A decades-long tradition, Carolina Woman’s annual Writing Contest highlights the talent and creativity in our state. Often, many entries focus on North Carolina, and this year is no exception.
As the judges and I read through the submissions, selecting champions was simultaneously gratifying and frustrating - gratifying because you are all winners, frustrating because it was difficult to single out just a few for valuable prizes and invaluable recognition.
We applaud all the writers who participated. Keep pounding on those keyboards and come back for the 2026 contest.
Congrats to the prizewinners, whose compelling pieces follow.
– Debra Simon, Editor & Publisher
Grand Prize
"Hang Ups," poetry by Anne Kissel of Pittsboro
First Prize
"Ten Sleep, WY," short story by Grace Marcus of Reidsville
Second Prize
"The Bucket List," nonfiction by Teri M. Brown of Calabash, N.C.
Third Prize
"Vespers," poetry by Janis Harrington of Chapel Hill
Fourth Prize
"A Piece of You," poetry by Teresa M. Blackmon of Benson
Fifth Prize
"Jailbreak," poem by Camille McCarthy of Asheville
Honorable Mention
"The Cadence of Light," nonfiction by Spaine Stephens of Greenville
"Hang Ups"
poetry by Anne Kissel of Pittsboro
Marie Kondo would be pleased
This closet sparks such joy!
Shoes in rows, heels to the wall
all sorted by season and color
Plush stacks of silent sweaters
sleeves folded in woolen prayer
Shirts, skirts, dresses hung on
Comfy velvet hangars
All waiting to be touched, chosen,
to leave the dark crowded space,
be inflated by her arms and legs
Warmed, worn, washed then put
back in the neat murky depths
to hang around again
The clothes chatter softly at night
Whisper of times worn when they
shown bright with light and purpose
Had compliments on their fine style
which she coyly dismissed as
‘Oh, this old thing!’
They get some revenge, clothes do
Disrupt the neat order: pants jump
to the floor, a dress spins backwards,
blouses just mysteriously disappear
Buttons off, loose hems, stuck zippers,
a skirt suddenly too tight
She thinks it’s wear and tear,
believing her clothes have no life
beyond hers
Her cat knows better
That little panther visits the closet ghosts
Turns its radar ears to their sartorial sighs
Offering some company but no comfort, as
it is always perfectly well dressed and ever
"Ten Sleep, WY"
short story by Grace Marcus of Reidsville
Beck wrestles 50-pound sacks of dog chow onto his truck. “Henry, when are you going to let me re-paint that sign?” he nods at the fading blue letters on the side of the store. TEN SLE P SEE & F ED.
“Don’t care. How’re the pups?”
“Hitting forty pounds. And don’t let them hear you call ’em that.”
“You been spending too much time with them if you think they’d take offense.”
Beck laughs. “Probably.”
“I’m supposed to call Franny when you show up, so she can ambush you.”
“Did you?”
“I notice you didn’t say ‘do it.’” Henry leans against the counter. “She’s whip smart, Beck. Pretty, too. You carrying a torch for someone?”
“Wish I was. I’m too long in the tooth for dating, Henry. I want a woman I can’t live without.”
“What’s wrong with Franny? She’s been running that ranch since her daddy passed and working at the Roundhouse on weekends. That’s a lasting woman. Why not her?”
“I don’t know why. I just know.”
“Maybe you don’t, son. Maybe you’re too gun-shy to find out.”
“I’m the opposite of gun-shy, old man. I’m aching for that silver bullet. Right through the heart.”
Despite what he’d told Henry, he’s been dating on and off these past few years. Women so used to being on their own, they regard any kindness on his part as patronizing and any compliments on their appearance as self-serving. Many’s the night he drove home exhausted from a date that felt more like an interview or a jousting match than a rendezvous. He’d never liked it when women played coy, but this cool, detached assessment of him is equally off- putting. Franny has many charms. But. She’s already decided. He doesn’t trust that it has all that much to do with him since they don’t even know each other that well. He wonders just who she imagines him to be.
Beck’s stomach is rumbling. The Round House is on his way home and Franny’s working tonight. What the hell. Maybe Henry’s right.
