CONGRATULATIONS TO THE SCWC MAY WRITING CHALLENGE WINNERS
** Read the winning stories below **
The Southern Christian Writers Conference's May Writing Challenge was to write a fictional story that takes place on a rainy day. Writers were encouraged to use their creativity (the setting was the only prompt provided), and they certainly did!We were sent so many wonderful submissions, making the decision on winners a very difficult one.
Congratulations to our top winners:
1st place: Ray Duval
2nd place: Anne Hendricks
3rd place: Annette Teepe
(Thank you to everyone who submitted! We loved reading each and every one of them, and consider all of them winning pieces.)
Enjoy reading the winning stories below. We know you'll be as entertained and inspired by them as we were.
“The Rain That Remembered Us”
by Ray Duval
The rain began before dawn, soft at first, like someone whispering against the windows of the town. By morning, the sky had become a single sheet of gray, hanging low over the streets of Mantua. Water rolled down rooftops, gathered in gutters, and turned the roads into long mirrors that reflected every porch light and passing shadow.
Elias Reed sat inside the little train station at the edge of town, watching the storm swallow the tracks. Nobody came to Mantua anymore, not since the factories closed, and the trains stopped carrying anything except silence.
The station clock had been broken for three years, frozen at 2:17, though Elias still wound it every Sunday out of habit. Some people prayed when life fell apart. Elias maintained broken things.
Outside, thunder groaned across the hills. He wrapped both hands around a chipped coffee mug and listened to the rain hammer the roof above him. There was something lonely about rain in an empty town. It made every abandoned building sound haunted, every memory louder.
Then the front door creaked open. A little girl stepped inside wearing a yellow raincoat far too large for her. Water dripped from the hem onto the wooden floorboards. She carried an old suitcase with one missing wheel.
Elias blinked in surprise. “You lost?” he asked gently. The girl shook her head. “I’m waiting.” “For whom?” “The train.” Elias almost smiled at that. “There hasn’t been a train through here in years.” The girl looked toward the tracks beyond the rain-streaked windows. “My mother said one would come when the rain finally returned.”
Children said strange things sometimes, but something in her voice unsettled him. It was calm and certain. “What’s your name?” he asked. “Clara.” She sat on one of the benches beneath the broken clock and placed the suitcase beside her carefully, like it held something fragile.
The storm deepened as the hours passed. Rain crashed against the station so hard it sounded like the ocean. Wind rattled the old beams overhead. Still, the girl waited. Elias tried distracting himself by sweeping the floor, organizing old tickets, and checking the rusted signal lights outside, but he kept glancing back toward Clara. She never seemed afraid.
Finally, as evening approached, he sat beside her. “You got family in town?” he asked. She hesitated before answering. “Not anymore.” The words landed heavily between them. Elias nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I understand that.”
For a moment neither spoke. Only the rain did. Then Clara opened the suitcase. Inside were dozens of folded paper cranes. There was every color imaginable. Elias starred. “My mother made these,” Clara said. “One for every person she missed.” She picked one up carefully, a pale blue crane with wrinkled wings.
“She said people disappear twice. Once when they leave, and again when nobody remembers them anymore.” The station suddenly felt colder. Elias looked out at the drowned tracks stretching into darkness. He thought about the names Mantua no longer spoke aloud. Workers, families, friends, and his wife. Gone little by little until even their laughter had begun fading from memory.
Clara handed him the blue crane. “You should keep one,” she said. His rough hands trembled slightly as he accepted it. Outside, somewhere far beyond the storm, a distant whistle echoed. Elias froze. The sound came again.
A train whistle. Impossible. Clara stood immediately, as though she had been expecting it all along. The tracks began humming beneath the rain. Then, through the curtain of water, lights appeared. Warm golden lights.
A train emerged slowly from the storm, impossibly old-fashioned, its windows glowing like lanterns in the dark. Steam curled around it as it rolled toward the station without making a sound.
Elias stepped backward, heart pounding. The train stopped precisely beneath the broken clock. The doors opened. Inside sat people bathed in soft amber light. Some reading books, some smiling quietly, and some staring peacefully through the windows at the rain.
