Carolina Woman magazine is delighted to continue almost 20 years of hosting its annual Writing Contest. As always, it was nearly impossible to choose the top dogs. So, prize-winners were published in May; staff favorites ran in June; and crowd-pleasers are below. Congrats to everyone who participated!

 

– Debra Simon, Editor & Publisher

 

 

 

"Shaven"

 

poetry by Emily Dunlap Carter of Beaufort

 

Polished and shined,
we were
lined up by age
I was last
in every way

There was no instruction
as quiet and still
was the code
we followed
without question

You sopped cream from a white diner mug
sudsing the hairs of an inbound beard
we never saw,
scraping away the lather
in precise strips,
mowing your face

The silver razor lived
on the first shelf
of the medicine cabinet,
shining armored knight
to Bayer and Metamucil

You shook drops
of Old Spice
into your palm,
slapping at your cheeks,
satisfied

That smell
permeated
decades of rough hewn
pine paneling

You, dead twenty years,
resurrected with a sniff,
stirring memories stored deep
in the subconscious
of my nose

 

 

 

 

 

"Accra"

 

poetry by Beth Caudle of Clayton

 

Morning drops in through the window, wailing chants, calls to prayer.
Taxis careening, wind and the slap of flip-flops on cold tile floors.
Ants march in lines across the bathroom floor. Lizards sun themselves on balcony railings.
Step outside into a new world of dust, cocoa trees,
women with babies strapped to their backs,
cinnamon leaves, goat skinned drums
and music.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The Getaway"

 

fiction by Monica Cox of Apex

 

 

They arrived at the cabin on Sunday. Sarah was still bleeding.

 

Monday, she sat on the deck, wrapped in a blanket that smelled of mothballs with a vague memory of fabric softener. Henry left for a walk in the bright orange vest the host insisted (in BIG BOLD LETTERS taped to the fridge) all guests wear in the woods.

 

The trees were naked sticks this late in the season; their dehydrated leaves concealed the yard below and littered the shoreline. A crackle of leaves announced Henry’s return. His cheeks flushed, his eyes red. He kissed the top of her head. A short time later, he brought a cup of tea, leaving it on the deck rail. The steam rose and eventually evaporated as the tea went cold.

 

The water in the lake would be cold, too. The nights longer, the sun too low in the sky to warm it. Sarah descended the deck stairs and crossed the lawn to the lake, the ground damp and spongy, staining the soles of her fuzzy, yellow socks. The water numbed her ankles. How deep would she have to go to submerge her pain?

 

Henry found her knee deep and guided her from the water. Inside, he took off her wet clothes and tucked her in bed under the heavy quilt.

 

Tuesday, a man knocked on the door. The listing had promised privacy. The house faced the water on one side and acres of thick forest encircled the rest. No nosy neighbors. Unless you counted the deer. Or the fish. Sarah did not.

 

The man sold firewood. Could he put them down for a recurring order through the winter?

 

“No,” Henry said. “Only visiting.”

 

“Just the two of you?” His blue eyes met Sarah’s where she sat at the table in front of an array of unmatched puzzle pieces.

 

Henry nodded. “A romantic getaway.”

 

Later, in bed, he apologized—the white lie easier than the truth.

 

“Easier,” Sarah agreed as the bright red truth cramped inside her and soaked into the thick pad between her legs.

 

Wednesday, Sarah startled at the explosion of gunfire, dropping her bowl of soup which shattered at her bare feet.

 

Henry gently lifted her over the mess. While he picked up the shards of pottery, he reminded her about the orange vest. Hunting season. It was to be expected.

 

That afternoon, Sarah slipped out while Henry read. He caught up to her about a quarter of a mile into the forest. He covered her with the orange vest she’d left on the hook and guided her back to the house. A trail of paw prints in the soft earth, bigger than their old cat Fluffy, led into the undergrowth.

 

“Bobcat,” Henry said.

 

Thursday, her bleeding stopped. She sipped the tea Henry brought while still warm. She added three pieces to the puzzle.

 

That night she woke to the crunch of leaves outside the cabin. Henry reassured her.

 

“Probably that bobcat.”

 

“Sounds bigger.”

 

“Maybe a bear.” He yawned, unperturbed, as he often was when the thing wasn’t happening to him.
Henry pulled her close. She allowed it, feeling guilty for hoarding all their pain.

