Congratulations to the February Writing Challenge winners!

 And read the stories below.

The February challenge from the Southern Christian Writers Conference was to write a fiction story beginning with the line "I never imagined I could fall in love with..."

As you can see from our winning submissions below, the variety of stories we received was quite unique. We received stories set in the present and past; we got stories about love and about pets; we received stories both inspiring and funny. ALL of the stories (not just the ones we selected as winners) were wonderful; they made the judging process very difficult!

Congratulations to the following writers for their submissions this month:

1st place: Carolyn Donaldson
2nd place: Anne Hendricks
3rd place: Maryel Stone 
Honorable mentions: Nan Carlton and Aimee Graham

We know you'll enjoy reading their wonderful stories.

"Odessa"

by Carolyn Donaldson

I never imagined I could fall in love with Odessa.

At twelve, I had already seen my share of troubles: dust storms, droughts, and—worst of all—losing Daddy in the war. But Mama said he wasn’t lost at all. God knew exactly where he was.

So we left Boise City by train, headed for what Mama promised would be the adventure of a lifetime. I, however, wasn’t so sure.

We weren’t the only ones headed for West Texas. The train was crowded with people, including men in uniforms like Daddy’s. One of them sat right across from us, a chocolate bar in his hand.

“I’ve had chocolate,” I told him, certain this would impress him—or at least make him offer me some.

The man turned slightly away, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“Emma Jean,” Mama said softly, “you be quiet and let that man be.”

“I’m just being friendly ’n all,” I argued.

Mama glanced at the man apologetically.

“First train ride?” he asked.

“For both of us,” Mama said.

He nodded, then broke the chocolate bar in half and handed me a piece. It was the best thing I had ever tasted.

The conductor came by for our tickets. Mama unsnapped her purse and handed them over.

“First time on a train?” he asked, smiling down at me.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “I ain’t never been out of Boise City.”

“I’ve never been out of Boise City,” Mama corrected gently.

“Well then,” I said, “that makes two of us.”

The man across from us laughed as the conductor punched our tickets. Mama gave me the look, though I could see a smile trying to escape.

People came and went as the train pressed on, and the closer we got to Odessa, the more the land began to change.

“Mama,” I said, peering out the window, “there ain’t no trees here.”

“If there were trees,” she said, “you might forget to look up. The Bible says the heavens tell the story just fine on their own.”

“Well,” I replied, “Noah needed them trees to save the animals.”

Mama laughed. “You are right, Emma Jean. Maybe this train is taking us to dry ground that holds a promise of blessing.”

I didn’t understand it then, but Mama was talking about black gold—oil.

The gentle rocking of the train finally carried me to sleep.

“Next stop—Odessa!”

I woke to the sound of drilling and the wheels grinding to a halt.

“Mama,” I said, pointing out the window, “those big things look like grasshoppers praying!”

“Pump jacks,” she said, watching their legs move up and down.

We sat mesmerized as the train slowed. When the doors opened, a blast of heat rushed in. I wrinkled my nose—it smelled like oily dirt.

Mama smiled and took my hand.

~~~~~

Mrs. White’s boarding house was a big white place, worn and in need of paint. Mama said some things—like people—could look rough on the outside and still be good inside.

She was right. Mrs. White’s house was mighty nice, and she even had an inside outhouse, which Mama said folks here called a bathroom.

Mama cooked for Mrs. White, saying us ladies had to stick together.

And that’s just what we did.

But even ladies who stick together have chores, and idle hands don’t stay idle long. Mama told me to make myself useful and sweep the dust off the porch. The more I swept, the more sand blew back in, until it uncovered a treasure just waiting.

I picked up that baseball and tossed it in the air, catching it again and again.

“Emma Jean, get back to work!” Mama called, just as she happened to look outside. So I threw the ball.
It sailed straight into the neighbor’s fence, knocking some of those ’ol boards loose.

I started to whistle, hoping the neighbor would pay it no mind. But out she came, dressed in fancy purple, demanding to speak with Mama.

When she left, Mama leaned down and said, “Emma Jean, the Lord has a way of teaching us not to be rash, and I believe she just came bounding across the yard.”

That night, I said my evening prayers—“…forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that trespass against us.”

“Mama,” I whispered as we knelt by my bed, “Mrs. Fisk don’t seem so forgivin’.”

Mama thought for a moment. “Well, Emma Jean, God orders our steps. You’ll do your best to make amends, won’t you?” she said, smoothing my hair.

I agreed, though I was more than a little afraid of Mrs. Fisk.

The next morning, I fidgeted on her front porch until she opened the door.

“Morning, ma’am,” I said, putting on my best manners.

She looked me over from head to toe. “I’ll expect you every day after school until that fence is repaired. You do go to school, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Mama signed me up. I start tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m Mrs. Fisk,” she said, waiting.

“Emma Jean,” I answered.

She nodded. “See you after school.”

