Visual Arts Junction Writing Contest: Hushed Recall

We have two fantastic winning entries for you.

Heather Spiva won the Professional Category with Moving.

Claire Gillian won the Amateur Category with Backroads Errand.

The Winning Writers Receive all These Great Prizes

• You will be interviewed by Nanci Arvizu on her live internet radio show Page Readers. Please contact Nanci to set up your date through the Send Message link on her show page.
• The paperbook mystery, The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras, by New Mexico’s premier author Michael Orenduff. The Pot Thief Who Studied Pythagoras recently won the Eppie Award as the Mystery eBook of the Year. Michael even has the Governor of NM commenting on his Pot Thief murder mystery series. This Prize available worldwide. The book will be shipped where ever the winner lives worldwide. Please email the author to give him your shipping details.
• A downloadable version of Aggie Villanueva’s best selling Biblical novel, Rightfully Mine. Aggie will email you the code for the free download, available in 10 formats for viewing on almost any e-reader.
• One 8X10 print of the photo art that inspired the contest winner, output to metallic paper that gives it a sheen that seems to glow from within. Hushed Recall is by Aggie Villanueva, known as the Grandma Moses of the American Southwest and respresented in Gallery across the nation, including Xanadu Gallery in Scottsdale, AZ. (shipped within the USA only.) Please email Aggie with your shipping address.
• The winner gains multiple exposure on Visual Arts Junction and a post on the blogs of our prestigious panel of judges.
• Winners receive two comments from each judge, what they like about your entry, and what could be improved. Please see the fine print at the bottom of this post.

Professional Category

Moving by Heather Spiva

I didn’t see it at first.

Maybe it was because the sun was setting and the endless spread of wheat in the sky blinded me. Even if this had been my view for almost twenty years, it still made me stop.

I hadn’t been gone forever; only away from the farm for a year. But when I rounded past the barn and took a short cut to the house, I tripped.

No one saw me fall. And if they did, I didn’t care. If living on my own taught me anything it was “get over yourself.” You know, as in, forget about your mistakes, keep moving forward; that type of thing. I wasn’t embarrassed by anything anymore; I didn’t have time for regrets.

I lay still, like the oak trees lining the perimeter to our property. With the cool, damp floor and smell of dry grass awaiting the dew of night, I don’t know, it was like I couldn’t get up. The grass had claws or something and this time, they had tied me to their fortress; waiting to eat me alive. I’m not sure how long I was there. But it was long enough to see the sky move, and watch the stars poke through their thick tapestry.

“Ellie? Ellie where are you?” I could hear anxiety in my sister’s voice. Sam was looking for me, but I could do it. I couldn’t get up. What was wrong with me? Maybe, I’d hurt my head harder than I thought.

I reached up to feel my head, but felt nothing.

Rolling onto my back, I breathed deep. The sky was fuchsia now, just like Mrs. Nelson’s flowers in her front patio. Surely, she would’ve cared to see me on the ground, floundering. Living with her had been different. She was old and senile; hated my skinny jeans and red lipstick. But it was her love of flowers; that was the tie that kept me paying $600 a month for a studio above the garage without a washroom.

I reached out, hitting my hand on metal. The sound of my mother’s engagement ring pinged softly on it. Flecks of rust tumbled off the rim, like crumpled sycamore leaves from November before the snow and after the heat.

Dad was the last one to use the tractor. He was the reason I tripped over it.

His stroke was unforeseen.

The cancer in mom, also unforeseen.

“Ellie? For Pete’s sake, I don’t have all night. I’ve got to get back home to the kids.”

I sighed. The only reason we were here was to figure out what to do with the house. I looked at the rust on the ring and put my hand behind my head, grinding the two elements into the dirt. The sky was black now, except for a faint glint of a sparkle on the horizon.

I wanted dad. I wanted him in his overalls. I wanted mom and her pies, and her thin hands working on the tractor engine.

“Ellie? What, are you dead?”

I raised my hand, heavy in memories and rust and diamonds. “Sam, I’m here.”

I got up, walked in and turned on the porch light. I paid over my share of the life insurance to Sam.

The house and barn had a new owner.

Bio: Heather Spiva is a freelance writer from Sacramento, CA. She loves reading and writing and spending lots of time with her two young boys and firefighter husband. When she has free time, which is rare, she spends it gardening or eating chocolate. heatherji@hotmail.com

JudgeLinda Yezak
What I liked about your entry: Well written piece, beautifully descriptive.

What could be improved: I found a few punctuation errors, such as using a semicolon instead of a comma.

Judge Lillie Ammann
What I liked about your entry: You drew me into the story so I experienced the narrator’s emotions.

What could be improved: Correcting a few minor grammar errors would make for smoother reading.

Judge Nanci Arvizu
What I liked about your entry: The way you described her mother’s ring hitting the rusty rim. Nice visual.

What could be improved: Proofreading. There’s some typo’s that the computer didn’t pick up because they’re grammar issues. Makes for a harsh “bump” in the story.

