Anne Jackson was awarded first place in the 2019 ACCC flash fiction contest during the Arts Consortium’s Annual Meeting held on Tuesday, March 19th for her story “Round Robin,” a tale about a creepy neighbor and severed robins heads. Anne is a Chaska resident and member of several writers’ groups.

Second place went to Tamara Shaffer for her story “Foiled,” a story about romantic hope aboard mass transit. Tamara lives in the Chicago area.

Barb Zimmerman won third place for her story “A Surprise Discovery,” a story that suggests there’s more to fear in the woods than lions and tigers and bears. Barb is a member of the Waconia Writers Group.

Anne and Barb read their stories at the annual meeting and received their award ribbons.

Submissions to the contest were limited to a maximum of 600 words, and fifteen writers took up that challenge. Two came from the Chicago area and one from Indonesia. We thank everyone who entered.

Here are the winning stories, minus Anne’s. She requested that it remain “unpublished” for now.

A SURPRISE DISCOVERY

By Barb Zimmerman

The grey wash of the rain blurred my view through the window. Peering through it, I could barely see the nearby trees or the path I had carved through the woods. I longed to be on the trail, where evergreens stood like blockades on either side, and old vegetation had long ago turned to softness under my feet.

When the rain continued, I got jumpy. Alone, my thoughts hovered like mosquitoes. My stomach clenched as I read about the second body found not far from my home in the woods. This crime, like the first, was unsolved. There was just one clue; two blue mother-of-pearl buttons– one placed precisely in each unseeing eye of the victim.

Enough ruminating. My kids pressured me to move to town, worried about me alone in the woods. I reminded them that I am careful, and not really alone. I talked about the fresh air, all that oxygen from the trees, no traffic, no crime. Well…until now.

At noon, like a diminishing chord, the rain let up and released me to my sanctuary. Happily, I tromped, my boots silent on the soggy floor. I stopped, closed my eyes and inhaled: pungent, rich and deeply soothing. Chilly cascades of water fell from branches overhead. One large drop tapped the top of my head, making me jump. Relax, I told myself. This is your safe place.

Five minutes later I stared at the base of a large oak and wondered if I had lost my mind despite the extra oxygen. And yet, it was there, wasn’t it? A fairy house. Not a tacky ceramic one, but a miniature dwelling of twigs and bark. Bowls fashioned out of upturned acorn caps sat on a mushroom table. Bending for a closer look, an abrupt hard blow from my left crashed me into the brush.

Prostrate, I fended off a giant head as it tried to lick my face. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Clyde! Get off!” Hurricane Clyde, a rescue from a Louisiana shelter, lived up to his name. What he lacked in grace he made up for in enthusiasm and fierce loyalty. He was one of the reasons I felt safe. “How did you get out, you big lump?” So much for a quiet walk. He was circling the tree, snuffling, nose to the ground. “What do you smell?” I remembered then. Had I really seen…? Of course not! But Clyde, fur at attention, barked at the base of the oak. I grabbed his collar as he lunged forward. And there it was. “It is a fairy house.” How could it have gotten there?

“The kids are right; I’ve lost it.” I looked around, felt for my cell phone in my pocket, turned it on and checked the date. No, I wasn’t dreaming or time traveling. I was here in my woods and someone had built a tiny house. I felt a ribbon of unease and took a breath. “Get a grip, woman. Let’s see what’s inside.” Tiny chairs, a twig bed, a miniature chest closed with a tiny latch. I couldn’t resist. I flipped open the lid just as Clyde jerked his collar from my hand. As I turned toward his deep low growl, I had time to recognize the contents of the trunk.

In it, stacked with precision, was a row of blue mother-of-pearl buttons.

FOILED

By Tamara Shaffer

He’s sitting across from me on the train, reading—or pretending—but looking at me, his gaze flicking upward then downward again quickly. He thinks I don’t notice, although he wants me to notice, makes sure I notice, and I, playing the same game, give him fleeting eye contact and half a smile but only one.

His legs are long, crossed at the ankles. I like his dark hair and skin and the way his head is cocked slightly sideways as he glances at me. He turns a page, knowing that I know he hasn’t read a word. It’s an astronomy magazine, so he might be smart, might have a telescope in his yard. I imagine him guiding my face toward the eyepiece, his arm around my shoulder. “How does the moon look up close?” he’d ask me, leaning forward to direct his question softly into my ear.

He readjusts himself, crosses his legs at the knees and gives me another quick look. We’re coming to a stop—my stop, in fact—and I hope it’s his as well. Once I gather myself and head for the door, he’s right behind me. I feel him towering over me, imagine I feel his warm breath on my neck. Knowing that we’ll know each other soon, I’m excited. I feel an arousal I haven’t felt in months, since my fiancé confessed that he’d been unfaithful—with my best friend in the world.

The door grinds open and I step down, prepared to respond when he speaks to me. Yet, I hear no voice other than the giggle of a child, just before my new prospect walks around me, not looking back, but holding his arms out for a small girl, one who jumps into them gleefully. The woman approaching them is smiling. “Honey, I hope you remembered the wine.”