Carolina Woman magazine is delighted to continue almost 20 years of hosting our annual Writing Contest, which spotlights our readers’ talent, tenacity and originality.
We were impressed by the great number of powerful entries in the genres of fiction, nonfiction and poetry, and it was near impossible to choose the top dogs. So, the prize-winners are published below; staff favorites will appear in June; and crowd-pleasers will run in July.
Every writer who’s gutsy enough to send in her work is a champ. Keep those pens and keyboards at the ready. It’s never too early to start creating for next year’s contest!
– Debra Simon, Editor & Publisher
Grand Prize
"The Rows of Her Garden," nonfiction by Jennifer Lowry of Clayton
First Prize
"Aging Gracefully," poetry by Tina Morrison of Cary
Second Prize
"Tomando El Fresco," fiction by Anne Kissel of Pittsboro
Third Prize
"Camping Alone," nonfiction by Marcia E. Herman-Giddins of Pittsboro
Fourth Prize
"Dancing in the Dark," fiction by Alan Grayce of Reidsville
Fifth Prize
"When Roe v Wade was overturned, she mourned red" poetry by Molly Hanna of Durham
Sixth Prize
"Fall Turning," poetry by Nicole Farmer of Asheville
Seventh Prize
"Two Lies and a Truth," nonfiction by Monica Cox of Apex
Honorable Mention
"Mine," poetry by Carol Parris Krauss of Portsmouth, Va.
"The Rows of Her Garden"
nonfiction by Jennifer Lowry of Clayton
The rows are still there. I walk slowly between them, the same way I did when I was small, careful not to step on the mounds where the cucumbers climb their wooden stakes. The leaves brush against my hands, rough and prickly, and without thinking I reach down and pinch one between my fingers.
The smell of soil rises up, warm and familiar. It is strange how a scent can open a door. Suddenly I am eight years old again, barefoot in the dirt, the sun resting heavy on the back of my neck.
My grandmother stands at the end of the row, bending low over the plants. She wears the same homemade apron she always wore, faded blue with tiny white flowers stitched across the front. The pockets are full of seeds and twine and sometimes a small pair of scissors. Her hat, wide and floppy, casts a shadow across her face so I cannot always see her eyes.
But I know she is smiling.
“Come help me check the cucumbers,” she says.
I kneel beside her. The leaves scratch my wrists as I reach under them, searching for the hidden green shapes tucked close to the soil. The vines twist around my fingers. When I find one, cool and firm in my palm, I hold it up like a treasure.
“Got one!” I shout.
Grandma laughs, that cackled-witch laugh that always sounded like motion—steady and full of life.
“Put it in the basket, honey. There are plenty more hiding.”
The dirt pushes under my fingernails as I dig through the leaves. I never minded the dirt. Grandma used to say the soil was good for us. “God made us from it,” she would remind me, pressing a seed deep into the ground. “And He grows good things from it too.”
The memory fades as I walk farther down the row.
The garden is quieter now.
But if I close my eyes, I can still hear the creak of the wicker basket and the soft rustle of her apron brushing against the plants.
Another step, another flash.
Evening light stretches long across the yard. The sun dips low behind the trees, and the cicadas begin their steady singing. Grandma wipes her hands on her apron and stands up slowly.
“That’s enough for today,” she says.
Our dog Heather waits patiently by the gate (Grandma’s but mine too). Heather is part shepherd, part something else, with thick fur the color of honey and eyes that seem to understand everything.
Every evening Heather walks me home. There is only one house between mine and Grandma’s, but Heather takes the job seriously. She trots beside me down the cracked sidewalk, her tail swaying like a slow metronome. The concrete slabs of the sidewalk are uneven like broken cornbread. Some are split wide open where weeds have pushed through the cracks. I used to jump over the broken pieces like they were rivers.
Heather never jumped. She simply stepped carefully beside me, watching. When we reach the gate to my yard, she waits. I open it and step inside. Heather sits down outside the fence, just like she always does, her ears perked forward.
“Goodnight, Heather,” I say.
She does not leave until I reach the back steps. Then she turns and trots back down the broken sidewalk toward Grandma’s garden, her job finished for the day.
