Emily is a 23 year-old artist living and working in Tempe, AZ. She recently graduated from the University of Arizona, where she recieved a BA in Studio Art. When she's not painting, Emily enjoys hiking, rowing, reading, traveling, spending time with friends, and trying to take pleasure in the simple things in life. Her artwork may viewed at www.emilymcilroy.com.
Back then things were different, but now everything had soured, and the twins hadn’t spoken in almost a year. Outside parachuting raindrops made unceremonious landings against the window panes. Inside the phone was ringing, but it sounded insincere, so she let it ring.From the sofa, she could almost read the clock: 6:33 . . .or was it 6:38? As she struggled to decipher the small red illuminations, she had the sudden sensation that numbers no longer represented anything. Did this apply to graphemes too? She glanced at the newspaper on the coffee table to compare. Yes.Wait . . . no, letters still made sense.She propped up her feet and poked at the bouquet of roses with her toes, trying to provoke them into doing something.
Dinner reservations were confirmed for 7:00, but celebrating contradicted her mood.Could it really be her birthday? Dubiously, she contemplated whether or not it counted, but couldn’t be convinced either way. There was only one birthday for the two of them. She didn’t want to be responsible for claiming it herself.Absently, she poked at the roses again, irritated by their impassiveness. Sudden knocking roused her from her thoughts. With great effort and a series of small sighs, she lumbered to the door.A man with a “My Favorite Florist” name badge handed her a hurricane of fresh cut flowers. Fingering the card she saw letters turn to words. “Guess who.”
Tentatively, she called to thank him.No answer.She left for dinner.He didn’t return the call.
Second Place Entry:
NURSING HOME ROMEO
by Katherine A. Salts-Roche
I write short stories, novels, essays, poetry and picture books in Wymore, Nebraska. I was the 2004 winner of the Abbie M. Copps Poetry Competition of Olivet College, Ohio Day 2005 First Place Winner of "Just for the Fun of it Poetry Contest," Third Place winner of Ohio Day 2005 "OPD Special Award for Poetry", First Place Winner of 2005 "Cleverkitty Caterwauling Fiction Contest," 2nd Place winner of a 2005 Personal Essay Contest of Byline Magazine, and had poetry published in White Pelican - Fall 2005. I greatly appreciate every publication opportunity, and continue to try desperately to get good at something!
Back then, things were different. But now... Fred Kautch was just another old man in a hospital bed where caretakers passed out antitoxins, sponge baths, soup. Fred gave the
pretty young nurses Whoop-tee-do eyes and the straightedge doctors a look that said Back off, or I'll shoot.
Today, Fred's family hung around him like slaughterhouse pork. They patted him. Why not! The old man was up to his elbows in money! Everybody wanted a rightful share!
Fred peered through slits. He drew a staggered breath, held it like a short fuse on death's dynamite. They leaned in for his last words, or to press his carotid. When Abbie kissed
him, he threw back the covers to invite her in beside him. She screamed as she stared at the squirming squid of his penis on the old birthday balloon of his balls. Fred caught her arm.
"Stop by in the Summer and I'll give you a big cucumber from my garden. When you're done with it, you can use it to make a nice salad."
Every mouth was an 'O.' Several cousins shook their heads, a brother cursed. Everybody left. Their cars screeched from the parking lot. Most would return another day when Fred was really almost dead.
Fred's face bunched up around a yellow sweet corn grin. Today, circumstances changed only by the possibility of change, and then remained the same. While it lasted, Fred would enjoy it like a good cigar. He looked at the clock, raised his eyebrows, and buzzed for Selma, the sizzling, Latino nurse.
Third Place Entry:
A Broken Record
by Nik Walton
Back then, things were different.But now, as I stare at the crowd in front of me and see exactly how far I’ve come, and how far I haven’t, I realize that singing at weddings just isn’t as fun as it used to be.
I don’t ask for requests, but they shout them out anyway.
“You know Twist and Shout?”
“Stairway to Heaven!”
“Let’s hear some Queen!”
It’s the same anywhere I go.Same people, same requests, same favorites.I wish I could play some of my own stuff, but somehow I don’t think “Trashman’s Revenge” would be such a crowd-pleaser.
From my side, a wedding isn’t as special as anyone makes it out to be.After you play a few gigs, it all gets blended into one monotonous idea.The bride and groom just fill their names in the blanks.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for the idea of getting married.It’s just that when I do it, I’m not gonna make it “traditional.”And I’m not gonna hire a band.I’d be alright with a small stereo.
I look over at my bass player, who looks like he’s going through the same dilemma I am.I know we both wish it were the old days, when we were young enough that we could stay in this profession just because we were too lazy to move on.
But times change, and I guess I need to change with them.
“Alright,” I yell to the cheering masses I front of me.“This one’s called Trashman’s Revenge.”
