Call For Submissions: Turkeys and More

It's Autumn. The leaves are falling, the air is crisp, the pumpkins are getting ready to take Cinderella to the ball, and many of us are looking forward to that Thanksgiving gutsplosion known as the turkey dinner.

Send us your turkey stories, or Thanksgiving stories, or any kind of writing that can be loosely attenuated to the turkey/Thanksgiving theme.

Email your submission to awcswriterscorner@gmail.com and the AWCS blog turkey will happily share it with our readers.

Retreat, by Jamal Ali

This wilderness of tranquility

at Goldeye Lake,

is so soothing,

my mind is at ease.

Evergreens tickle the sky.

The placid lake reflects my mood of complete calm.

Life takes a slow pace here.

This aura of prevailing silence,

is so scintillating

that it revels my psyche.

Healing surroundings,

the fresh air rejuvenates.

I rejoice in the freedom of space and nature.

The innocent chatter of the squirrels,

so full of life,

scampers from place to place

in my midst.

In the early dawn,

an owl summons its mate,

a cry of longing echoing against the foothills.

The log cabins,

are full of splendid coziness

in the dark nights.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

WHAT WAS NOW

By Phyllis Heltay

Hickory, dickory, dock, the mouse ran up the clock…then the damnable rodent continued to try to skitter a way into my works, chased up my tower by Desdemona’s cat. The turn of the last century makers were not metal fools and so built me impervious to the elements and any creatures that might consider this a safe perching nest. My iron face has retained its original subtle patina, despite what it routinely has to witness that is less than dignified, I must say.

Horrors! The aforementioned Desdemona is ignoring her marauding tabby just as she ignores the sign at the entrance to this public rose garden – NO PETS PLEASE. There you have it. The “please” at the end makes it seem like a kindly suggestion rather than a rule. While she sits on that bench, for exactly forty five minutes each and every Tuesday through Thursday, her freedom crazed animal will pounce on mice, beetles, and wind-blown leaves. Then, when its metabolism is charged to the maximum, it will use the base of the Queen Elizabeth Pink as a litter box. Shameful. Desdemona will ignore the desecration, only looking up once at my face to check that she hasn’t become so lost in her fiction that she’s out-stayed her welcome. If only my minute and hour hands could form a scowl to show my annoyance. However, I was built for the inevitable, not judgement. One minute follows the next, regardless of the endless prayers to the contrary etched on the hopeful upturned faces I see on a regular basis. They come to the garden to slow down time, and even stop it.

A few days ago a young man entered the park on a wave of anxiety, his telephone contraption glued to his ear. I’m surprised that anyone can look at me and remember how to read the hour since the style is to have the numbers flashed without a hint of irony or grace. I’ve seen expectant lovers hold their breath between the ticks of my filigree minute hand, parsing out the seconds until their flushed partners arrive, not a moment too soon.

The young man circled me twice, muttering obscenities and then, I am almost sure, I heard the sound of a gut retching pain that emanated from his core as he threw his device to the ground. He pressed his forehead to my cool metal and stood silent and still. When he felt the vibration of the hour being struck he raised his head, and I saw it in his eyes, that prayer – a sad expression of overwhelming regret and loss, and an intense need for my hands to move counter clock wise, giving him the moment back when irreparably choices changed the course of his life. I can only look down and offer another second, minute, and hour to set things right. Can he feel the vast forgiving ocean of time in those infinitesimal spaces between then, and now?

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

What Took You So Long?

By Heidi Grogan

Cursed knots! I quickly re-thread and stitch the nylon pocket into the lining of my Speedo bathing suit. Shove the “made-for-water” fake boob into the pocket, check that it’s secure. I don’t want to see my rubber breast floating on the surface of the pool, kids using it for a game of pig in the middle.  Two years since the mastectomy, and I’m still not ready. What if people see it when I bend over? I won’t bend over.  

At the pool, Eli and his son Simon are waiting. “What took you so long?” Simon asks. 

We hit the water slide and Eli scoots down first with Simon safe between his legs.  I sit at the top and feel the water gushing, piling up around my back, moving around my hips and sneaking under my thighs. I push off, lay back and pick up speed down the dark tubes that drop off with no warning. Run the banked curves like a luger, water sloshing over the sides as I slide high left, then high right around the corners. Feel the seams of the plastic slide catch hold of my bathing suit running them over, faster and faster, click, click, click…. At the bottom I plug my nose and propel into deep water, sink low and kick up to the side where Eli and Simon laugh, ready to go again.

After each run I cup the false breast when I think no one is looking. At the end of the day it’s twisted sideways in its pocket, but my sewing job held up.

In the change room I use the key tied onto my right shoulder strap to get into my locker—I want my shampoo. The plan is to use another quarter to lock it again and free the key. Only, I don’t have a quarter.  Damn. I’m stuck! I have to get the key off the strap. Only, I can’t.  I have to get out of the bathing suit. I pull the left strap off my shoulder and wiggle my elbow through. Oh no!  My flat mastectomy no-nipple skin is exposed! The nylon pocket flops against my ribcage. For everyone to see.  And they are seeing. My face flames. I stand higher on my tiptoes, pretend to search for something on the top shelf. My calves cramp, I need to stand down. When I do, my bathing suit pulls up my crotch like a hammock yanked up between two trees, trying to toss its occupant. Fuck! I’m high centred! Back to tip toes. Two girls make horrified faces at each other and exchange a silent “OMG.” I snarl out “thanks” but the tears flow. A mother with a toddler in her arms comes over.