I open my eyes. The rows stretch ahead of me again.
The garden is older now, like the memories themselves. Some of the boards that once held the rows straight have begun to lean. The fence has been repaired in places. The hat that once shaded my grandmother’s face rests now on a hook inside the shed.
But the soil still smells the same. I kneel and run my fingers through it. The earth slips between my hands, soft and dark. It gathers beneath my nails just like it used to.
Some memories are like that cracked sidewalk out front. Broken edges. Pieces missing. Time has worn them thin. But the garden is different.
Here, the rows are straight and steady.
Here, nothing feels broken.
The prickling cucumber leaves brush against my hands again, and for a moment I almost expect to hear her voice drifting down the row.
“Did you find one yet?”
I smile and reach beneath the leaves. Hidden in the shade of the vines, a cucumber rests cool against the soil. I lift it carefully and hold it in my palm.
“Got one,” I whisper.
And for a moment, as the breeze lifts my hair slightly from my shoulders, I am walking the rows of her garden, where everything feels whole again.
"Aging Gracefully"
poetry by Tina Morrison of Cary
Give me my rewards—
the battles won
even as they left their marks.
Still, I won.
Let the crow’s feet deepen and remain,
framing these twinkling eyes
not like a conspiracy of crows,
nor a murder,
but a passing flock of geese
calling overhead,
seeking warmer skies
yet finding contentment
wherever they land.
Let my skin stretch with abundance
from children grown,
from one more helping
at a long table
deep laughter
expanding and contracting
the years.
Carry me forward
on calloused feet
roughened as tree bark,
from running,
from dancing,
from climbing
buried in beach sand
or garden soil.
For I would rather return
to dust and ash,
real things to gather
and scatter,
like the fading fire
at the end of an evening
only embers now,
quietly burning
until the last guest
turns in for the night.
"Tomando El Fresco"
fiction by Anne Kissel of Pittsboro
No clock or bell rings yet they all know it is time when late afternoon sun lays down cooled violet blue shadows and streets downshift in rhythm, calling them out to their sidewalks and stoops. Old women arrive first, helping each other walk they bring chairs and safe gossip, ask what’s new? As if anything changed since morning but something might have changed and even old things can surprise in the chiaroscuro glow of their sinking scarlet sun.
Young children run circles under the one-eyed watch of work-weary parents icily sipping the day’s toil away. Young men smoke and strut and posture for the pretty girls who toss occasional winks or smiles at them over soft shoulders. Community cats pause their patrols for scratches and pats while birds chirp bedtime stories to their tucked in nestlings. Sidewalk-bound trees dance in a breeze as night blooming flowers scatter sweet white scents like fragrant dusk dew.
Chatter slows, replaced by rippling tides of communal sighs. Soon their shut doors must be opened and their eyes closed, sending their souls in search of new dreams, each carried to sleep in the embrace of the shared gloaming’s good night.
* Tomando El Fresco: Spanish saying for taking the cool air, custom of sitting outside in the evening
"Camping Alone"
nonfiction by Marcia E. Herman-Giddins of Pittsboro
On the night after the last blue moon before I turned 73, I went into the woods alone. It was a practice of mine. This time, I realized why I liked camping by myself so much – I cherish sitting alone with the night. Just me. The night rising. If I am lucky, I get to see a moonrise and even hear the creatures snuffle, coyotes howl, insects singing to each other, a screech owl with its haunting cries. I get to hear the cracks and creaks of branches caressed by an evening breeze and see the ever darkening shadows playing hide and seek and the tiny orange mushrooms like little evening lanterns.
Waking after my night’s sleep the early sun is dewy, then turns glistening, the mourning doves know when to start the day. If there is a chill, a crackling fire tries to copy the sun’s sparkle which gets caught by blades of grass and weeds. Crows call, songbirds begin their wakening, the mosses lie still and glowing softly in the early light.
It is then I come to know I also cherish watching the morning grow. Alone, just me. Moments pass with this watching as I sip my first cup of coffee. By the time it is gone, the morning has bloomed and it is time for chores.