Judge Aggie Villanueva
What I liked about your entry: Great opening paragraph. You moved me emotionally in the best way possible. You drew tears from me without your character crying. Bravo.

What could be improved: A little tightening of words in the two paragraphs with “Ellie where are you?” and “just like Mrs. Nelson’s flowers.”

Amateur Category

Backroads Errand by Claire Gillian

“When you see the red wagon wheel on the left side of the road, turn right and you’re there.” My mother’s thin voice had detailed the ten mile route to the only country store that carried her beloved Tastee Cakes. During her better days, she drove herself once a week.

I hadn’t lived in the back woods of North Carolina in over two decades, so I’d taken meticulous notes. Five turns, she’d told me, marked by a graffiti-covered boulder, a burnt trailer, a bait shop named Frosty’s, a volunteer fire station and a red wagon wheel.

After several wrong turns, I pulled into Lou’s Little Store and began my search. I scanned the most logical places, but couldn’t find any Tastee Cakes.

“Can I help you find somethin’, honey?” A blonde wearing foundation a shade too dark called out from behind the counter.

“I’m looking for Tastee Cakes.” I don’t normally ask for help in convenience stores. I shouldn’t have to because it’s supposed to be convenient which is supposed to mean easy to find.

“Sorry, we’re all out.” The woman walked to where I stood and pointed to a rack on my left. “But we got Little Debbie’s right here. They’s just as good.”

“No. I don’t want anything but Tastee Cakes. Are you sure you don’t have any in the back?” I began to gnaw on the inside of my mouth as I considered the consequences of returning empty-handed.

“I’m sure.” She shrugged and returned to her station behind the counter.

“Could you please check?” My breath came faster and my voice rose.

“There’s nowhere to check, honey. What you see is all we got.”

I caught a glimpse of a nearly naked man on the pages of the magazine she flipped. “Do you know any other places near here that sell Tastee Cakes?”

“No. Sorry. I think you should just try the Little Debbie’s. They’re fine.” Another naked man flashed by on a new page.

Hysteria shoved at the edge of my self-control. Between clenched teeth I said, “I don’t want Little Debbie. I want Tastee Cake! My mother used to come here every week for them. She doesn’t eat much these days, but I know she’ll eat one of those.” I choked back the tears that formed. If I hadn’t allowed myself to cry thus far, I’d be damned if I’d do it over a cupcake.

She put down her magazine and looked at me with new interest. “Is your mamma Miz Carolyn Teague?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, well why didn’t you say so? I got Miz Teague’s cakes right here.” She pulled out five packages of chocolate cup cakes and two coffee cakes from a box beneath the counter.

The cellophane wrapped treats caught the light and winked at me. “Oh. Oh, thank you so much.”

“You tell your mamma we’re prayin’ real hard for her.”

I nodded and fished out my wallet. “How much?”

She patted my hand, smiled and shook her head. “We don’t never charge for these.”

I exhaled the breath I hadn’t even realized I’d held and gave her a long teary smile. “Thank you.”

“See you next week?”

“I hope so.”

My mother’s cakes in hand, I began my trip home, making a left at the red wagon wheel.

Bio: Claire Gillian, The Word Busker,  is a number-crunching executive by profession but an after hours writer by passion. With three completed novels, a fourth in process and countless short stories and flash fictions to her name, she’s currently dipping her toe into the publishing arena. Though her parents have lived in rural North Carolina for over thirty-five years, she’s been a Pacific Northwest transplant for the past sixteen, with previous stops in New Mexico and Texas.

Judge Linda Yezak
What I liked about your entry: Very good dialogue, good use of it to indicate setting.

What could be improved: Author should have indicated why the cakes were so vital as to bring the MC to near hysteria when they weren’t available. “My mother’s thin voice” doesn’t quite illustrate the need for urgency or explain the clerk’s offer of prayers. Otherwise, good piece!

Judge Lillie Ammann
What I liked about your entry: You managed to make the store clerk a multi-dimensional character by pointing out what she was reading in contrast to her generosity and prayers.

What could be improved: There are a few minor grammar errors.

Judge Nanci Arvizu
What I liked about your entry: The driving instructions. I live like that!

What could be improved: not sure… Maybe include a little more about her mother’s life in the small town, since the clerk seemed to know her personally.

Judge Aggie Villanueva
What I liked about your entry: It was a busy work day when I stopped to read the contest entries. From the first word you captured me. Excellent story construction the way you tantalized me with this “cake emergency” until you revealed why with that professional drum roll so vital to short stories. Excellent last sentence bringing us back round to the first.

What could be improved: Honestly couldn’t find anything wrong.

The Fine Print: You must respond within 5 days of the date on your winning email announcement. If you do not reply to your winning email announcement within that time limit, your prizes will be assigned to the second place entrant. The judges’ critiques are confined to short comments; no in depth critique/editing. No editing has been done to the entries, as they are judged for raw talent only. Entrants will be automatically added to the Visual Arts Junction newsletter. You many unsubscribe at any time. All rights to the Bedtime Story image remain with the creator, Aggie Villanueva.