Summers in the South: Read the winners of our June Writing Challenge
Congratulations to the winners of the SCWC's June Writing Challenge! We can't wait for you to read their winning submissions. (Printed below.)
The challenge for June was to write a short fictional story (maximum of 1,000 words) set in the Summer in the South. The genre was up to you--mystery, romance, inspirational...use your creativity!
We received many wonderful submissions (Thank you!), and selected these as our top three winners:
1st place: Amelia (Aimee) Graham
2nd place: Patti Schultz
3rd place: Mara Williams
We hope you enjoy reading the winning stories. And we hope that you'll enter our next monthly challenge.
"Living the Shy Life"
by Amelia Graham
What was she doing here? Sophie O’Shea never went alone anywhere if she could help it. There are women who walk into any social setting and immediately own the place. People just slip right into their orbit, drawn irresistibly to them.
Sophie was not one of those women. When Sophie went out alone, she was more likely to attract horrified onlookers than admirers. At best, she’d commit an embarrassing faux pas like dragging toilet paper behind her shoe. At worst, she’d trip and fall or knock over a drink… or a table full of drinks. And always, even if she did manage to avoid a debacle, there was the social anxiety. The pounding heart, the sweaty palms, the dread over inane things, like what to do with her hands, where to stand, where to sit, when to sit, how to make small talk. She felt so conspicuous. So awkward. A social calamity. She loathed this anxiety. It made her life small; it limited her in ways that she was desperate to change.
So how she now found herself alone at the last Food Truck Friday of the summer was a mystery even to Sophie herself. Maybe it was because it was so last minute when her friend, Nina, bailed on her. Maybe it was just determination to face her fears. Nevertheless, she was here now and there was nothing to do but be fearless.
The heat was sweltering, and no one was fooled into believing that summer was really over.
What the calendar optimistically declared to be autumn would just be extended South Carolina summer, disguised with school schedules and harvest festivals and sweaters it would be too hot to wear. Sophie hoped her face appeared dewy and fresh, rather than sweaty and splotchy as she looked around for any familiar faces. Where was everyone?
By the time she got her food, Sophie still hadn’t seen anyone she knew. There was live music, but the idea of sitting there surrounded by families and groups was unthinkable, so she made her way to the other end of the park. One of her favorite spots was a shady copse of trees by a stream that dissected the park. There were boulders that created natural seating, and the city had also added a few bistro tables, but what really made the area special was the piano located there, painted by a local artist, and free for anyone to play. The area was usually busy, but on an evening when there was a live band at the other side of the park, it should be less crowded.
Sophie was surprised to hear strains of music as she approached, and sure enough, someone was playing the piano, which had attracted a larger crowd than Sophie expected tonight. Ugh… I’ll never find a seat,” she thought, but to her surprise, a couple vacated a table just as she arrived.
Grabbing the spot, Sophie took a moment of gratitude to soak it all in… the delicious food, the sound of children laughing nearby, the breeze from the stream, the scent of the season’s last honeysuckle, the strains of music. THIS is why she wanted to be here. To enjoy this last pause of summer before the busyness of fall took over.
Sophie noticed a man approaching the piano, and then she heard the unmistakable first notes of “Glimpse of Us.” A moment later, the stranger began to sing, and Sophie was transfixed. His voice was deep and clear and full, mesmerizing.
As he sang, something rose up in Sophie, something irresistible. Not many people knew that her mother had kept Sophie in years of voice lessons as a teen, in the hope that it would help Sophie overcome her crippling anxiety. Her voice coach had declared that Sophie’s voice was “a gift from God,” but no lessons or praise or encouragement had ever been enough to empower Sophie to make it through even a single recital. But here, watching this stranger sing, Sophie felt a compulsion to join him.
She didn’t make a conscious decision to begin singing; she never would have had the nerve to do such a thing. Rather, it was as though her voice, of its own volition, just began to rise, lifting to full volume at the chorus and bringing a beautiful harmony to the melody. The stranger’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and every head in the crowd, already captivated by the singer, turned to Sophie, and then looked back and forth between the two singing, wondering if this had been orchestrated. Sophie nearly let the shock of what she’d done shut her mouth on the spot. But instead, she stood and then, encouraged by the singer and the pianist, and eventually the crowd, she continued singing as she walked to the piano, and sang as though she’d been doing it all her life. This was her moment. Her opportunity to be someone different. The courage may abandon her again tomorrow, or even right after this song…. but right now, she seized it, and was intoxicated with the power of her own bravery.
