ACCC Flash Fiction Contest Winners Announced
Waconia resident Jillian Van Hefty has been awarded 1st Place in the adult category of the 2021 flash fiction contest sponsored by the Arts Consortium of Carver County. In her story, Speechless, a mother’s love and determination is miraculously rewarded.
Chaska writer D.E. Munson took 2nd Place for A Race Against Angelus Morti, a story about a son’s effort to beat the Angel of Death to his father’s bedside.
Third Placed went to Victoria writer Candace Almquist for Vision Quest, a tale about a Native girl’s quest for spiritual help against the ethnic cleansing of the white man’s boarding school program.
EJ Haas took 1st Place in the young adult category with Mary’s Manger, an encounter with a vulnerable girl at a hospital.
Ciara Schoen received Honorable Mention in that category for The Girl Who Sees Dragons, a young girl’s other-worldly encounter at a gravesite.
Everyone who entered the contest was invited to a virtual awards/reading event on, March 11, 2021.
Please read the winning stories below…
1st Place, Adult (19 and older)
Speechless by Jillian Van Hefty
“What do you say we go home, get cozy and read some Curious George books?” Grace asked her three-and-a-half-year-old daughter. She handed Gabby a grape Capri-Sun with the straw poked through the hole and a Ziploc baggie of Dot’s pretzel twists. After buckling her into the car seat, she gave her a “cross kiss” — forehead, chin, right cheek, left cheek. Father, son, holy spirt, amen; she needed those prayers today.
Grace gently closed the car door, then walked around to the back and placed her palms against the truck to support her weight. Inhale……..and exhale…………
She grabbed the piece of yellow paper from the back pocket of her Levi’s, unfolded it and read it a fifth time. Then she crumpled it into a tight ball, slammed it onto the asphalt parking lot, and stomped on it until it looked like it belonged in the lint trap of a clothes dryer.
Grace climbed into the driver’s seat and leaned her head onto her steering wheel, her long brunette hair creating a moat around her sweaty, pink face. To conceal her jagged breaths, she turned on the radio. Say My Name by Destiny’s Child was playing. Damn, she still loved that song. It was released in 1999, same as her black Honda Accord LX.
Every Wednesday morning for the past eighteen months the two of them had met with Miss Greta, speech therapist extraordinaire. Gabby’s pediatrician was concerned when the toddler hadn’t begun talking by twelve months but became alarmed when she still hadn’t uttered a single word by age two. Developmentally, the little girl was behind in some areas — preemies oftentimes are, particularly when born with additional health conditions. Gabby’s heart defect already required her to undergo three operations and another two were projected. Her father bolted before she even got released from the NICU and took his health insurance right along with him.
As Miss Greta explained Gabby’s speech delay, “The human body conserves resources for its vital organs. To sum it up, a healthy heart is essential to survival, talking is not. She is not deaf. She is not likely autistic. She doesn’t have a cleft palate. She did not suffer brain damage of any sort. Listen, Grace, she’ll get there. Eventually, she will get there.” But Grace worried she never would…not now.
Gabby just completed her 78th speech therapy session — the last one authorized. “Client failed to meet minimal requirements. Unsatisfactory progress made. Services terminated,” the final report read. Client!!! It sounded as if she were a divorcee enrolling in an online dating service or a newlywed couple securing the best APR on a home mortgage. And the word “failed” seemed harsh for someone weighing thirty pounds.
Miss Greta petitioned and appealed on their behalf, nearly getting herself fired for subordination in the process. But it was no use, they were cut off. The forms were stamped “case closed” in triplicate. What would happen to her baby now?
Silent tears poured from Grace’s eyes and nose, and dripped onto her pants in growing wet stains. The car jiggled as if pushed by the wind. Say my name, say my name. If no one is around you, say baby I love you, Beyoncé sang from staticky speakers.
The first sound was a diminutive tickle of air, “Mmm.”
It was the confused squeak of a newborn lamb, “Mmmaa.”
Then, “Mmaaaa aAmAmA MAAAAMMMMM!”
Grace’s head bolted upright and neck whipped backward with such abruptness that her vertebra cracked. Her eyes were wide, mouth agape.
She had no words.
