Winning Entries

The challenge was to write a 1000 word story in which the “setting affects the character”. The sentence/prompt was: “The gardener had been up since dawn mowing the lawns and sweeping them”. This should be incorporated into the story at some point. It could be your opening sentence or your closing or just appear somewhere in the story.

Our judge was the talented and passionate author Ruth Jacobs. She writes a series of novels entitled Soul Destruction, which expose the dark world and the harsh reality of life as a call girl. Her debut novel, Soul Destruction: Unforgivable, was published in April 2013 by Caffeine Nights. Ruth studied prostitution in the late 1990s. She draws on her research and the women she interviewed for inspiration. She also has firsthand experience of many of the topics she writes about such as posttraumatic stress disorder, and drug and alcohol addiction. In addition to her fiction writing, Ruth is also involved in non-fiction for her charity and human rights campaigning work in the areas of anti-sexual exploitation and anti-human trafficking. Ruth gave our three winners valuable tips. And here are the Winners for the June Contest:

1st Place: Rebecca Young

2nd Place: Simi Kamboj

3rd Place: Apoorva Mishra

We are only featuring two of the stories as Simi Kamboj is developing her story further for possible publication.

The Gardener’s Wedding

by Rebecca Young

Word Count: 996

The gardener had been up since dawn mowing the lawns and sweeping them. For the past 27 years, Tom Fields had cared for these grounds. Watching the early morning light filtering through the trees he thought he had never seen a more glorious day. Perfect for a wedding.

From the big house, a pathway through the formal knot garden led to a sweep of emerald lawn. At the back of this lawn, a sea of white chairs lined up in precise rows like soldiers in front of a white gazebo. The gazebo was framed on either side by pink climbing roses and backed up to a wooded area. It would be a beautiful setting for Charlotte Biltmore’s fairy-tale wedding, which was taking place in just a few hours. By then, the sun would warm the roses, filling the air with their fragrance.

The chairs bordering the aisle had tin buckets attached; awaiting the bouquets that Tom’s assistant Sam was just delivering from the greenhouse. Eschewing her mother Bitzy’s more exotic tastes, Charlotte liked old fashioned flowers like peonies, sweet peas, lilies and English roses. She had asked Tom if he could provide the arrangements for the ceremony.

“It just seems silly to buy them when we have some many lovely flowers here,” she’d said.

He had been happy to oblige, knowing that Charlotte would be pleased with whatever he came up with. They were old friends. Each year, he had planted her a children’s garden, filled with snap dragons, pea vine teepees, purple carrots, licorice, giant pumpkins and fairy houses he built. When Charlotte left for college, Bitzy insisted Tom turn it into a sculpture garden featuring a tacky piece Peter had purchased for her in Italy. That summer, Charlotte caught Tom pruning in the sculpture garden.

“I miss my garden! I suppose I’m too grown up now, but it was magical.” She had smiled, then sighed, “I’ll just have to plant my own someday.”

Never was a girl more different from her mother. Bitzy always wanted the newest and the best. And she always wanted more. For all her wealth and education, Charlotte had remained remarkably unspoiled. At 25, she was still a wide-eyed innocent; marrying an equally idealistic young doctor, Mark Ashcroft.

Bitzy and Peter were just a little disappointed in their future son-in-law. He was brilliant, good looking, charming. He was successful enough, in a way, and had a passable family. But offered nothing to really elevate their daughter’s position (or their own). The young couple couldn’t be bothered by the subtleties of social climbing. They were in love and out to change the world. Their planned honeymoon was a Doctor’s Without Borders trip to Ecuador. Real life would probably disillusion them soon enough, but Tom thought their love would last.

Tom turned his attention to the next task at hand. Instead of just scattering pink rose petals in the aisle, he had wanted to surprise Charlotte by arranging them in an intricate swirling heart pattern he’d found inspiration for on the internet. If his buddies ever discovered his secret Pintrest account, he would never live it down. It had taken several wheelbarrow loads of petals, much, much more than they had, but Tom was able to call in some favors and requisition enough. Starting by the gazebo, he began arranging them according to the sketch he had made. He was just finishing when he heard someone approach.

“That’s nice,” drawled Bitzy Biltmore. “I’m surprised you could come up with something like that Tom. But you do have an eye for beauty.”

Maybe she was fishing for a compliment because she knew her radiant daughter would easily outshine her today. He stood up beside her, examining the effect. “It is pretty,” he said, turning to look at her, “but not as beautiful as you.”

She gave him a haughty smile. Bitzy was still beautiful, but there was a worldliness, a hard edge to her beauty now. She was still long, lean, tanned. But he remembered when he had first met her, so many years ago. Her looks had been softer, more inviting. Her deep brown eyes had sparkled. Now they usually just flashed with annoyance or contempt. Her laugh had been so free, bubbling up out of her. It was so controlled now, like every other part of the socialite’s image. It had been a long time since he had earned one of her laughs.