~~~~~

I worked on that fence until dark. When I couldn’t see anymore, I knocked on the door. She nodded and invited me in. “Come in and have dinner, child.”

I grabbed for a fork, but she put her hand over mine, showing me which was the salad fork and reminding me to put my napkin in my lap.

For dessert, she brought out chocolate cake and coffee, like we were at one of those fancy hotels you see downtown. I felt like the luckiest girl in town. I went home and told Mrs. White and Mama all about it.

The next day, I dragged my feet home from school, kicking a rock along the road. I got right to fixing that fence. Mrs. Fisk watched me from the window, and I kept my eyes down.

When I looked up again, she stood on the porch holding a cold glass of lemonade.

“Cat got your tongue, little lady?”

So I told her—about being called an Okie, about getting in trouble for fightin’.

Mrs. Fisk listened carefully. “Emma Jean,” she said, “you can’t help what people say. You know the Scriptures. Turn the other cheek.” I thought she was probably right.

Then she gave me a gentle hug.

After that, I kept coming back. Some days I helped with chores; other times she taught me lessons—how to speak proper, how to hold my temper. Knowing her shaped me.

She had grown up poor too; it was Odessa that had made her and her husband wealthy.

She saw me as worthy of her time and her help.

It came unexpectedly, after she died—an envelope addressed directly to me, the avenue God used to send me to college. You see, the Lord sends us friends to shape us, to guide us.

And that’s how I came to love Odessa—not for the heat, or the oil, or the dust—but for the people—my family—who made it home.

"Valentine: A Boston Tale"

by Anne Hendricks

I never imagined that I could fall in love with a dog. I always embraced the idea that dogs drooled and cats ruled.

The house was quiet. Mr. Popcorn, my tabby, had passed a few weeks ago, and I still felt the hollow ache of his absence.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years of soft purrs, dough making, and the quiet companionship that no human ever quite matched.  

He had been there before marriage, curled up on the sofa while I studied in grad school, his warm body a comfort against the loneliness of a broken heart. He had endured the hard career moves and the search for identity that followed me like a shadow. When I met Ted,

Mr. Popcorn had accepted him. Ted had to pass the tough approval of my feline sentinel, who was notoriously picky in his affections.

He had watched me become a wife. He had been there when Patrick was born, curling around my ankles during those long, sleepless nights, never complaining, always present, his purrs a lullaby for the new chaos of motherhood. His death broke my heart in ways I could not have predicted.

I wandered from room to room, touching the soft places where he had slept, listening for the faintest sound of his paws on the hardwood.

Patrick noticed my grief.

“Mama,” he said gently, “you miss him, don’t you?”

I nodded, feeling tears well. “Yes.”

Ted reached for my hand, squeezing it. “It’s okay to miss him. It’s okay to miss your friend.”

I wanted to stay in my grief, thinking it was the only way to honor fifteen years of steadfast love.

And then Patrick tugged at my sleeve. “Mom, tomorrow we’ve got an idea!”

The next day, at the animal shelter, a little black-and-white Boston Terrier looked up at me with eyes far too big for his face and a nose that scrunched in the most ridiculous way. He honked, not barked, like a miniature goose. I laughed before I even realized it, a real laugh that startled me.