Every note blended with the stranger’s voice in such a sweet harmony that when the last note drifted away on the summer air, there was complete silence from the crowd for a moment, until applause broke out.
“I’m Sean,” the stranger said, offering a handshake and staring into Sophie’s eyes as though deciphering her very soul. Sophie smiled- not her shy smile, but the brilliant, bold smile that she usually only practiced in the vanity mirror. “I’m Sophie,” she replied, “and I have an open seat and some Low Country boil to share,” She paused and added, “if you’re interested,” just the slightest hesitation entering her voice. Still clasping her hand, Sean nodded, and Sophie led him toward her table. Maybe a new life was possible, if she was brave enough to step into it.
It was the kind of summer that seemed to stretch endlessly, the days lingering in a golden haze as the sun refused to dip below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of amber and lavender each evening. I’d been counting days, but not in the way most teenagers do—more like I was waiting for something I wasn’t even sure I could name.
Papa always remarked summer was the best time to find your smile again. But since his failing health, the days felt quieter and softer, as if the world had lost some of its color. His augh—loud, easy, and full of life—still echoed in my mind.
The house felt hollow, quieter than before. His familiar kitchen chair sat mostly empty at the table, as if it held its breath, waiting for his hearty laugh that once filled the room with warmth and life. I’d sit there sometimes, staring down at the table and thinking about his stories or how he’d turn a simple riddle into a joke-filled adventure.
One afternoon, I found myself wandering through the yard. Memories of his strong voice surfaced—steady and encouraging—telling me, "Good, Better, Best. Never let it rest." Each word was like a gentle nudge, reminding me to keep practicing my baseball pitch or swing, even when I felt like giving up. It was his way of reminding me that no matter how good I was, I could always do better. If I kept trying, I’d find my way.
I gently opened the dusty family scrapbooks, my fingers tracing the glossy photographs—Papa’s broad smile, eyes crinkling with joy, capturing moments of pure happiness that seemed to shimmer even through the aging paper. Then I paused, looking at the chair at the table. A sudden ache tugged at my chest—an ache woven with sorrow and a fragile thread of hope, whispering that maybe things could still change.
Maybe I’d been holding onto the wrong thing—waiting for his vibrant younger self to come back in a way that wasn’t possible. But I could carry forward—his love of laughter, his belief in doing my best.
That night, I decided to do something Papa would love. I found an old glass jar, its surface scratched and worn, and carefully wandered into the yard. As I gently caught a flickering firefly and dropped it inside, I watched the tiny creature’s luminous body pulse softly, casting gentle amber glows within the jar’s fragile walls. I marveled at the smallest light shining brightly in the dark. I wanted to be that light— for myself and maybe for someone else.
The next morning, I woke up with a new idea. I’d start a “Good, Better, Best” challenge—something to help others see that even in their worst days, there was a way to find a little hope and laughter. I’d tell stories, share jokes, and remind everyone that doing your best was the real victory.
I spent the day telling my friends about the challenge, and I watched their faces brighten, their eyes shining with newfound joy—reminding me of Papa’s infectious laughter that could brighten even the gloomiest days. I felt a spark inside me, a faint flicker of the hope for which I’d been searching.
Later that evening, I settled onto the porch hammock, swaying softly as clouds drifted lazily across the deepening sky, painted in streaks of pink and purple. The air smelled like summer—hot and sweet—and I felt the warm weight of the sun on my shoulders. I closed my eyes and heard Papa’s voice reciting his mantra.
“Good, Better, Best. Never let it rest.”
I smiled softly. Maybe summer wasn’t just about the heat or the long days. Maybe it was about hope—that even when everything feels lost, you can find a reason to laugh again, to try again, and to be better.
As the fireflies twirled around me in their delicate dance, their tiny bodies flickering like fleeting stars, I understood that Papa’s laughter was still alive—glowing softly in the warm summer air, forever part of this luminous summer night.
Just as fireflies shine brightly in the darkness, we are called to be lights in the world—sharing hope, love, and kindness even when times feel dark.
