First Place: Traci Schatz, The Woman and Her Steed
Second Place: Erin Popelka, Assumptions
Third Place: Meredith Barrett, Esophagi
Each winner received a full-day pass (5 workshops) to Workshop Day, two tickets to the open house and Ooligan Press’s flash fiction collection, You Have Time for This, edited by Mark Budman & Tom Hazuka.
The Woman and Her Steed
By Traci Schatz
He came every day.
Mr. Yakimoto sat on the same stone bench, elbows on his knees, hands folded together under his chin. He sat for exactly 35 minutes. Museum employees smiled at him with a quick upturn of their lips, but pity showed in their eyes. As was museum policy, they passed behind him, trying never to block his view of the painting.
It was one of the museum’s most popular exhibits—the exquisite chocolate and tans of the mountainside, greens and yellows mixed together so expertly that the grass seemed to emit a fresh scent. It was almost impossible for people to pass by without stopping for a long look. But the best part of the painting was the beautiful woman gazing longingly into the distance, one hand lightly touching her horse’s honey colored mane. Guests whispered to each other that the women’s black eyes stared at them with such intensity they felt as if they were peeking into the window of a stranger’s bedroom.
The guard most often on duty during Mr. Yakimoto’s visits loved the painting as much as the guests. His duties and museum rules didn’t allow time to stand and admire the black haired beauty and her golden steed, but during rotations he paused momentarily to admire her. He also admired Mr. Yakimoto, his dedication, his love of art, his obvious good taste.
One day, well into Mr. Yakimoto’s second year of daily visits, the guard decided to ask Mr. Yakimoto about his fascination and apparent adoration of the painting. Maybe he is an artist himself, admiring a contemporary painter with skills greater than his own? Maybe the woman reminds him of an old lover? Maybe he misses the horses of his youth?
Spotting his opportunity the guard sat down beside Mr. Yakimoto, “Excuse me Sir, but I have to know. Why do you come here everyday to stare at this masterpiece? Are you in love with the painting or the woman atop her steed?”
Mr. Yakimoto, removed his folded hands from beneath his chin, placed them on the cool bench next to his legs, turned and motioned with a nod of his head for the guard to lean closer. Excited to finally find out the secret, the guard had visions of what it would be like telling the coveted news to his co-workers. Gone were fears of broken museum policy.
Mr. Yakimoto quickly licked his thin lips and spoke in a whisper, “This raven-haired temptress is my wife. I sent her into this painting during one of our many fights. Sitting one minute for each year of our marriage is enough to ensure she never escapes.”
Assumptions
By Erin Popelka
“Can I have a banana?”
I tried not to recoil in pure annoyance. Who was this guy? Didn’t he realize he was in Antarctica? If everyone asked for a banana, there wouldn’t be enough to go around. Besides, what was wrong with all the other freshies out on the salad line? I’d put out lettuce in a bowl so large I could nap in it, cherry tomatoes shiny enough to reflect the fluorescent lights, and a lovely pile of fruit: apples, oranges, and a few plums for good measure.
I took a good look at Mr. Presumptuous. He’d already loaded up on salad. In fact, he’d skipped a plate altogether, the mound of greenery piled directly onto his blue cafeteria tray. I stopped myself from saying “tray feeder” under my breath, but the top of my lip curled. With gray stubble on his chin and his hair covered by a black beanie, he looked normal, but at the same time he seemed almost detached. Part of it was his face: cheeks with a concave curve, his skin so light it was translucent. But part of it was his eyes, at once flat yet momentarily hopeful.
I did a quick check to see if anything else needed restocking. Bread. I could top off the bread basket. “Well, I’m not supposed to do this,” I muttered, “but I suppose I can manage one banana. Come with me.” I walked from the serving area to the kitchen with its gray shining countertops, rows of steam boilers, the large fryer, and one of the cooks mopping the floor.
“Wait here,” I told him at the doorway.
I hit the bakery first, the rows of thin metal ovens stacked in neat groups of three. From their tall wheeled tray, I pulled out five loaves of bread and placed them in an empty basket. Then I walked back to the salad room.
He was lucky – the planeload of freshies from New Zealand had arrived just yesterday. All day, we’d been chopping lettuce, shredding carrots, washing fruit. There were still six cases of bananas left. I’d been putting them out on the fruit bowl, but no sooner were they available than they were gone. Bananas were, by far, the most coveted item on station. I opened the top box where the ripest ones waited and grabbed two bunches. I’d be nice, give the guy two bananas, and put the rest on the fruit bowl. No special favors. My boss, if she saw me, wouldn’t mind.
As I emerged from the back room carrying bread and bananas, I could see him watching me. I crinkled my nose. I couldn’t believe I was doing this for some forward, inconsiderate, tactless…
“Thank you so much,” he said. “I haven’t had a banana in ten months.”
I swallowed. “Were you at Pole?”
“Just finished my winter. Thank you again,” he held up the two bananas I’d given him. “This just made my season.”
Esophagi
By Meredith Barrett
Tubes everywhere. They curl around poles and hang from bags and monitors that fill the small hospital room. Tubes going in, tubes coming out. Keeping count of the things our bodies do all day. Snaking under the covers to do what this body can’t. Tubes, plastic wires and their medical tape surround Kim’s frame on the wide bed. Centered under a thin cotton blanket, the twenty-one year old looks like an infant in an incubator. Helpless, barely awake.
Everything looks too clean, fluorescents washing out the blue and white space. My trembling hand holds the only color: orange, yellow and pink flowers. I smell gravy and jell-o in the hallway, but they aren’t for Kim. One of those tubes feeds her stomach while another climbs down into her lungs, bringing her oxygen. Strips of sticky white fabric across her lips and cheeks keep them in place. I feel them choking me, swelling up from inside my own throat.
Kim starts coughing, her whole body flinches in rhythm. Short, forced breaths, wet and rasping spray fluid against the bend of the tube in her mouth. The plastic pipe collects it, sweeps it down another channel. Kim writhes, pushing her head against the pillow. The deep black bruise around her neck, edged in pink chafe marks, renders real what I had only imagined – feared. I want to go back in time and stop her, console her, ask her how to make life bearable. I want to help her. I want to understand.
I don’t know if my friend can hear me, see me, recognize me. I don’t know if she cares. Her mother strokes the girl’s hair and whispers in Cantonese. Then she turns to me. “Thank you for letters,” she smiles with her quiet English words. I’m still and silent to hear them, messages on faint radio waves. “Other family write. You read for Sokim.” I shuffle the stack of papers in my hands. Floral stationary, cheerful construction paper, store-bought cards. A plain, typed sheet appears on top – a letter from some cousins. I read aloud.
“Dear Kim, We are sad for you to be in hospital. You had fun here in California a short time ago. We hope you are getting better. We wish you did not do this.”
I pause at the next lines.
How could you do this terrible thing? You have disgraced your family.
I can’t say them. I skip down to the signature, letting the letter end with what kindness it has left. I smile feebly at the small woman, who grins, still petting her daughter’s head.
Discomfort, confusion, disgust for those hurtful words follow me home. Alone in my room, I cry and cry and cry. I want to wash out the fear, the images. I want to sob until logic, fairness come streaming out. The tears don’t get me clean. My gasping breath never heaves out the answers. But I never retreat. I never hide in hurtfulness.