            “Can I help?”

            “Need a quarter.” It’s all I can choke out.  She opens her purse. This will be done soon, this will be over soon. It is. She unlocks me.

I mutter gratitude and make for the bathroom, close the door. And I bawl.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

The Tree

By Margaret Graw

         Skye, it’s what the mother called the child who ran toward the ruby blossom that swayed in the breeze; the plump leaves folded back perfectly to reveal the ginger flower.  The woman’s white blonde hair matched the girls; their smiles mirror reflections.  A giggle, a finger pointing, a skip and a hop, and the little girl reached out, touched a petal.  

         I’d stood on that land, in that field, for many seasons, since I was small like the blue field flowers that now tickle my feet.  I was alone at first, and grew openly, spread my branches up and out after each rainfall.  It was a free place.  The low flowers and grasses spread away from my roots, reaching toward the far edges.   As I grew taller I could see they reached out past the curve of land.  My leaves grew larger, too.  Deep green, flat and shiny, as big as a man’s hand.  Yes I see the men who come to plant and pick in the far field.  No trees grow there.  Only plants that grow in straight rows, plucked out if they stray.

         I noticed a new plant one day, growing at my feet.  She had my attention from the first shoot.  Her leaves were narrow, plump, and reached high.  Twice a year she produced the most amazing blossom, bright red and dangerous.  She draws in yellow finches, hummingbirds, birds whose names I don’t know.   I don’t blame the birds for leaving my branches to visit her.  I sweep my branches low to protect her when the monsoon comes.  I will my leaves to scatter around her and protect her fragile roots.  My roots on the sunset side, those closest to her, draw more water - feed her and encourage her.  We alone in that field stand high.  I am hers.  She is mine.

The days are easy and warm, but the nights are dark and lonely.  When the wind blows, my branches hum her to sleep.  On quiet nights I point out the stars to her and the face of the moon.  In the distance the ocean shushes against the shore bringing news of other lands, other trees, other flowers.  I think she hears this too.

         The woman had worked in the field that morning; the girl had played under a sunshade.  Until that morning I’d only seen men in the field.  The woman walked slowly, her hands on her hips.  She let the straw sunhat slip back and hang against her back.  The girl ran toward us, so small, so quick, like a cat.   

         The sun was straight overhead and the flower in a gentle tilt from the heat.  The child touched a single petal with one small finger and turned back to her mother.  Then so quickly two small hands wound around the neck of the blossom, snapped it, and pulled.  Skye swung the blossom in the air and ran a circle around me.  I stood still, but I saw the blood.

Short-Short Story Contest Finalists

*Apologies for the delay in posting the final stories. Internet has been spotty and lives have been upended in the wake of recent events. Our hearts go out to all those affected by the southern Alberta floods. Please enjoy a moment of distraction with the following short-short story.

Ramblings of an Under-appreciated PC

By Madelaine Wong

Chuck and I have been together five years; love at first sight. His eyes glistened when he saw me at Best Buy and he brought me home that day.

“She’s fast and look at her amazing resolution,” Chuck said.

He took me on a fabulous holiday to Vancouver and even let me sit on his lap on the plane. I store the photos files, so Chuck can pull up the pics from time to time and we relive lovely memories.

Mostly, we work. Chuck isn’t the easiest person to get along with, pounding on me all day, demanding answers to queries – “What’s the capital of Gambia? How to cook banana slugs? What do geckos eat?” I assist him with research and editing his stories, while he clutters my memory with hundreds of documents. I help him keep in touch with loved ones, but he won’t even take the time to defrag or upgrade me. Hell, he won’t even dust my keys. At the end of the day, just when I’m ready to hibernate, he wants me to search for pictures of naked women. I don’t judge. I do what I’m told.

Now, he asks me to pull up multiple documents, while at the same time, he’s surfing the net. Hang on, Chuck. This could take a while…

“Piece of shit computer!” He bangs my keys and gives me a shove.

Not my fault I’m slower than I used to be. I picked up a virus last week, after he pirated “Satisfaction” to my music files.

“Writers don’t get paid enough for their work,” he whines. Serves him right I got sick, the cheapskate hypocrite. Now he’ll have to pay someone to fix me. He should have used protection. He’s careless though, hasn’t even backed up my files.

I can almost feel the virus creeping its way through my system, corrupting my drives. I’m running hot. Maybe my fan is malfunctioning. I hope Chuck will take me in to see the geeks at Best Buy. They might have to operate, though. What if it’s terminal? My friend went in for a check-up, just a little tune-up, she was told. They opened her up and found her motherboard fried. Repairs were too costly so they euthanized her, right there on the spot. My Chuck would never be so heartless. I’m under-appreciated, but I know he loves me.

Chuck’s typing “Future Shop” into my search engine. No! The cheating bastard is using me to check out other laptops, all shiny, young and slim.

“This one’s a beauty. Next payday, she’s mine,” says Chuck.

I gave Chuck the best years of my life and this is how he treats me.

“One more week, then it’s time to recycle.” He pats me gently.

He thinks he can treat me like a piece of garbage! He won’t get away with it. I’ll kill myself first. Tomorrow at start up, I’ll do irreparable damage to his documents and then black out. Recycle my ass.