And among them— Elias stopped breathing. A woman with silver earrings and tired, kind eyes looked back at him from inside the train. Margaret, his wife. She looked exactly as she had been before sickness hollowed her away.
Tears rushed into his eyes before he could stop them. She smiled softly, raising one hand against the glass, not sad, not frightened, just waiting. Elias turned toward Clara, but the little girl only held her suitcase tighter.
“She told me the rain helps people find their way back,” Clara whispered. Thunder rolled overhead like distant drums. For one impossible moment, the station no longer felt abandoned. It felt full. Full of every lost thing still carrying love behind it.
Elias stepped toward the train slowly, but Margaret shook her head gently. Not yet. The message was clear enough. Live a little longer. Remember. The conductor tipped his hat, the doors closed, and slowly, the train disappeared back into the storm, its lights fading into the endless rain until darkness reclaimed the tracks once more.
Silence returned to Mantua. Elias wiped his eyes and looked beside him. Clara was gone. Only the suitcase remained. He opened it carefully. Inside sat a single paper crane, yellow in color, and beneath it, written in careful handwriting, a message was left. For the ones who still stay. Outside, the rain finally began to soften.
"The Porch Light Still Burns"
by Anne Hendricks
The rain did not fall in sheets. It fell hard and heavy against the roof of the idling army green Chevy pickup truck, each drop striking the metal with a force that made the cab feel smaller.
Inside, the world narrowed to the gray gloom of a ruined afternoon, the glow of the dashboard clock, and the steady sweep of the windshield wipers across the glass.
Jack Jennings rested his forehead against the steering wheel. The windows had fogged around the edges, blurring the daytime headlights of the occasional passing car into streaks of red and white. Beyond the truck, the highway disappeared into the downpour. He had pulled over due to the rain. The goal of running to the hardware store had detoured to a turn-off as the weather and his emotions just needed a breather. Or so he thought.
Beside him, three-year-old Noah slept in his car seat, one small hand curled near his cheek. His breathing stayed deep and even, untouched by thunder or the restless tension filling the cab. Jack looked at his son and felt the ache rise again beneath his ribs.
Noah trusted him without question.
The thought hurt more than it should have.
How many times did she watch me sleep like this?
He closed his eyes.
Banner.
His mother.
Banner Atwood.
It had been nearly four years since he last spoke to her. Four years since he ignored her final voicemail and blocked her number, telling himself it was necessary. He used words like boundaries and peace and moving forward until they stopped sounding cruel.
He had gone “No Contact.” Back then, silence felt righteous.
Today, it felt hollow.
Rainwater streamed down the windshield in crooked rivers. Jack watched it gather against the glass, blurring the world outside into a gray downpour.
The radio crackled through static. Then an acoustic guitar drifted into the cab.
Jack stiffened.
He knew the hymn before the first line finished.
Banner used to hum it while washing dishes or folding warm towels fresh from the dryer. She sang it softly on rainy afternoons when the sky turned dark and candles filled the kitchen with gold light.
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.
Jack swallowed hard.
His hand moved toward the radio knob, then stopped.
The singer’s voice was worn, weathered.
Here I raise mine Ebenezer. Hither by Thy help I’m come.
Ebenezer.
Jack remembered sitting beside Banner in church while a preacher explained standing stones raised after hardship. Markers placed so no one forgot where mercy met them. Proof that God had carried them through what should have broken them.
A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.
Then another.
Soon his shoulders trembled as grief broke through what he had held together for years.
He thought of their last conversation. Banner’s voice had been tired but steady, still trying to reach him while he turned every word into distance. He had hung up believing he had won. Now it felt like a loss.
Jack stared at Noah sleeping beside him.
Banner did not know she had a grandson.
She never knew Emily died.
Three winters ago, Jack had stood beneath hospital lights holding Noah while machines went still around his wife’s bed. Snow pressed against the windows outside the maternity ward. Noah had lived. Emily had not. He never called his mother. Not once.