He orders a beer and a Porterhouse, wolfs down the rolls, then the salad. He catches sight of Franny, her handsome face flushed, blond ponytail swinging as she speed-walks to keep up with the dinner rush. While he’s eating his meal she serves two deuces and a four top, refilling coffees as needed. She’s fetching enough that men take notice, so Franny pays lots of attention to their women. Clever. The foursome are tourists, a bit too loud, and one man reaches for his bill, still in Franny’s pocket. She must have felt the tug, because she pivots and brandishes the hot coffeepot inches from the guy’s ear. Clever and quick. Beck’s beginning to wonder why he’s been avoiding her.
When she finally looks his way, he doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t smile either, he just sort of nods. Franny flashes him a big grin and heads for the kitchen. He orders coffee and waits for her to show up. After a third “Is there anything else?” from the waiter Beck packs it in and pays his tab. Maybe she’s waiting for him in the parking lot.
But once he sees she’s not he feels, unreasonably he knows, as if he’s been stood up. And damn foolish for being the tiniest bit insulted.
*
Beck stacks a dozen books about dog sledding and the Iditarod on the library counter and waits for Rosamunde to check him out. Stocky and short, Rosamunde’s hair is shaved on one side, and seven silver studs punctuate the rim of her ear, looking even more incongruent as the sun warmed that bit of flesh into a milky pink glow.
Ten Sleep’s sole librarian is the modern counterpart to the old-time telephone operator who connected parties then listened into their phone calls. Rosamunde used to read each title aloud as she scanned the book’s bar code until enough people begged her not to. Patrons learned about their neighbors from the books they borrowed, “Relationship Rescue,” “Can This Marriage be Saved?” Or “The First Trimester,” and the “Book of Baby Names.” “Trans-gendered in America.” Whatever.
“I miss the hand date-stamp.” She checks out Beck’s stack, one electronic beep at a time.
“Me too. I liked seeing the last time a book was checked out, or how often. I’ve paid more late fines since the due date is on that paper strip instead of inside.”
Rosamunde shakes her head at the titles. “You still crazy?”
“You still nosy?”
“Like it’s a secret, Beck. You got a supply runner?”
“There are plenty of volunteers on the internet.”
Rosamunde snorts. “I could do it. I have Inuit friends who’ve been race point checkers and dog handlers.”
“I’ll take that into consideration.”
“Or Franny.”
“What is this, a conspiracy?”
“Well, she could.”
“Don’t doubt it, but the lady is no longer interested, if she ever was. Which I’m beginning to think was a fabrication by all you matchmakers.”
He stuffs the books into his backpack. “See ya.”
“Wait. What makes you think she’s not after you?”
When Beck tells Rosamunde about his dinner at the Roundhouse she offers him a sly smile.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Fine.” Beck turns on his heel. “Don’t ask, don’t tell. I’ve had about enough of all you jibber-jabbers anyway.”
“Okay, okay, you dragged it out of me.” Rosamunde whispers. “Franny ordered ‘The Rules’ and picked it up last week.”
Beck can’t imagine what this signifies. “I don’t get it.”
“Subtitle: ‘Time Tested Secrets for Capturing the Heart of Mr. Right.’”
“That’s not me. She didn’t say a word.” Beck feels as if he’s fouled out of a game he didn’t realize he’d wanted to win.
“Nope.” Rosamunde recites: “Rule number two. Don't talk to a man first.”
“Jesus wept.” Beck turns tail and heads outside.
Rosamunde can’t resist yelling at his retreating back. “Rule number five: Don't call him and rarely return his calls.”
She doesn’t see the smile he can’t seem to suppress.
"The Bucket List"
nonfiction by Teri M. Brown of Calabash, N.C.
If you could put anything on your bucket list, what would it be? Something classic? Like Paris, Rome, or Athens? Something adventurous? Like hiking the Appalachian Trail, skydiving, or scuba diving at the Great Barrier Reef? Something exotic? Like Antarctica, Arashiyama Bamboo Forest, or Easter Island?
You might be surprised to discover that my list is nothing like yours. It’s far more common, run-of-the-mill – some might even say mundane. But I’d gladly trade a cruise to an island paradise for more everyday life.
-Eating breakfast together, asking you if you’d rather have Honey Nut Cheerios or Raisin Bran Crunch. -Looking over the bills that came in the day’s mail. -Deciding if we should shop around for car insurance. -Looking at paint samples for the bedroom wall. -Hopping in the car to pick up a great find on Facebook Marketplace. -Watching an episode of some war movie with the sound up far too loud. -A tandem bicycle ride. -A walk on the beach. -Sharing tater tots at dinner. -Sneaking a sip of your diet Pepsi. -A hug. -A kiss. -A simple ‘I love you.’
