and impressively long. He could pass for Santa’s younger, more rebellious brother who preferred Harleys to reindeer.

“I’m going to visit my grandmother.” She found herself answering his question before she even realized she wasn’t shutting anything down. There was something about those eyes that made her want to open up. “Normally, it would be my favorite day of the year. This year is—” her voice trembled, and she took a breath to steady herself. “This year is different.”

“Aw, kid. Sounds like you’re having a bit of a rough go. We’ve got some time to kill, and I need a refill on my coffee. Will you do an old man a favor and tell me about it?”

She hesitated, saw the kindness in his eyes, and began to talk in spite of herself.

Kayla was born on Mamaw’s 50th birthday. As she held her tiny granddaughter, Mamaw declared this was the best gift of her whole life. A tradition began that day and every March 19th would find them celebrating their special day together. No matter how many miles separated them, this day would find them laughing, having tea, and buying each other bouquets of colorful hyacinths that always seemed to bloom just in time for their day.

Last year, they rocked away the afternoon on the front porch of a South Georgia tea room. When they realized this year’s March 19th would not only find them celebrating their 25th and 75th birthdays but also the first day of Spring, they decided they must go all out and make it the best birthday adventure yet. But before any of their plans could be finalized, Mamaw was diagnosed with acute onset dementia. At first, she had good days and bad days. But now there were only bad days, and she didn’t remember even her closest friends and family.

Kayla felt like she had been in mourning for something she hadn’t officially lost yet. She was being torn apart in a devastating tug-of-war of the inevitable and the not quite yet. She had consumed books and research articles like the last morsels of food in front of a starving man. She was desperate to have one more special day before Mamaw was lost to her for good. In her research, she found that often a familiar object, song, or smell could trigger deeply buried memories and lead to precious moments of clarity. She knew it wasn’t a guarantee, but she had convinced herself that the sight and smell of Mamaw’s favorite hyacinths might be just the trigger she needed.

She would give anything in this world to have one last chance for Mamaw to know she was there. Kayla would hold her close, breathe in her Coco Mademoiselle perfume and commit it to memory. She would tell Mamaw how much she loved her and how this world was all the better for her presence in it. She desperately wanted Mamaw to know she was seen and loved. Maybe even more, she was desperate to feel seen and loved by Mamaw one last time.

Tears escaped Kayla’s eyes as she held up the limp flowers. “But see? They’re dead,” she told the man at the bar. “I tried wrapping the stems in wet paper towels. I tried refreshing them in cups of water. But the layover was just too long. They’re not going to make it. I’m not going to make it.”

All this while, the burly man had sat as still as a statue perched on a barstool and listened to Kayla’s story, his coffee untouched. He took a deep breath and looked at her with those blue eyes.

“Darlin’, I can almost hear your little heart breakin’ and I hate you’re going through this,” he said quietly, his bark long gone. “If every good memory were a brick, you could build a dang mansion. Life is just chock full of the pretty and the pain, ain’t it? No one escapes the one or the other. When we’re going through the ugly times, we gotta hang on to the beautiful. Even if it’s only by our fingernails.”

He shifted his weight and slid off the barstool. “Sweetheart, I wanna thank you for sharin’ your story with me. And I just want you to know somethin’ else. God sees you. He knows what you’re goin’ through. He loves you and you’re never alone. No matter how lonely you might feel, he’s always with you, Kayla.”

She took his hand and thanked him, suddenly feeling lighter. As she watched him slowly walk away, she wondered when she had told him her name. She didn’t remember doing any introductions. As she turned back to the bar, she froze. Her entire body erupted in goosebumps.

There on the bar were her book, her drink, and a bouquet of perfectly fresh, gorgeous purple hyacinths.

"The Singing Lunch Lady"

by April McCay

Fresh baked rolls flavored the air as students and teachers poured into the cafeteria. Swarming as bees toward the hive, they each foraged through the line, filling their plates with the special of the day. Each one of them would soon be handing their money to “Miss Patsy, the lunchroom lady,” at the register ahead.

Through the years, though, this lunch lady collected more than money. She collected moments.

“Miss Patsy.” 

All the students and teachers knew her by that name. There was more to this particular lunchroom lady than her title at the school, though. She was bubbly, attentive and had a way of expressing and being the love a parent, grandmother, or caregiver would give to their dearest loved ones. She filled that void to an extent as best as she could. Knowing that “Miss Patsy” had a heart as big as the smile on her face made every heart melt. Even the kids that needed a little more attention than some of the others; you know the ones, but how did she know? Her super power was observation.

She paid attention and she listened. She was a friend and knew the names of thousands of students and teachers. She was best known for her singing. The students knew “Miss Patsy” would sing if she knew it was someone’s birthday, so they would tell her the names of their friends and sit with excitement as they waited for “Miss Patsy” to make an appearance while they were eating lunch with their friends. They giggled as she clapped and loudly sang in front of the entire cafeteria audience, bringing attention to their friend’s birthday. Most times, the entire cafeteria would join in the birthday song. 

She would tell you her singing was awful but her thoughtful attempt made every student and teacher she sang “happy birthday” to feel like they were one in a million, because in her eyes they truly were. 

Birthdays are special and so were every student or teacher she sang too, and that was just a glimpse of the gift she left behind in every student’s heart. To this very day, students still come up to her, even though she’s retired now and say, “I remember when you sang “Happy Birthday” to me.” 

* That singing lunchroom lady made so many people happy in her life and I’m proud to say that she is my mom! *

~~~~~

Did you enjoy these stories? Would you like your own stories to appear here on the SCWC blog?

Join in our monthly writing challenges, which are posted at the beginning of each month in our SCWC Facebook group and also via email newsletters to our members. Check out our Facebook group HERE to see the challenges, and to stay updated on all of the Southern Christian Writers Conference news and activities.

Congratulations again to our winning writers, and have a great April!