Pride had become its own kind of exile.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it the radio sang softly. Prone to leave the God I love.
Jack pressed trembling fingers to his mouth.
“No more,” he whispered. “No more running.”
Noah shifted in his sleep.
Jack reached over and brushed a curl from his son’s forehead.
The small gesture nearly broke him.
He did not want Noah growing up inside silence. He did not want him inheriting distance instead of love. He wanted him to know his grandmother’s laugh, Sunday mornings, warm kitchens, hymns under the hum of rain.
Jack drew a long breath. He reached forward, clicked the truck's headlights on to cut through the gloom, and shifted into drive.
He did not wait for the storm to pass. The tires hissed against wet pavement as he pulled onto the highway, beams of light striking the dark road leading home. For the first time in four years, Jack knew exactly where he was going.
Somewhere ahead, beyond the gray wall of rain, a porch light still burned.
The downpour still beat hard across the windshield, but it no longer felt like punishment. It felt like a release. Jack tightened his hands on the wheel and kept driving.
Beneath the sound of rain, the hymn rose again in him.
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.
Not memory.
No regret.
But return.
Mia pondered these options.
“Why?” asked Mia. “What is wrong with a black one? Doesn’t it work as well?”
Mia nodded cautiously.
“They are from a painting by Vincent van Gogh. One of my favorite series of paintings. I have a book we can look at later with pictures of his paintings.”
“One rule of the adventure is that we will play five senses. Do you remember what the senses are?”
“Let’s look closer at the puddles. What do you see?” asked Grandma.
“I do, Grandma. I will try to remember this new word too. Petrichor!”
“I can also taste raindrops on my tongue,” Mia added as she tilted the umbrella to the side and stuck out her tongue to catch one.
Grandma smiled. This adventure was a lot of fun!
“I can feel the wet, slippery leaves and slide my fingers over the fence,” said Mia.
Grandma wondered if Mia’s mom would tell her that she wore the same galoshes and raincoat when she was a child.
Inside, the world narrowed to the gray gloom of a ruined afternoon, the glow of the dashboard clock, and the steady sweep of the windshield wipers across the glass.
Jack Jennings rested his forehead against the steering wheel. The windows had fogged around the edges, blurring the daytime headlights of the occasional passing car into streaks of red and white. Beyond the truck, the highway disappeared into the downpour. He had pulled over due to the rain. The goal of running to the hardware store had detoured to a turn-off as the weather and his emotions just needed a breather. Or so he thought.
Beside him, three-year-old Noah slept in his car seat, one small hand curled near his cheek. His breathing stayed deep and even, untouched by thunder or the restless tension filling the cab. Jack looked at his son and felt the ache rise again beneath his ribs.
Noah trusted him without question.
The thought hurt more than it should have.
How many times did she watch me sleep like this?
He closed his eyes.
Banner.
His mother.
Banner Atwood.
It had been nearly four years since he last spoke to her. Four years since he ignored her final voicemail and blocked her number, telling himself it was necessary. He used words like boundaries and peace and moving forward until they stopped sounding cruel.
He had gone “No Contact.” Back then, silence felt righteous.
Today, it felt hollow.
Rainwater streamed down the windshield in crooked rivers. Jack watched it gather against the glass, blurring the world outside into a gray downpour.
The radio crackled through static. Then an acoustic guitar drifted into the cab.
Jack stiffened.
He knew the hymn before the first line finished.
Banner used to hum it while washing dishes or folding warm towels fresh from the dryer. She sang it softly on rainy afternoons when the sky turned dark and candles filled the kitchen with gold light.
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.
Jack swallowed hard.
His hand moved toward the radio knob, then stopped.
The singer’s voice was worn, weathered.
Here I raise mine Ebenezer. Hither by Thy help I’m come.
Ebenezer.
Jack remembered sitting beside Banner in church while a preacher explained standing stones raised after hardship. Markers placed so no one forgot where mercy met them. Proof that God had carried them through what should have broken them.
A tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.
Then another.
Soon his shoulders trembled as grief broke through what he had held together for years.