If you don't sit alone with the morning, you miss the shimmering shaking strands shown by a shaft of sunlight left by the spiders night work. The tiny threads dance in the breeze, lace curtains to the fairies. All these things I have seen and heard sitting with the fall of night and then, the rising day.
"Dancing in the Dark"
fiction by Alan Grayce of Reidsville
“Why won't you ever wear a coat, you stubborn man?” Charlene huddles against Lou as they cross the icy VFW parking lot, trotting to keep up with his longer stride. He nuzzles her neck, then hugs her more tightly and not just because she's cold.
“You know I'm hot stuff. At least, that's what I've been told by legions of women.”
“Oh, you.” Charlene laughs that open-throated way he loves, her head thrown back, as if she were swallowing stars.
He'd do anything to make her happy. Even take dance lessons and spend their Friday nights at senior centers, of all places. Turns out that's the premiere spot for ballroom dances: waltzes, rumba, the East Coast Swing. The social foxtrot. For ten bucks a pop they hear live music, dance among the more accomplished elderly couples, and drink god-awful punch. Until they discovered the VFW not only has the same music but also a bar, thank you very much, which he's going to need tonight.
After he pays their admission, Lou helps Charlene off with her coat. She's wearing a slinky dress that shows off her curves. He's the one who encouraged her to be more daring, show some flesh, a little cleavage. That should stand her in good stead. By the looks she garners as they walk into the room, he trusts it will.
Man, it's crowded. He guides them to a table near the back, vacant except for a couple in their seventies, looks like. He's gotten good at guessing. They introduce themselves and, though he's not in the mood for small talk, Lou's cordial. A hedge fund manager knows how to be cordial under any circumstance. You never know who will turn out to be a client. He just hopes to hell he doesn't run into any of his tonight.
When the band plays Sea of Love, Lou holds out his hand. “Foxtrot, darling.”
She slips into his arms, and he leads her through promenades and contra-promenades, the swing step, the grapevine.
“Nice. Very nice.” The way she lights up, you'd think he was a combination of George Clooney and Fred Astaire.
He holds her for so long after the band puts down their instruments that she backs away to look up at him. “Lou? Are you okay?”
“Just thirsty.” He escorts her back to their table.
She presses her palm against his chest, scanning his face.
“I’m fine. Promise.” He feels her eyes on him as he makes his way to the bar and resists the urge to look back. Hard to put anything past Char; she’s quick. He’s surprised he’s gotten away with this so far.
It took him nearly the first summer they were together before he figured out how to beat her at that card game she’d taught him. Nights spent in a pool of lamplight at their kitchen table, after she gleaned one stem of each flower she grew from seed, and all the ripe tomatoes from the garden. She’d study her cards and he’d study her, grubby but adorable, and devilishly determined to win. Clever girl. She’ll be okay.
He’s thankful the line at the bar isn’t long. The seniors generally stick to the punch. He downs a scotch and orders another, along with Charlene's gin and tonic. He leaves the bartender a fifty. What the hell. A none-too-gentle tap on the shoulder halts his progress back to the table.
“Walter! I'd shake your hand but...” Lou holds up the drinks and puts on a smile.
“Where you been, Lou? Been trying to reach you all week.”
“I know, I know. It's just nuts lately.”
“We got to talk. Miriam's worried about our portfolio and, frankly, so am I.”
“Look, Walter, first thing tomorrow, okay?”
Walter shakes his head. “Miriam has an appointment. Bone scan.”
Lou winces. “You name the time then, Walt. I'll come to your place.”
“We're usually back by noon.”
“I'll be there. Give Miriam my best.” The drinks rattle in Lou's hands. He's out of options.
Charlene jumps up as soon as she sees him. “Watch my purse, hon? I have to pee.”
She's the only woman he knows for whom that's not a euphemism for primping before the mirror.
“Wait.” He gives her a fierce hug, a slew of kisses. He forces himself to let go.
As they break apart, her eyes twinkle with promise. Dammit. He should have insisted they stay home tonight so he could watch her face bloom rosy with wine, her ivory skin turn dusky by candlelight, feel her warm fullness pressed against him. It's all he can do not to cry.