Every note blended with the stranger’s voice in such a sweet harmony that when the last note drifted away on the summer air, there was complete silence from the crowd for a moment, until applause broke out.
“I’m Sean,” the stranger said, offering a handshake and staring into Sophie’s eyes as though deciphering her very soul. Sophie smiled- not her shy smile, but the brilliant, bold smile that she usually only practiced in the vanity mirror. “I’m Sophie,” she replied, “and I have an open seat and some Low Country boil to share,” She paused and added, “if you’re interested,” just the slightest hesitation entering her voice. Still clasping her hand, Sean nodded, and Sophie led him toward her table. Maybe a new life was possible, if she was brave enough to step into it.
"Fireflies and Memories: Embracing Hope When it's Melting Away"
by Patti Schultz
It was the kind of summer that seemed to stretch endlessly, the days lingering in a golden haze as the sun refused to dip below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of amber and lavender each evening. I’d been counting days, but not in the way most teenagers do—more like I was waiting for something I wasn’t even sure I could name.
Papa always remarked summer was the best time to find your smile again. But since his failing health, the days felt quieter and softer, as if the world had lost some of its color. His augh—loud, easy, and full of life—still echoed in my mind.
The house felt hollow, quieter than before. His familiar kitchen chair sat mostly empty at the table, as if it held its breath, waiting for his hearty laugh that once filled the room with warmth and life. I’d sit there sometimes, staring down at the table and thinking about his stories or how he’d turn a simple riddle into a joke-filled adventure.
One afternoon, I found myself wandering through the yard. Memories of his strong voice surfaced—steady and encouraging—telling me, "Good, Better, Best. Never let it rest." Each word was like a gentle nudge, reminding me to keep practicing my baseball pitch or swing, even when I felt like giving up. It was his way of reminding me that no matter how good I was, I could always do better. If I kept trying, I’d find my way.
I gently opened the dusty family scrapbooks, my fingers tracing the glossy photographs—Papa’s broad smile, eyes crinkling with joy, capturing moments of pure happiness that seemed to shimmer even through the aging paper. Then I paused, looking at the chair at the table. A sudden ache tugged at my chest—an ache woven with sorrow and a fragile thread of hope, whispering that maybe things could still change.
Maybe I’d been holding onto the wrong thing—waiting for his vibrant younger self to come back in a way that wasn’t possible. But I could carry forward—his love of laughter, his belief in doing my best.
That night, I decided to do something Papa would love. I found an old glass jar, its surface scratched and worn, and carefully wandered into the yard. As I gently caught a flickering firefly and dropped it inside, I watched the tiny creature’s luminous body pulse softly, casting gentle amber glows within the jar’s fragile walls. I marveled at the smallest light shining brightly in the dark. I wanted to be that light— for myself and maybe for someone else.
The next morning, I woke up with a new idea. I’d start a “Good, Better, Best” challenge—something to help others see that even in their worst days, there was a way to find a little hope and laughter. I’d tell stories, share jokes, and remind everyone that doing your best was the real victory.
I spent the day telling my friends about the challenge, and I watched their faces brighten, their eyes shining with newfound joy—reminding me of Papa’s infectious laughter that could brighten even the gloomiest days. I felt a spark inside me, a faint flicker of the hope for which I’d been searching.
Later that evening, I settled onto the porch hammock, swaying softly as clouds drifted lazily across the deepening sky, painted in streaks of pink and purple. The air smelled like summer—hot and sweet—and I felt the warm weight of the sun on my shoulders. I closed my eyes and heard Papa’s voice reciting his mantra.
“Good, Better, Best. Never let it rest.”
I smiled softly. Maybe summer wasn’t just about the heat or the long days. Maybe it was about hope—that even when everything feels lost, you can find a reason to laugh again, to try again, and to be better.
As the fireflies twirled around me in their delicate dance, their tiny bodies flickering like fleeting stars, I understood that Papa’s laughter was still alive—glowing softly in the warm summer air, forever part of this luminous summer night.
Just as fireflies shine brightly in the darkness, we are called to be lights in the world—sharing hope, love, and kindness even when times feel dark.