 

Friday, they shook leaves and long-legged spiders out of the canoe and carried it over their heads to the shore. When they reached a spot out in the open water, she lowered herself into corpse pose on the bottom of the metal hull. The gray sky above her a blanket. Geese squawked overhead; their V pointed south. Henry ate one of the ham sandwiches he’d packed.

 

“Lake picnic,” he called it.

 

She stared at the blankness above, a reflection of the emptiness inside her, until icy rain stung her face.

 

She sat up and Henry handed her a paddle.

 

They lit a fire back in the cabin. Opened a bottle of wine. Finished the puzzle.
It was early when they turned in, but they needed to pack in the morning.

 

She took Henry’s hand as they walked up the stairs.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Me, too.” Henry kissed her on the cheek.

 

His tossing and turning roused her around midnight.

 

“Can’t sleep,” he said.

 

“Here.” She handed him a pill from the unmarked bottle in the drawer of her bedside table. “I’ll drive tomorrow.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’ll help you sleep.”

 

He trusted her. Sarah was a pharmacist. He didn’t ask, and she didn’t explain, why she borrowed an unmarked bottle of thirty sleeping pills for a five-day trip. She would return them Monday, now that she felt a tiny bit stronger.

 

A noise woke her later. She bolted upright. The echo of it in her ears. Her heart battered against her rib cage.

 

Henry breathed deep and even next to her.

 

“Did you hear that?”

 

Outside. A whimper. Then a cry. Staccato and unrelenting. A baby.

 

She jabbed Henry hard between the ribs.

 

Nothing.

 

Damn sleeping pill.

 

Sarah squeezed her eyes shut.

 

There is not a baby outside in the middle of the woods.

 

Another high pitch screech split the night and propelled her out of bed. She crept down the stairs. The cry intensified. She slid open the glass door, padding quietly to the edge of the deck and leaned in the direction of the sound.

 

“Hello?”

 

A rustle of leaves and then silence.

 

She listened until the darkness ebbed into gray, then wrapped her empty arms around herself and went back to bed.

 

In the morning, Henry brought down the bags.

 

“Time to go back,” he said.

 

She nodded though they could never go back far enough to forget.

 

While navigating the gravel drive, a bobcat darted in front of the car. Sarah slammed on the brakes. They watched the animal disappear into the woods.

 

“You know, bobcats can sound like a crying human?” Henry stared at his phone.

 

There had been no baby out in the woods to save; no baby in her womb to protect. There was nothing but the absence of those things.

 

It was then that she finally cried.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Lost in Translation"

 

nonfiction by Karen Kent of Chapel Hill

 

 

My fingers hesitated over the phone before pressing the familiar buttons.

 

919-766-8799

 

Question: How do I remember my childhood phone number but not my current one?

 

**Riiiiing... Riiiing... (That’s not lazy writing. That was the ringtone option of the 1980s.)

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi Mom!”

 

“What’s wrong? We just talked last night.”

 

“All good! Thanks for asking!”

 

“And...”

 

“Well, if you remember, I have a Spanish paper due today...”

 

“If I remember?? We talked about this paper until 11:30 pm!”

 

“Right! Spot on as usual! But... if you aren’t too busy, could you repeat everything you said last night?”

 

*Insert Spanish words here she mumbled under her breath that probably would have insulted me had I known Spanish.

 

“Please tell me this is the last Spanish class you will be taking for the rest of your life!”

 

The suburban version of the Spanish Inquisition. I had heard those words all the way through high school. And now that desperate plea followed me into college.

 

“Hey, this wasn’t my idea. Talk to my freshman advisor.”

 

Not the answer she was looking for. My full-blooded Spaniard mother. I think I broke her.

 

She gave it her best shot. With all the energy of a young, enthusiastic parent, Mom tried teaching my two older siblings Spanish. But it was the Spanish Armada of 1588 all over again.

 

By the time my twin brother and I arrived on the scene six years later, she had already handed in her notice as our family’s foreign language teacher. I never saw it, but apparently, it was written in sharpie and laminated.

 

Whenever my American-born father attempted Spanish, I’m sure my maternal ancestors mumbled words from their graves that probably would have insulted him had he known Spanish. Mom became instantly annoyed whenever she heard Dad butcher her native
language which brought much delight to her husband and children. She loved us. Really. At least that’s what I thought “Sal de aqui!” meant at the time.