The Hospice newsletter, Compassionate Journey, arrived not long after cancer took him from me. Amid all the articles on grief was a suggestion to write to this prompt: It has been such a short time since I lost you, yet it seems like far longer. What I already miss the most right now is…
I threw the newsletter across the room and cried because the answer is everything. The smell of his soap after he showered. His loud Hawaiian shirts that never matched his choice of ballcap. His energizer bunny on steroids drive. His amazing ability to find a pun in anything. His dimples that popped out whenever he smiled. His complete belief in me. Knowing he was there for me when I succeeded, but more importantly, when I failed.
My bucket list is filled with simple, inexpensive, routine dreams that will never come to pass because cancer is a thief. One that comes in the night and steals what is most precious. Most valuable. Most dear. And yes, most ordinary.
So, I ask again. What is on your bucket list?
"Vespers"
poetry by Janis Harrington of Chapel Hill
I stop slicing red onion
when a barred owl hoots
from a tree hollow
who cooks for you
who cooks for you,
notes echoing
in the cathedral
of twilight woods.
Window open, I listen,
knife still, onion fallen
in nested rings.
Oil in the black skillet
spatters, impatient.
Dinner to make.
Children to summon
indoors for baths.
Who cooks for you
who cooks for you.
Is it a female,
her mate out hunting?
A clutch of owlets to feed.
Squirrels, mice, voles,
all small creatures
take cover.
Inside, I call, right now,
gathering my flock,
locking the door,
"A Piece of You"
poetry by Teresa M. Blackmon of Benson
I just need a piece of you,
like the tip of your finger,
the last puff of air before a flat tire,
the echo of a scream.
All of you is too much.
I just need a taste of you,
like the first bitter taste of jalapenos,
like a pinch of salt,
the quick bite of gin.
All of you is too much.
I need to see only part of you,
like your tousled morning hair,
your fat, full hand,
the swing of your arms when leaving.
All of you is too much.
I need to keep your memory
like valuable coins in an old pouch,
not in my open hand.
I must discover them, not demand.
All of you is too much.
I must let go of you like sifting sand
slides through fingers, slowly,
watching the woeful flow
of your leaving.
Losing you all at once is too much.
"Jailbreak"
poem by Camille McCarthy of Asheville
The maw yawns greater with every downpour,
swallowing cones, boulders, and road bond.
The void nearly ate a woman
stepping out of her car when it cracked open
suddenly, on a Saturday morning,
condemning the office building attached to it.
This strip of shops was a ravine with a river fifty years back,
shoved into pipes and culverts, caged by concrete.
The river, restrained, leaned into ebb and flow,
rainfall initiating cracks that widened and splintered.
It bade its time and burst free forty feet down,
eroding packed soil clump by clump,
the breach discovered only when the rot reached the surface
with the caving-in of a twelve-foot span
growing three times as large within a few days.
Teams work ‘round the clock to contain it,
but the river exalts in its newfound freedom,
refusing recapture.
The experts stuff its throat but the river spews every
gap-filler downstream into the wetlands of
Beaver Lake Bird Sanctuary, trashing the home of
turtles, egrets, and herons.
Where its flow is dammed, the water pools, floods parking lots
and drowns vehicles, wafts a bog stench
into pet stores and pizzerias.
It will be months before it is harnessed,
tens of thousands in fines for its wardens.
The sinkhole has its own webpage,
fans who make stickers and call themselves
the Asheville Sinkhole Society, or A.S.S.
Its rebellious expansion lifts the spirits
of every local who curses at the flurry of construction
which fells our trees and paves over our natural beauty
for rich retirees and tourist attractions.
Months later, excavations and giant cisterns
have contained it.
You can hear it chuckling,
planning its next jailbreak.
"The Cadence of Light"
nonfiction by Spaine Stephens of Greenville
We were angels. We were fairies, ice queens, golden princes. We burst onto the stage in a magical current of light that set us free. During those North Carolina summers, local kids would gather at the Old Sylva School and perform plays on a sagging stage. In that musty building echoing with the sounds of school days long past, we brought countless tales to life, slipping into character beneath an intricate mask or pancake makeup. We grinned blindly at spotlights, the audience and our futures. We discovered what and who we were.