When had been my last real laugh?

Ted leaned close. “I think he picked you.”

I knelt, and the Boston Terrier, whom the shelter had named Valentine, crawled into my lap, trembling like he was vibrating with excitement. He had no tail, so his booty wagged like a tiny metronome. I laughed again, and something inside me unclenched just a little.

Patrick bounced beside me. “We have to take him!”

I hesitated, thinking of the grief still hanging over our house. But something about Valentine’s earnest eyes, the honk that seemed almost like a question, softened my heart.

Weeks passed. Valentine settled in, but he quickly made his opinions known. Shoes were fair game until he learned otherwise, baseboards were an existential challenge when he decided to hike his leg, and furniture occasionally bore the brunt of his frustration, often just for dramatic effect. He did zoomies, tearing through the house at impossible speeds, bouncing off walls, the coffee table, and once, spectacularly, the laundry basket.

He honked at inanimate objects as though issuing a warning. He used his paws like a cat, reaching for anything on a counter or table. And when he was upset with me, say because I wouldn’t let him eat the chocolate chip cookie off the counter, he would turn his back in perfect Boston Terrier fashion, planting his little stubby legs firmly and ignoring me with the kind of calculated disdain only a dog of his lineage could muster.

One evening, Patrick found him perched in the corner, staring at the wall like a small, furry philosopher. “What is he doing?” he asked.

“Thinking,” I said, “about world domination, probably.”

Valentine’s antics were endless. A ball thrown for fetch could spark fifteen minutes of chaos: sprinting, sliding across the floor, honking triumphantly, then dropping it at my feet as if to say, I did this all for you. 

He occasionally tripped over his own enthusiasm, colliding with the sofa or me, and then shook it off with the dignity of a nobleman, as if to say, I meant for that to happen.

Amidst all the mayhem, he had moments of tenderness. When I prayed, he would lie quietly at my feet, even snoring softly during the Lord’s Prayer, paw occasionally brushing mine like a small benediction.

One night after Bible study, Ted said, “You and Valentine are together a lot.”

“He tolerates me,” I said.

Patrick giggled. “Mom, he sits outside the front bathroom every time.”

“That is not love. That is surveillance.”

Valentine honked in protest.

I smiled, watching him strut around in his black-and-white coat. Boston Terriers are known as the First Gentlemen of Canines in America, and he was always impeccably dressed in black and white. He had the dignity of an old-world noble, the mischief of a court jester, and the stubbornness of a small, furry dictator.

That night, as I lay between my husband and the ridiculous little dog, I whispered a prayer: “Thank You, Lord, for seasons and endings and beginnings. Thank You for Mr. Popcorn. Thank You for Valentine. Teach me to love with open hands.”

Valentine curled against me, paw resting on my wrist like a promise. And even when he honked in the middle of the night for no reason at all, I couldn’t help smiling.

I knew love had found me again, in a small, honking package I never asked for but desperately needed, sent on a day devoted to hearts, by the God who heals them.

"My Hero"

by Maryel Stone

I never imagined that I could fall in love with a fictional character. Okay, not really in love. I wasn’t delusional. I didn’t think Brad Hopkins would walk out of my favorite sci-fi show with flowers in his hand and propose marriage to me. That would be silly.

I was already married.

It wasn’t the actor who played Brad Hopkins. I’d seen him in other things. He’d been the villain on that superhero show. And he’d been eaten by a huge snake in that horror movie. Yuck. It was the character, Dr. Brad Hopkins, psychologist, explorer, good friend, with a tragic backstory and the patience of Mother Teresa who made my heart beat fast.

Sure, he was handsome. Tall, with brown hair and dark blue eyes behind those wire-rimmed glasses. You had to be in shape to travel to distant planets and keep up with the physical types on his team. That didn’t hurt. But it was his personality, the way he put himself in danger to save others, how he tried to reason with the aliens, how he calmed down the mean military guys who just wanted to shoot them, and how he delivered the alien queen’s baby in order to win their lifelong gratitude.

He was everything my husband wasn’t.