“Can you believe I am old enough to be mother of the bride?” asked Bitzy, fishing again.

“No,” Tom paused, searching for Sam. He was no where to be seen. “Bitz…” he began.

She started, then stared fixedly at the design, “Don’t call me that.”

“But, after everything. Please tell me about Charlotte, Bitz. I know, but I need to hear it from you.”

“I don’t know what it is you think you know.”

Tom interrupted. “You know exactly what I know! Don’t pretend we haven’t talked about this before. She is my daughter. She has my nose, my height. She doesn’t look anything like Peter! The dates are right. I know it. But I want you to tell me it’s true.”

“How dare you speak to me about this on today of all days,” she seethed. “Just like you to drag out the ugly past now to spoil everything!”

He flushed, ashamed. He lowered his voice, pleading now. “Please Bitz. I just have to know.”

She turned around, facing the house. “No. Of course not. When you are done here, please attend to the ribbons on the topiaries in the drive. Crisp bows please.”

After she left, Tom festooned the topiaries and was then pressed into service helping with the last minute touches in the reception tent on the west lawn. As he worked, he realized he would hand in his notice on Monday. Finally, everything was perfect and it was time. Tom slipped unnoticed into a chair on the back row to watch his daughter’s wedding.

— End —

The Party

by Simi Kamboj

This entry was withheld from publication here as it was entered in a Literary Journal where we are extremely happy to announce that Simi’s story was published!

You may read her story here: The Prague Revue

The Girl in a Saree

by Apoorva Mishra

Word Count: 800

“I am having feeling”, she said. She never took her eyes off me. I kissed her forehead as she collapsed on the bed. I offered her a glass of water and asked her if she said that to everyone. It was her first time, she said.

We still had ‘time’ so I ordered dinner. She refused to eat until I finished eating. When I insisted, she ate the fries while leaving the burger for me.

“My friend recommended this place to me. She said the job was good and the money was better”, she offered to tell me her story.

“Why did you come here?” I asked her as I looked at her. I was angry, at her and myself.

She smiled wryly and turned her face away from me. I regretted asking that question. She never had a choice. I gave her the money and reminded her to ask for money before going any further. It was time to go and she asked for my phone number. I asked her to stay and she agreed.

“Why did you come here?” I asked her again.

“To be free”, she replied.

Before I could ask her what she meant by that, she began showing me the pictures on her phone.

“Do you know what a saree is?” she asked me as I saw a picture of her, looking resplendent in a white saree. I gave her an approving smile. She blushed as she put the phone away and leaned in for a kiss.

I looked over the window and the gardener had been up since dawn mowing the lawns and sweeping them.

“What will you do when you become free?”, I asked her when she said that she had to pay her ‘agent’ a fixed sum.

“I will do anything I want”, she said as she arranged the books on the corner shelf.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know”, she answered as she sprayed the room freshener generously on the carpet.

She wanted to watch a movie on the weekend and I agreed to go with her. I reminded her that she needed to ask her ‘agent’ first. She smirked and asked me to make coffee for her.

“You have a nice home. I wish I could stay longer”, she said with a hint of sadness in her eyes as her phone buzzed incessantly. I wanted to stop her from going out but the reality of our situation struck me. To be free, is what we secretly desired yet here we were, slaves to our needs. At least she could blame others for being in this situation. My problems, on the other hand, were purely down to my indiscretions. I wanted to help her for she did not deserve this life where the money she earned was just to keep her on the right side of her agent. She needed to leave and leave soon.

I suggested that I pay her agent so she could go back home. She refused and kept looking at my room, content with what she had done about the general lack of order.

I led her gently onto the sofa, knelt down on the floor as I held her hand and asked her, “Why are you here?” I could see that a part of her wanted to say yes and I wanted to hear her say that.

“To be free”, she said yet again.

“Will you go home after your contract expired?” I asked her, clearly looking for an answer that would satisfy the sense of superior moral authority in me.

“I will go home for a month and come back again”, she said as she played with her phone.

I stood up and walked over to the door and bid her goodbye. She reminded me of our weekend plans. I knew she would never be allowed to be emotionally attached to anyone at work. But I wished we could go out and saved her phone number onto my phone.

It has been a year since we met and I await her call, hoping that we meet. Today I saw her again and her smile had lost the sense of familiarity towards me. I walked up to her and asked if she wanted to come with me. She agreed.

“Are you free now?” I asked her as we ate the burger, split in half.

“Yes. I am free”, she answered and for a moment I thought I saw that smile return to her lips.

Later that weekend, we went to the movies. We walked on the cobbled streets framed by the moon above and the rows of rectangular homes below as she pulled me closer and whispered into my ears.

“I am having feeling”, she said. I think I finally got my answer.

— END —

 

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