"A Day in the Sun"
by Mara Williams
The small, blue, inflatable pool was perfectly inflated and filled to the line with water, the water table was fully set up with an underwater theme, a bucket sat near the pool full of ready-to-go water balloons, and the water guns were both locked and loaded. Looking over her shoulder she spotted Mabel and Carter with their noses pressed to the glass, waiting for her to open the back door and let them out. The four-year-old twins were already fully dressed in their swim gear and sunscreen, Mabel in her pink ballerina swim dress and matching hat and Carter in his neon green swim trunks and rash guard.
“Come on out!” Sarah-Kate called as she opened the back door.
The twins shot out of the door and raced to the pool, jumping in. Sarah-Kate smiled at their excited cheers as she plopped down in her lawn chair. She wiped a bit of sweat off her brow and lifted a mason jar glass to her lips. She closed her eyes for just a moment, savoring the cool, sweet taste of sweet iced tea. Surely all her preparations would buy her a few moments rest.
A small, wet hand tapped her thigh. “Mommy, I can’t get the water back in,” Carter said, holding out his water gun. His big brown eyes were wide and beseeching.
Sarah-Kate sighed. Standing from her seat, she walked over to the side of the kiddie pool with Carter.
“Watch,” she said smiling. She popped the little tab and held the gun underwater.
When the bubbles stopped floating up, she popped the little tab back in the hole and lifted it out.
“Thanks mommy!” Carter said, turning away and spraying Mabel.
Mabel squealed, tossing a water balloon at him in retaliation.
Sarah-Kate grinned, watching the battle for a moment before heading back to her chair.
She sat down and lifted up the latest issue of the Southern Living magazine, opening it to the first page.
“Momma! Help!” Mabel shouted across the yard.
Sarah-Kate looked up to see Mabel had used up all the water balloons and placed the empty red bucket in the pool. Now that the five gallon bucket was full, she was unable to lift it out. She shook her head, an affectionate smile gracing her lips as she crossed the yard again.
Leaning over the pool, Sarah-Kate lifted out the bucket, dumping out the water. “Here we go. How about I get your beach buckets? Those will be easier to lift once they are filled.”
“Yeah!” Mabel shouted, dancing around, floppy pink hat bouncing around on her head.
Mabel followed closely behind Sarah-Kate, her crocs making a squishing sound with each step. She stopped directly behind her and watched her rummage through the bin of outdoor toys, before triumphantly lifting two small buckets.
“Yay!” Mabel jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “Carter, momma got our buckets!” She took the buckets and ran back to where Carter was wading in the pool, his neon green swim shorts practically glowing.
He cheered excitedly, scooping water up with his bucket and tossing it in the air.
He cheered excitedly, scooping water up with his bucket and tossing it in the air.
Sarah-Kate laughed at his antics, sitting down once again in her chair. She picked up her magazine, reading through an article about how to get rid of chipmunks in your garden.
Suddenly a deluge of cold water hit her square in the face. She jumped up out of her seat, a bit stunned, and watched as the twins ran away giggling. Her navy blue tank top stuck to her like a second skin, fully soaked, and her cutoff jean shorts were already beginning to chaff.
“We got you momma!” Mabel laughed, clapping her hands.
Carter danced around with his bucket. “We snuck up on you, mommy. Like ninjas!”
Sarah-Kate’s immediate reaction was to be angry, but as she watched her children’s joy and excitement, she decided to let go of the anger and instead do whatever she could to keep those happy smiles on their little faces. Kids are only little for so long, after all.
“Oh, mom is so getting you two!” She called, jogging towards them. “You better run!”
The twins took off around the yard squealing as Sarah-Kate scooped up a water gun and chased them.
Later that night as Sarah-Kate looked down at the sleeping twins, happy smiles on their faces, she didn’t regret her sore muscles or sunburned face. In fact, she couldn’t wait to do it all over again tomorrow.
~~~~~
Thanks for stopping by, and congratulations again to our SCWC members for their winning stories!
Would you like to submit to our next writing challenge? It's easy to do so; email your submission to scwritersconference@gmail.com with "August challenge" in the subject line.
What's the August writing challenge?
Write a personal reflection (maximum of 1000 words) based on a photograph. It can be any type of photograph, of any event or place or person or experience, and can be from any time period of your life. But it must help you reflect on something meaningful to you. Please submit the photograph with your essay. The deadline to submit is August 28.
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