Brad listened. Brad treated everyone, from the stinky Umgillian Slime People to the wispy Cendonian Cloudwalkers as equals. He talked down the warmongers with patience, determination, and compassion. He even jumped in front of a Nakkelli Laser Scimitar to save his teammate from certain death.

Smart. Reliable. Brad mourned with those who mourned and rejoiced with those who rejoiced. He was in touch with his emotions, could wield a powered slingshot, or steer a spaceship in a pinch.

Brad loved hard. He loved his friends and helped them become better people. He loved his poor dead wife and kept a picture of her on his desk for years. He loved his alien brother-in-law even though Sikka only admired Brad’s military boss.

Poor Brad.

It wasn’t until I started looking at my husband and wishing he were Brad that I realized the power of my attraction.

Charlie wasn’t Brad. And I didn’t like that.

Charlie was tall and in decent shape. He was pretty handy around the house. He was good with the kids and friendly with the neighbors. He cared about me, my interests, and my day.

Not like Brad would care, though.

Charlie got up, showered, went to work, came home, ate dinner, played with the kids, and went to bed. That was fine. He didn’t need to save lives every week on Tuesday nights like Brad did. This was the real world.

But Brad was smarter. He’d have made up new games with the kids, or researched alien toys, taught them Sandivilian Meditation Techniques to calm their tantrums. He’d have brought me flowers, or chocolates, or books in case I was having a bad day. Brad would never have decided to go to the double-header on Mother’s Day instead of celebrating with me.

And he’d know just what to say to keep his mother from correcting every little thing that I did differently from how she did it.

Last weekend we celebrated Memorial Day at Charlie’s mom’s house. I had a headache that no amount of coffee would get rid of that morning. Charlie, junior, had vetoed eating breakfast until thirty seconds before we were supposed to leave. Hannah, the three-year-old had drawn tentacles on her arms with permanent marker three days before and the pale purple curlicues were still visible under her thin cotton shirt.

Charlie spent the morning locked up in his office on the phone with work.

I’d sent more than one Heat Seeking Death Glare through the office door at him, but apparently I hadn’t quite got the hang of that yet.

When he did come out, all he could say was, “Aren’t the kids ready yet? We’re going to be late.”

Aching eyes hidden under my thickest sunglasses, I was silent for the entire car ride.

Silently wishing Charlie away and putting Brad in his place. Silently replaying the morning as it would have happened with the stunningly kind Brad Hopkins. Even though the alien mother ship was advancing on Pittsburgh, Brad would have had time to get Junior fed and would have already researched ways to remove permanent marker from Hannah’s skin, so his mother didn’t notice.

Brad would have noticed that I felt lousy. He wouldn’t have needed me to say it. To ask for help. To point out the situation going on in his own home under his nose.

The car swerved, hard, to the right, throwing me against the seatbelt and sending up screams of excitement from the backseat.

I grabbed Charlie’s arm, holding it tight. “What – what happened?”

His hands wrapped around the wheel, he brought the car to a stop. “It’s okay. We’re okay.” He patted my hand and gave me a smile before turning to the kids. “Hey, did you see the deer? Look, there he goes.”

Junior and Hannah strained against their car seats, eyes wide. “A deer! Look, Daddy, another one!”

Six deer bounded across the road in front of us. The first one had leapt when Charlie swerved, missing us by a few inches. Heart pounding, I reached for Charlie’s hand and held on.

He held me back, his palm sweaty. My husband. Real. Flawed. Imperfect. 24/7/365. Not just a hero for an hour on Tuesday nights.

When the deer disappeared, Charlie drove on. He squeezed my hand before letting go.

“Hey, you okay? You’ve been quiet.”

I touched my temple with one finger as if drilling for brain cells.

“A headache? Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have cut Tom’s call short.”

“You would have?”

His glance was troubled. “Of course I would have. We’re a team, aren’t we?”

Funny, that’s what Brad Hopkins would have said.

He peered up at the bright summer sky. “We don’t have to stay long at mom’s if you don’t feel like it.”

“We don’t?”