He thought of their last conversation. Banner’s voice had been tired but steady, still trying to reach him while he turned every word into distance. He had hung up believing he had won. Now it felt like a loss.
Jack stared at Noah sleeping beside him.
Banner did not know she had a grandson.
She never knew Emily died.
Three winters ago, Jack had stood beneath hospital lights holding Noah while machines went still around his wife’s bed. Snow pressed against the windows outside the maternity ward. Noah had lived. Emily had not. He never called his mother. Not once.
Pride had become its own kind of exile.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it the radio sang softly. Prone to leave the God I love.
Jack pressed trembling fingers to his mouth.
“No more,” he whispered. “No more running.”
Noah shifted in his sleep.
Jack reached over and brushed a curl from his son’s forehead.
The small gesture nearly broke him.
He did not want Noah growing up inside silence. He did not want him inheriting distance instead of love. He wanted him to know his grandmother’s laugh, Sunday mornings, warm kitchens, hymns under the hum of rain.
Jack drew a long breath. He reached forward, clicked the truck's headlights on to cut through the gloom, and shifted into drive.
He did not wait for the storm to pass. The tires hissed against wet pavement as he pulled onto the highway, beams of light striking the dark road leading home. For the first time in four years, Jack knew exactly where he was going.
Somewhere ahead, beyond the gray wall of rain, a porch light still burned.
The downpour still beat hard across the windshield, but it no longer felt like punishment. It felt like a release. Jack tightened his hands on the wheel and kept driving.
Beneath the sound of rain, the hymn rose again in him.
Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace.
Not memory.
No regret.
But return.
"Rainy Day Adventure"
by Annette Teepe
“We can’t go outside,” Mia pouted, as she watched raindrops streak down the windowpane. “What will we do? We were going to go to the park!”
“Don’t whine,” chided Grandma. “Why can’t we go outside? Will you melt?”
“I wouldn’t melt, Grandma! I am seven, and I know better than that!”
“Of course you do, sweetie,” Grandma soothed. “But why can’t we go outside?”
Mia scrunched her forehead. “Grandma, don’t you see the rain?”
“Of course I do. Why should that stop us? We have umbrellas!” Grandma smiled. Mia looked doubtful, her head swiveling from the window to Grandma and back.
“Would you rather find something to do inside? Or do you want to go on an adventure outside?” asked Grandma.
Mia pondered these options.
“I would rather have an adventure!” she exclaimed.
“Wonderful! Let’s get our things and get ready!” Grandma cheerfully began to prepare to go outside.
“We must have umbrellas, of course! And never, unless you have no other choice, use a
black one!”
“We must have umbrellas, of course! And never, unless you have no other choice, use a
black one!”
“Why?” asked Mia. “What is wrong with a black one? Doesn’t it work as well?”
Grandma laughed. “They work just fine. But why, on a cloudy, gloomy day, should we add to the gray color?”
Mia nodded cautiously.
“We will add color to the day with our umbrellas,” Grandma declared, “and bring joy to the gloomy day!”
Grandma’s excitement was contagious. She made going outside seem like a grand adventure. Grandma rummaged through the closet, bringing out the things they needed.
“Here are some galoshes, just your size,” Grandma said. “Go ahead and put these on over your shoes.”
“Thanks, Grandma! Mom wouldn’t like it if I came home with ruined shoes!” said Mia.
“We wouldn’t want your mom to be upset,” agreed Grandma. “She will love hearing about our adventures!”
“We wouldn’t want your mom to be upset,” agreed Grandma. “She will love hearing about our adventures!”
Mia sat down and wiggled her feet into the galoshes. A perfect fit!
She also put on the bright yellow raincoat Grandma handed to her.
“Now, for the finishing touch,” announced Grandma, as she brought out two umbrellas with a flourish.
“This one is for you,” Grandma said as she presented a child-sized umbrella.
“Oooh, Grandma, it is so pretty!”
Grandma smiled.
“It is from a painting called The Water Lily Pond, by Monet, a famous painter,” explained Grandma. “I’m so glad you like it.”