“Lou? What is it?” She grasps his hand, brushes her thumb over his knuckles. “Honey?”
“It’s... just that you knock me out.”
Her hand lingers until he manages a smile. Only then does she turn to go to the ladies’ room.
As soon as she's out of sight and before he can change his mind, he slips the envelope into her purse. Safety deposit key, the lawyer's phone number, a note. Skirting the couples on the dance floor, he walks quickly but not too hurriedly into the foyer, past the coat-check girl and a couple smoking cigarettes. Nasty habit, he’s still glad he gave it up.
A week ago, Lou stopped answering the phone. Three days ago, he cashed out his stocks and stashed the money in their safety deposit box along with the CD certificates and insurance policies. Char has the will. Yesterday the dealership tried to repo the Lexus. Last night he chose an abutment, disabled the airbags.
He takes the silver flask Charlene gave him for his 60th from the glove compartment and reads the inscription. The best is yet to come, dearest. Lou swallows his tears along with a jolt of tequila, revs the engine and cranks up Coltrane for Lovers. The Lexus will do a buck-thirty easy.
Starlight punctures the endless black sky. Nice night for a drive.
"When Roe v Wade was overturned, she mourned red"
poetry by Molly Hanna of Durham
When the news broke like water from an amniotic sac,
she was shopping. Trying on dresses with lemon prints
and strawberry shorts with elastic waistbands. A mask
covered her bewildered face, jaw locked and slanted,
cheeks and cloth tear-stained in grief.
She stopped trying for another baby, a sibling for her
daughter, now terrified of complications after her
autonomy stolen, only to find out she was pregnant
a month later and miscarry days before the announcement.
She melted into her couch for days, consuming
chicken broth and out-of-season cherries while men
decided whether she could finish the belaboring of death,
gamble sepsis in the low growl of pain, waiting for a pill
to end the stalled event and the remainder of her baby
to descend. She scrolled on her phone, could not buy
a red gown for upcoming holidays, too much for this
Handmaid’s Tale reality. It was as if it would satisfy
those that want our bleeding all over us, unclean
and swept away. They silence her voice, but in her throat
she roars and in her uterus, once more,
another girl stretches, kicks, incites groans,
practicing for the world she must endure.
"Fall Turning"
after Patricia Fargnoli
poetry by Nicole Farmer of Asheville
If you have seen the leaves
twisting in the wind
colors of flame and fire landing in your hair
or somewhere slowly falling
into the glistening creek
to be carried downstream
then you have felt wonder
and know its longing.
And if you have crunched the leaves
only for the sound
of grinding beauty into dust,
for the continuum of the cycle,
particles in your nose and throat
like the molecules in the mysterious maple
the breeze stirring you
like the forlorn cry of a train whistle
then you can understand
how, more often than not,
death must precede life,
how only through ending
can we begin again,
this vibrant palette a last aria to summer
its fading shadows, the imprint
of leaf on cheek
as fleeting as childhood.
And this blaze of glory
as necessary as rolling down a grassy hill
laughter vibrating into earth
as urgent as that final kiss.
"Two Lies and a Truth"
nonfiction by Monica Cox of Apex
“My daughter lied to me,” my father says casually into a microphone. He’s dressed in a black tux. A glass of champagne in his hand. A sly smile on his lips.
Earlier that afternoon, he walked me down the aisle of my childhood church with the hideous orange carpet. In a few moments, we’ll dance together to that song that makes us both cry. He’ll whisper the lyrics into my ear and the photographer will capture the moment and display it in his office as a sample for future brides.
He proceeds to tell the story of how my husband and I met. In high school. So young and still needing to ask if it was okay to go somewhere with a boy. The boy would be driving.
The boy was a little older than I.
My father cocked an eyebrow, dubious. I felt my opportunity slipping away.
“It’s just lunch, Dad. It’s not like I’m going to marry him,” my father repeats now in a mock teenaged girl tone. Our wedding guests laugh. They see he has come to love the boy who is now a man who loves his daughter.
My new husband and I cut the cake. We dance and laugh and start a life together.