That got me another weird frown. “You don’t think I enjoy these command performances, do you? After all the times I’ve tried to make excuses not to come?”

My mouth fell open. That was true. Charlie always left the door open for me to say no to these family outings. He came under just as much criticism from his dad as I did from his mom.

Why had I thought otherwise?

I leaned over, resting my aching head on his shoulder. “We can stay a while. Drop off my not-fabulous pasta salad and let your mom tell me how your sister could give me some fashion tips.”

“Please don’t start dressing like a Real Housewife,” he begged pitifully.

I snorted. Okay, I wasn’t a perfect television hero either.

Maybe I should start focusing on my real-world hero rather than the cute guy who turned up to save the world on television. Reading from a script.

I smiled as my hero steered our spaceship safely home.

Good Old Joe (Or Not?)

by Nan Carlton

I never imagined that I could fall in love with him! (Him being Joe, of course.)

Joe and I have a love-hate relationship. Come to think of it, I do all the loving and all the hating. As for Joe, he’s indifferent to most things—maybe everything. And I dislike this about him. But the thing I most despise about Joe is that he’s so infuriatingly fickle. Hot. Cold. Strong. Weak. Smooth. Bitter. I never know what to expect when we’re together. I value consistency. And yet, day after day and year after year, I choose Joe.

A long time ago, a dear friend of mine said, “Love messes with your thinker.” My friend was correct for I am living proof of the veracity of this profound statement.

Repeatedly, I tell myself that, with Joe in my life, love is a many-splintered thing. I tell myself to listen to my head and end this relationship on the grounds of irreconcilable differences.

Instead, I listen to my heart. Despite our obvious inability to coexist, a part of me still loves him. Joe’s the first thing that I think about each morning as I awaken. After all these years, he still makes my heart race. One whiff of his irresistible scent, well, that’s all it takes for me to fall in love again.

And now, I must wrap up this sad saga and excuse myself for I’m in dire need of a second Cup of Joe. You know…coffee…jitter juice…high octane…java…mud…

"Winter Wonderland"

by Aimee Graham

I never imagined that I could fall in love with snow. I mean, don’t get me wrong... it’s pretty, but I grew up in Florida. I’d only ever seen snow once at my grandma’s house in Georgia.

It caused a big inconvenience to the whole town and then before you could make a snowball, it melted, vanished without a trace. As an adult I was happy that snow was not a part of my life. I didn’t want to drive in it, or play in it, or eat anything made from it even if you gave it the dubious moniker of “snow cream.” I never did like the idea of questionable ingredients added to my food by stray dogs or naughty little boys learning to write their names in the snow. I did enjoy watching it snow in a movie occasionally.

And I always felt a little sentimental about snow when I heard Winter Wonderland playing on the radio at Christmas time. That song made me wish I liked winter. I might enjoy a walk in the snow with the love of my life, if I had one, which I did not. But things were about to change.

It was a Monday morning in February when my boss swooped into my office before I had even put my purse down. That woman is a walking exclamation point. “Good morning, Lindy!” she burst out, “Guess what!” I put my hand up to slow the torrent of words I knew were headed my way, at least until I could get a cup of coffee, but it would be easier to stop a tsunami than to restrain Margot when she’s on a roll. “I can’t go to the Midwest Expo this weekend – family emergency- don’t worry, nobody died- but I can’t go. So….. you get to go!” She clenched her fists and squealed with excitement. Did she think this was good news?

Stupefied, I stared at her. “Margot,” I sputtered, “That expo is in Michigan. In February. I can’t go.”

“Lindy, you can do this! I have all the confidence in the world in you!” “No. I mean, it’s Michigan. In winter. Where they have the wintriest winters of all. Do you know how cold it is there? Nobody is ready for that. I don’t even own a winter coat.” This part was true. I don’t even vacation in cold locations. My idea of winter gear is bringing a sweater.

Margot deflated, disappointed at my lack of enthusiasm. “We can’t not go. You know this is the event that determines our whole year. Somebody has to go.” She at least had the decency to look apologetic. My fate was sealed.