Outside, we lay in the grass watching the darkening sky of languid blue fade or chased the glow of fireflies. Behind us loomed the Old School, still heavy with the breath of students racing down the halls in its heyday as a tiny-town harbor and a launching point for life. We performed our plays many years later, when the building served as a cultural arts center. The Blue Ridge Mountains turned from smoky gray to a navy pearl luster as darkness descended, and we chased each other down moonlit paths.
In elementary school, those same kids sat cross-legged together on the floor, connected at elbow and hipbone. We learned to make the shape of North Carolina with our right hands, the bend in our fingertips mimicking the rise of the mountains’ bald ridges. I stared down at my transformed hand and traced Sylva, Cherokee, Asheville and western North Carolina. The days of my life there set the stage for a love of chasing stories and capturing them with achingly chosen words. In those childhood days of acting and exploring, I learned to look for light.
***
Each of North Carolina’s three regions welcomes dawn with its own hues. In the mountains, night flees at its own pace. Fog plays in shadows of fresh peachy light caught in the foothills’ folds. In the Blue Ridge Mountains, we could rarely find flat land, yet we constantly sought common ground. The people tucked into those hills hold stories for posterity, and the mountains’ ridged turrets hold heritage like precious stones.
For its part, the Piedmont gives way to longleaf pine groves, stately in the Sandhills that slide into the Coastal Plain. Cities spread out and up, and universities dot the landscape. Life is more rapid-fire, potential is realized, technology is advanced.
At some point, regional lines become indecipherable. Accents and cultures and colors join hands and blend and meld into something more wonderful than each of its parts. From others’ voices, I found mine—a broader view that lent itself to living in a state whose identity is caught between the South and a new, dauntless persona made of promise and roughhewn determination.
And then there is eastern North Carolina.
On vast stretches of space, a firm, invisible hand holds a taut yarn of thick fog atop the crops until the first sounds of farm equipment drone in the cool air. The fog unravels and flees. The region comes alive to those who live it; it becomes a thing with dreams and needs, one of challenge and change. In passing, it’s “east of I-95” with the dismissive brush of hand. To its people, “Down East” gives it fond and frank simplicity. Here, heated debates rage between the merits of eastern-style barbecue and its red-headed western rival. Cotton and tobacco spring forth in the fields, yet the region holds its breath against a pervasive and persistent post-hurricane-flood trauma. At the coast, tourists seek sun and maritime history; they sail toward the deep sea to fish—a ritual that for many native North Carolinians becomes both a pastime and a family value.
And the East reeled me in. It was a slow burn, a long, sweet con that wasn’t a con at all—it was gritty and raw and unapologetically earnest. Once that feeling for people and place takes hold, it becomes an honor and obligation to hear each other, to see each other, to uphold each other’s dignities. Finding the right words is a Southern art itself. There are so many writers taking up voice in North Carolina, not only because of opportunities that abound or the storied background of the South. Our people have accounts to carry and crosses to bear, and scores to settle that span lifetimes. North Carolina is the litany and lament of lives that command a place in our past and future.
***
I still find myself threading two-lane roads along the edge of eastern North Carolina swamps, searching for stories. Some of them get snagged in the roughs of cotton plants, and others are harvested with the clary sage. Some of our narratives take flight on the pale dusty blue of herons’ wings as they rise from stagnant water. Across the rocky expanse of our state that stretches smoothly downward toward the ocean, scrubby pines brush shadows of the dusk light. Seafoam and sand sink into the crevices on our faces carved by joy and tears. The mountains fold around our fears, and memories are absorbed into the recesses of red clay. Sharks’ teeth trapped under layers of sand and shell await the day they’ll be revealed anew. We find ways to bring life to events that shape who we are as one people of the Old North State, from the pomp and circumstance of June Germans to the spirit and triumph of Juneteenth.
All those years ago, on a worn stage in a musty school long past its prime and eventually returned to the land, I learned the value of chronicling tales that give others proper footing. Our stories are made of beauty that we glean from goodness and grit around us. Each of us is caught in a monologue, on an empty stage longing to be filled.
There we stand, straight and tall – straining to hear our cue, waiting for a breath to rise.
Coming next month: Staff Favorites!