2nd Place, Adult (19 and older)
A Race Against Angelus Morti by D.E. Munson
The antagonist in this story is the Angel of Death. What does he look like? He may have the head of a jackal like Anubis. He may be the rough-around-the-edges, blue-gray eyed Charon, ferryman across the River Styx. He may be the dark-hooded skeleton with the scythe in Charles Dickens reckoned in “A Christmas Carol,” or Terry Pratchett’s version which looks like Dickens’ but with a good heart and sense of humor and a Born to Rune leather jacket. I’ll let you be the judge. The important thing here is that he represents one of our deepest fears—-our mortality.
Anyway, I’d been racing him all day in earnest. I heard his approach this morning at 7:15 with the jarring ring of a telephone call from my sister.
“Dad’s not looking very good right now. Last night last night he ripped out his IV and all his tubes, and wouldn’t let anyone reattach them. I’m not sure how much longer he can survive, so we thought you should know.”
I took chase on the next flight from Minneapolis to Tucson with one stopover on the way at Dallas International where I became suddenly socked in by the loudest, wettest thunderstorm I’ve ever experienced.
“Is this your doing?” I raved at the angelus morti inwardly.
I couldn’t hear his answer, which was drowned out by the River Styx emptying itself on the terminal, but I did sense his laughter in passing.
Rather than wasting my time being pissed at the Angel, I reached out inwardly to Dad while writing him a letter.
You’re pioneering the Big Life, where I bet you’ll get a chance to ride Skylark again up in the meadows of Echo Road. And the golf’s got to be great. Maybe you’ll get to sing another duet with your ol’ buddy Don Ho.
With the painful passing expanse of time, the deluge passed as well, resurrecting the hope our Boeing 747 could catch a tailwind and speed me past my nemesis.
The look on Mom’s face told the story when she and my siblings picked me up at Tucson Arrivals. “He left while you were still in Dallas,” Mom said. “He made a gentle transition. In a lucid moment, Dad spoke of being welcomed by Don Ho, of all people. Getting invited to join him onstage was the pinnacle moment of Dad’s vacation in Hawaii. Then he was in and out. At one point he raised his hand as if to stroke someone or something and said Skylark.”
I got goosebumps.
“He’d donated all his healthy organs,” Mom answered before I could ask to see him, “so he was rushed away immediately.”
Then my sister chimed in, “But not before I had a chance to yell at him, I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever said or done, Dad! He smiled and that was it.”
The next morning I was led to a little room at the funeral parlor with a special dispensation to say goodbye before he was cremated. “I’m sorry I missed you, Dad. We’re old buds from way back before when, and that won’t change. I’ll never let there be a hole in my life where you used to be.”
Still holding his crown, I bent down and kissed his third eye. I rose. One little sniff, one little choke. I took a deep breath, I slowly turned, and let him be. I stepped out of that little room, changed, sticking out my tongue at the Angel of Death as I made my first step into this new universe.
3rd Place Adult (19 and older)
Vision Quest by Candace Almquist
The gnawing of her hollow belly left her weaker than she had ever been in her life. As she lay on a bed of cedar boughs, she shivered as the cold earth gripped her with its icy fingers, chilling her to the bone. The small fire she had built had burned down to a few red-orange embers, now void of any lingering warmth. Pressing against the cold earth beneath her hands, she found the strength to push up and lean her tired body into the comfort of the ancient cedar tree she called Nokomis for Grandmother. Nokomis and the Moon were her only companions on this vision quest.
Her body trembled from more than the chilly night air. The boarding school agent was coming to her village to take children away from their families to learn the white man’s way and forget their ancient traditions. She was terrified that she too would be carried off like so many of her friends, never to be heard from again.
Failure hung like a wet blanket from her shoulders, dragging her into darkness. Three days had passed. An unbearable ache deep in her chest arose when she envisioned her wiigiwaam where she slept wrapped in warm furs with Nimaamaa and Nimbaabaa breathing quietly nearby and the fire burning low. How would she tell her parents she had not succeeded?
Aimlessly poking at the dying embers, she threaded words together, choosing one shiny blue bead only to replace it with another slightly darker blue bead.
How much longer before her guardian spirit revealed itself to her?
Maybe her guardian spirit couldn’t find her.
Maybe her guardian spirit was in another part of the forest.
Maybe guardian spirits were afraid of white people too and were hiding!
Maybe she was not worthy of a guardian spirit!
A sudden pounding began in her chest and spread to her lungs. The edges of rocks and sticks cut into her knees as her hands scrabbled against the cold earth searching for air. Planting her feet beneath her, she stood and arched her back against Nokomis, gasping like a fish out of water.