Three days later I was placing my seat back in its upright position for takeoff to Weston Falls, Michigan, armed with a parka and a bad attitude. Someone from our branch in California would would arrive at the same time, and we’d share a rental car to the hotel. I was expecting a middle-aged, stuffy type, but the person standing at the gate waiting for me wasn’t middle aged or stuffy. He looked like he was about thirty years old and carved from granite. “Are you Melinda Goodwin?” he asked.

“Yes… well, just Lindy,” I said, trying not to stutter or stare. “Are you Trenton Lowell?”

“Yes… well, just Trent.” He grinned and raised an eyebrow. Was he flirting with me? I reminded myself I’m a grown, professional, woman. I don’t get twitterpated over a pretty face.

Walking out of the airport was exactly what I had dreaded. Snow everywhere, and there was nothing reminiscent of a wonderland about it. It was slushy and dirty and gathered up in piles, full of tire tracks and footprints. “Is this safe to drive in?” I asked Trent.

“Sure,” he said with a confidence I hoped was genuine. “I’m from here originally. I learned to drive in worse than this.” I hoped he wouldn’t notice my death clutch on the door handle or my foot pumping my imaginary brake as he drove. “Careful,” he said, glancing over at me. “You can’t pump your brake like that on snowy roads, you’ll slide off into a ditch.” So muc for him not noticing.

I was surprised when Trent pulled up at a charming gingerbread Victorian. “Aren’t we going straight to the hotel?” I asked.

“Oh,” he said. “I forgot to tell you; I changed our reservations. We’re staying here.”

“Ummmm…. This looks like someone’s house.”

“It is!” he said “It’s my folks’ house, but it’s also an Airbnb. You’ll love your room. You can thank me later.”

“Thank you later? I’m praying you aren’t an axe murderer.”

“Nah,” he said, laughing. “Everybody would already know ‘whodunnit.’” And with that he got out of the car and began gathering our luggage. There was nothing for me to do but follow. I stepped away from the car into snow halfway to my knees. The surprise of it hobbled me, so that I nearly toppled forward. “We don’t have time for snow angels,” Trent quipped.

“Snow angels?” I was aghast. “I’m just trying to stay on my feet. I hate this… stuff.”

“Snow? You hate snow?” Now he was aghast. “We’re going to have to do something about that.”

“Since I’m not likely to encounter much of it in Florida, there’s nothing to do about it.” I hoped he noticed my disdain.

“Oh, watch me. I’m going to change your mind.” He bobbed his head and made a noise I took to mean he had accepted a challenge and he would prevail. “You can thank me later,” he said wryly.

“Sounds like I’m going to be overwhelmed with gratitude this weekend.” I smiled sardonically.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” he said. “You’ll see.”

It turns out that getting around in snow is not such a big deal for people who live where there are snowplows. Trent navigated the roads like a pro. On Saturday after the expo, he invited me to go outside and build a snowman. For the sake of being a good sport, I agreed. “Hey! This snow sticks together,” I said, incredulous as I packed together my first snowball.

“It’s snow,” Trent shrugged. What did you think it would do?

“I saw snow once. It fell apart and was mostly ice. And you couldn’t gather enough for a snowball without also gathering dirt.”

“See, there’s the problem. You’ve never seen real snow. You have to give it another shot.”

He was right. Without meaning to, I was having actual fun in the snow. On Sunday, he announced we’d be going for a ride on his “sled,” which turned out to be a snowmobile. I don’t know if what I felt was exhilaration or terror as I clung to Trent’s waist racing through the woods. And that afternoon, when we went for a walk in a real-life winter wonderland, I don’t know if I fell in love with snow… or if I fell in love with Trent Lowell. But one thing I do know; I thanked him later.

Thank you to all of our writers who submitted stories to the February challenge. It's always such a joy to read the wonderful creations we receive.

(You can go back throughout this blog and read past monthly winners. You can also read all of 2025's winners in our The Write Anthology, available on Kindle.)

And if you'd like to participate in the March writing challenge, stay tuned for its announcement in our SCWC Facebook group.