Two months after the toast, we move to a different city. My father is eager to visit. He wants to tour the architecture in Washington, DC, and explore the museums. One time, he dances with my sister on the National Mall because it is so cold walking isn’t enough movement to keep us warm between destinations. Another time, he jokes that it’s time to get my roots done when the wind off the Tidal Basin blows my hair around my head. I tell him I’m too busy. I feel important in my mid-twenties, working in a big city, married with a townhouse. I’ll call the salon on Monday.
We move to Atlanta. Our house is tiny with a challenging layout. But my father approves. It has potential, he tells me, and doodles ideas to expand it on a napkin.
I’m alone on a work trip and learn my college roommate died that morning in a car accident. I call home and my father answers. He doesn’t know what to say. He wishes my mother were there to take this call, but she’s out with a friend. He lets me sob. He doesn’t tell me it will be okay. Instead, he tells me to get in the shower and then get in the bed. These are reminders I need because grief has crowded out all other knowledge.
We have a baby boy and then another one. Little boisterous creatures who amaze my father who had two girls. He says they are coming to visit us, but really, he’s just there to see the boys. To hoist them on his shoulders at the zoo, to push trains on wooden tracks that go in loops, to exclaim in awe when he says my four-year-old has freehanded a perfect circle in crayon. The architect in him is impressed, he wants me to be impressed, too.
“It looks like a regular circle,” I tell him.
He assures me it is not.
Eventually, we move back to our home state of North Carolina. My father now carries canvas folding chairs on the shoulders that once held my children and opens them along the sidelines of soccer and baseball fields to settle in and watch his grandsons run and catch and kick.
He sends my sister and me an email one September after my mother retires. They’ve found a new house. In another town. They are putting in an offer. They will sign a contract if it’s accepted.
How far?
An hour.
I send a response I’m not particularly proud of. I play the we moved here and now you’re moving away card. I try to balance it by admitting they are adults and should do what makes them happy. But I’m not. I’m selfishly wishing they would stay.
Perhaps he once wished the same as he made a toast in a tux or later when he waved at the back of a U-Haul as we headed north.
My son who drew the perfect circle has just started sixth grade. He joins the band. His first band concert is coming up. I was in the band once, too. My father once freehanded a perfect circle to create a South Korean flag for one of our marching show props.
An hour isn’t too far to drive, he assures me in response to my email. They will still come to the boys’ events. Like the band concert.
“I promise.”
My father lied to me.
Eighteen days later, my father is dead.
Ten days after that, I sit, numb on uncomfortable and too narrow metal bleachers in a hot middle school gym and listen to my son carefully plunk out the notes on a bell kit at his first band concert.
Seven years and seven months later I listen to that same son confidently play timpani and drum set and auxiliary percussion in his last high school band concert.
The middle school Christmas concerts, the marching performances, the jazz band concerts, the musicals, the high school Pops concerts. There are too many concerts now to count.
My father misses every single one of them.
We pack my son up for college to study engineering and I remind him of the time he impressed his grandfather by freehanding a perfect circle.
It is the truest thing I can give him.
"Mine"
poetry by Carol Parris Krauss of Portsmouth, Va.
The Blue Ridge hunches ancient, before the continents came together, broke apart.
Grandfather Mountain, Craggy Gardens, Sharp Mountain—rudimentary carvings, billions
of years of patience. Rhododendron and Fraser fir cling to ragged edges, root talons.
Mountains bent and sharp like the surly old man out front of the general store.
The Catskills—unruly children playing ring-a-levio—Slide Mountain, Wittenberg, rounded, smooth caps carved just 13,000 winters ago when the icy Iroquois dam burst. Water birthing water. The Mahicannuck. Hemlock and birch, not Laurel Hells. Esopus Creek, not the French Broad.
And yet—
Schoharie Reservoir. Lake Lure. Ashokan. Fontana. Water holds light the same way everywhere. Palisades Parkway, Blue Ridge Parkway. The rotting tobacco barn in Weaverville could be that leaning sugarhouse past Phoenicia. The gated mountain "preserve" in Cashiers echoes those developments creeping up from Woodstock. Someone in both places looked at a ridge and thought,
"Mine."
Coming next month: Staff Favorites!