Grandma unfurled her umbrella, and Mia said, “Grandma, your umbrella is beautiful too! I love the sunflowers!”
“They are from a painting by Vincent van Gogh. One of my favorite series of paintings. I have a book we can look at later with pictures of his paintings.”
“That sounds fun, Grandma, but let’s go on our adventure now, please! The rain might stop!” she giggled.
“Okay. Collapse your umbrella so we can get through the door”, said Grandma.
“Let’s begin!” Grandma opened the door, and they stepped across the threshold before opening their umbrellas again.
“One rule of the adventure is that we will play five senses. Do you remember what the senses are?”
“I think so, Grandma,” said Mia. “Sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste.”
“Great job!” Grandma smiled. “Let’s begin with hearing.”
“I hear raindrops hitting the ground and the leaves. Plop! Plop! Plop!” replied Mia.
“Great job. Anything else?”
“I think I hear the sound of thunder, far away.”
“Well done!” pronounced Grandma.
“What do you see?” she asked.
“I see raindrops coming down. They splash in the puddles. I see clouds and gray skies.”
Mia looked around to see what else she could add to the list.
Mia looked around to see what else she could add to the list.
“Oh, Grandma! Look! There are worms on the sidewalk! I hope nobody steps on them!” worried Mia.
Grandma explained, “The worms had to come above the ground because of the water. They will go back into the ground when it dries. Don’t worry.”
“Let’s look closer at the puddles. What do you see?” asked Grandma.
Mia took a close look.
“I see the trees reflected in the water. It is pretty!” exclaimed Mia.
Grandma led her closer to the street.
“Let’s look at these puddles. Do you see anything different here?” she asked.
Mia studied the puddles.
“This puddle has pretty colors in it. I don’t think they are supposed to be there, though,” puzzled Mia.
“That is oil from the cars. You’re right, it makes pretty patterns, but it shouldn’t be there.”
They continued down the sidewalk, feet splashing in the puddles.
“Mia, what do you smell?”
“The air smells different. Like rain. Sunny days don’t have this smell.”
“Yes, I like this smell. It has a fancy name, petrichor. It is the smell of rain falling on dry soil or hot pavement. Do you like the smell?” Grandma asked.
“I do, Grandma. I will try to remember this new word too. Petrichor!”
“What do you taste?” Grandma asked.
“I can taste the smell of rain in the air, too!”
“Yes, you can. I even have a candle with petrichor as a scent, and I enjoy the scent in my nose and can taste it in the air,” approved Grandma.
“I can also taste raindrops on my tongue,” Mia added as she tilted the umbrella to the side and stuck out her tongue to catch one.
Grandma smiled. This adventure was a lot of fun!
“Last, but not least, what can you touch?” asked Grandma.
Mia slid her fingers along the iron fence by the sidewalk. She reached out to touch the leaves hanging down, heavy with water.
Mia slid her fingers along the iron fence by the sidewalk. She reached out to touch the leaves hanging down, heavy with water.
“I can feel the wet, slippery leaves and slide my fingers over the fence,” said Mia.
“Excellent, Mia! You experienced the rain with all five of your senses!” Grandma beamed.
“Did you enjoy the rain?” she asked.
Mia grinned widely, “Best adventure ever! Let’s do it again next time it rains!”
Twirling their colorful umbrellas and singing “Singing in the Rain”, Grandma and Mia walked happily back to the house.
Grandma wondered if Mia’s mom would tell her that she wore the same galoshes and raincoat when she was a child.
*****
Want to participate in our next monthly challenge? Get involved in our SCWC Facebook community; we share our latest challenges there at the first of the month, and also share the winners with all of our followers.
Want to read our winners from last year? We publish our monthly winners in an e-book anthology The Write Collection.
** The Southern Christian Writers Conference is a group that aims to educate and encourage writers of faith. We'd love for you to get involved in all of our activities! Our annual conference takes place June 19-20 in Birmingham, Alabama; you can register here to attend in person or to get virtual access. **
Congratulations again to our top three winners, and to everyone who participated this month. And stay tuned for our next challenge coming soon.
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