 

With all the wisdom and foresight of a teenage girl, I decided I didn’t want to learn Spanish or any foreign language for that matter. Discussion closed. The local school board reopened it. My choices were French or Spanish. Well, wasn’t it obvious given my family history? And that’s how I ended up in 8th grade French class with Madame Roberts.

 

Question: How do I remember my 8th grade French teacher’s name but not the name of my third child?

 

All was not wasted. I did learn to sing “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” in French. A skill I still bring up at parties which explains my lack of party invitations. Despite that accomplishment, I begrudgingly moved onto Spanish. After all, I had my very own Spanish translator at home who was about to be dragged kicking and screaming out of retirement.

 

I’ve been to Spain twice. I spent my first birthday there and was graciously given a pass by my grandparents for not speaking their language.

 

Apparently, that pass expired by the time I returned to Spain at13. My non-English speaking grandmother was none too pleased after learning my Spanish-speaking abilities consisted of telling her hello and goodbye and asking where the library was.

 

I still remember the look of disappointment my abuela gave my slacker mother. Ever helpful, I asked Mom if I should sing “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” in French. You know, so my grandmother wouldn’t think I was a total loser. I don’t remember her reply. I also don’t remember singing anything.

 

Enter COVID.

 

With all that extra time, I thought, “I can learn calligraphy! I can learn to knit! I can learn to pilot a small aircraft!” Instead, I confidently declared, “I can finally learn Spanish!” I could have sworn I heard my mother shout, “NOOOOOOOOO!” from the great beyond. Though, I’m not sure why since she never did forward me her new phone number. I was on my own. Or so I thought.

 

Enter Lulu, my mother’s best friend in life, who has the patience of a saint. She was born in Mexico and still lives in the neighborhood where I had grown up as a unilingual child. She heard I wanted to learn Spanish, so we began online Spanish lessons for one hour twice a week.

 

The first thing I learned is that my brain is full. Not full of intelligence. Just full. Full of useless information it has inexplicably retained over the years. Valuable space had been taken up by the Preamble to the Constitution (Thank you, School House Rock), the date the Spanish Armada was defeated, and the lyrics to the Laverne and Shirley theme song.

 

Add onto that my fear of sounding ridiculous, and I would make painfully slow progress. Yet, five years later, Lulu and I press on. Every Monday and Wednesday at 6 pm I hear my computer...riiing, riiing... (Now, that is lazy writing) and off we go. All of this has not been in vain though. Lulu’s English, while excellent before, is superb now.

 

Sensing my frustration one day, Lulu asked, “What’s the hurry?” And that’s true. There’s no paper due or test to be had. And who cares if I say something silly in Spanish? I’m prone to do that in English anyway. So, I swallowed my pride and kept going. After all, I was and still am having fun with a good friend.

 

I realize there is nothing I can do about my lack of effort in the many Spanish classes I took over the years. I can’t change the number of times my 12th grade Spanish class diverted our teacher’s attention by asking him about a random football game which he gladly talked about (in English) for a good 20 minutes. All I can do is keep working and hope Mom can somehow see that I’m trying now. Yes, I still want to make her proud... even after learning “Sal de aqui!” does in no way mean “I love you” in Spanish.

 

 

 

 

 

"Look! Up in the Sky!"

 

nonfiction by Anne Kissel of Pittsboro

The day I met Superman was a postcard perfect Berkshire spring afternoon when weary winter slush melted into the first tender green shoots of hope. Superman no longer flew yet Chris gazed at the taunting clouds and leafing tree tops as if he could still weave with the wind among them, catching sunlight in his cape.

 

His puff-powered wheelchair held him up in a rolling cage which at any moment might lose power, stealing both breath and speech. Low battery was his new Kryptonite. He was handsome as ever, our blue-eyed chisel-jawed gravity-bound hero. He spoke kindly, as if we had things in common and maybe we did.

 

Who was he now? Even dull Clark Kent could remove his own glasses. All the world knew his daily limits, his weaknesses; no more secret identity. His body’s numbness must be as hard as losing movement and its freedoms. When you can’t feel breeze, heat or lover’s sweet touch, some might welcome pain. Yet he never gave up hope to regain and reclaim what we take for granted. He could sing run fly only in bittersweet dreams. Wild walking dreams he surely had.

 

What would you do if you lost your legs and all the places they take you? How would you then consider stairs, showers, the sky? What would be your new super power? How much hope could you carry in your chair?