A huffing and groaning startled her as a large animal plowed its way through the thick woods towards her camp. Nokomis halted her escape, and she slid down the tree in a vain attempt to make herself small, not noticing the scratches that cut into her skin like wiggly snakes down her back. Her body stilled, her muscles locking like a jack rabbit ready to run from its predator. Abruptly, the noise stopped.
From the dark materialized a large black bear, its black face illuminated by the full Moon. With a loud huff, the animal landed on his front legs and swayed side to side. Walking toward what remained of the small fire, the great bear lifted its face to the moon and roared. Slowly it lowered its massive head and looked directly into her eyes for an eternity that lasted but a few heartbeats. Then, as quickly as it had arrived, the bear turned and ambled away.
The night air filled her lungs, and she held her breath as a flood of warmth encompassed her body like a heated spring before she opened her mouth and released a long exhale. Closing her eyes, her breathing steadied as she again lay down, the constant beat of mother earth echoing in her ear where it pressed against the ground. The protection of Grandmother Cedar engulfed her in its loving arms. Whatever would come, her guardian spirit would be with her. Smiling, she fell into untroubled slumber.
1st Place Young Adult (13-18 years old)
Mary’s Manger by EJ Haas
I am working my sixth day at the city hospital when she stumbles in, raggedy and directionless like a stray dog. She leans on the desk, fixes on Jordan at the counter with a wild gaze; before the seizure comes on she croaks out Help me and falls. Her skin is yellowed like the urine spreading across the tiles. Her eyes don’t close until she passes out.
She looks younger unconscious — before she wakes, finds the IV pumping life into her veins. She has gone so long without eating. Am I in trouble?
“What’s your name?”
Mary, she says like she doesn’t know it, um, Ellenburth.
The test is positive and she reeks of liquor. Mary Ellenburth is not her name.
“How old are you?”
I know she’s lying when she says I’m nineteen. This girl is no older than high school.
“You’re severely malnourished, Mary. Lie down. I’ll bring water.”
She swallows the pills dry, placing them on her tongue like a communion wafer, and only then empties the paper cup down her throat. The lines on the screen show her coming back from the edge of death. She can rise above a whisper now.
I can’t afford this. She’s got the wide, frantic eyes of something wild in capture. I didn’t even want… this… but my dad, he doesn’t know, he’ll —
“Don’t worry.”
But —
“Your dad’s not coming. We don’t even know his name.”
She smiles, bleeding beneath the sheet. What’s your name?
“Kyla.”
Cold, sweaty grip on my wrist. Thank you. And then she asks Are you going to have to call the police?
“Why?”
Well, because if there’s a crime…
I don’t understand her, not until it’s too late. “What crime?”
She looks down at herself, at her hand over her gut, and shakes her head. Nothing, I guess.
I watch as she rests her head to fall back asleep. A tonic-clonic seizure, even without the blood loss, takes about as much energy as a marathon.
When I come back, the IV drips onto the floor where her chewed-off bracelet lies beside an empty bed. There is blood on the sheets, on the tile. I follow the breadcrumb trail of droplets leading me to the door she first came in, the door she slipped out of with the stealth and subtlety every girl learns too young. We are all, at the end of the day, just trying to survive.
Mary is gone from Bethlehem, having wrestled herself off the crucifix and staggered out of the tomb in search of further trouble. She is too vulnerable.
I will be here to do her good always; I would cut her loose a thousand times. For now I return to the murder scene of an emergency room cot. I pull away the sheets and mop up the blood and throw her alias in the trash, wondering if she will use the same name when she next comes through the door.
Honorable Mention, Young Adult (13-18 years old)
The Girl Who Sees Dragons by Ciara Schoen
She is standing at a grave. A little girl, not older than seven. Mourning over the one she has lost. She feels a breeze pass by her, a cascading wind that tickles the trees and makes the stars blush. A scaly, fearsome looking creature rears its head, offering a ride. The girl soars high above the treetops, looking down at the tiny, doll like structures below. Twisting and turning, going forward and back, catching butterflies in her soft, waving dress. Only to discover the timid dragon is a familiar type. She races down at the aquamarine grass below, takes off her boots, and sinks into it. Looking up at the sky at the funny and whimsical shapes the clouds make. She hops up, feels the dragons coarse scales is when she realizes, it has her mother’s eyes.
