March 2022 Contest Winners

Congratulations to the winners of our March writing contest!

1st Place
“The One Left Behind”
Rowena Mangohig

2nd Place
“A Ministering Angel Shall My Sister Be”
Lizzie Ritteler

3rd Place
“Witchy Cake”
Paige Lohr

These stories can be found below, along with author bios and social media links. If you want to see your own story listed here, take a look at this month’s writing contest and give it a shot. 

Enjoy!

March 2022 Contest Winners

1st Place

     I sip my coffee and stare outside. The bouquet of purple irises cover the etched heart on the table declaring GN + JT 4ever. Still hoping she’ll show. Hoping she’ll at least entertain some sort of morbid curiosity after I mentioned the name Gerald Reynolds.

     “Who’s this?” she’d asked. 

     “Your sister,” I’d said.  Not “half-sister,” not “we have the same father.” Your sister. And she didn’t seem surprised.

     “So what do you want?” 

     I paused. “Dad…he shouldn’t have done that to you.” 

     “Yeah. So what do you want?”   

     Nothing much. Not to be annoyed with me, for starters. It wasn’t my fault he’d left her behind. 

     “I want to talk.” I paused before speaking again.  “Dad’s dead.”  

     Still nothing. I wasn’t sure if she was still there. 

     “Cracker Barrel in League City. Ten.” 

     “Tomorrow?” I asked, but the phone just clicked.

     Across the table Natalie reaches into her bag for a stick of gum. She chews, staring hard at me, sweat beading on her upper lip despite the coolness of the restaurant. She’s on the heavy side. Like me. Like dad. One of his legacies to the chosen daughters. 

     “What?” I ask.

     She chews noisily, that tiny piece of gum so insignificant in her cavernous mouth. A big horsey smile spreads across her face. I tap my spoon on the edge of my cup, waiting for the ‘I told you so,’ but it seems stuck on one of her teeth. 

     “I didn’t ask you to come,” I said.

     “No shit.”

     “So why did you?”

     She shrugs. “Curious, I guess.” Understatement. We’d harbored resentment toward dad’s secrets from the beginning. We grieved over mom’s hurt, and our minds were wild with stories about the daughter he’d left behind. We were infuriatingly close to answers–if we could believe she’d have actually shown up. 

     “Well …thanks for lunch,” she says flatly, then heads outside and takes the last unoccupied rocking chair on the stoop.     

     “Should you go after her?” The waitress startles me, making the hairs on my arms stand on end.

     “She’s not going anywhere,” I say.  

      “How was your meal?” 

     “It was very good, thank you.” 

     She gives me a tight smile. Her loosely tied apron hides a too thin frame. Fragile. “Who you waiting for?” she asks, fiddling with some hair escaped from her ponytail.  

     “My sister,” I say. 

     “Not that one?” She asks, indicating Natalie.

     “No. Another one.”

     “Did she forget about you?”

     “Looks like.”  

     “Mmm. Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

     I shrug. It’s not too busy, but I’m sure she’d rather wait on a table with more tipping potential than just two cups of coffee and pie. 

     “I don’t think so. Just wanna be sure.”

     She nods again.  

      I look up as she turns, and in profile, her round forehead gives her a youthful look that will probably stay with her even after she lets her brown hair turn gray. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and that small gesture nearly wrecks me when I see how she’s been cursed with a strip of flesh that clings tightly to the tough, thick cartilage of her ear. It spirals into an ugly snail curving into the side of her head. Those swirls of stiff cartilage are dad’s little jokes, but she flaunts the conspicuously missing earlobe without shame. Dad’s legacy to his first daughter is one Natalie and I were relieved not to have inherited.  

     I see how her mother might have appealed to my dad:  timid smile; full cheeks; warm eyes. My dad, her mom, an odd pairing of contrasts. The end result stares at me in a crowded restaurant, greedy for answers without revealing any of them herself. She’s not ready for anything more than this. She clings to her anonymity, and it wouldn’t be right for me to end her charade. She wants to perpetuate dad’s secret, and it makes perfect sense.

     “Can I interest you in dessert?” she asks.

     I glance outside at my sister. “I better get going. I’ll just take the check.”   

     “Thought you might say that.” She pulls the check out of her apron, and moves that same wisp of hair behind her ear.

     Natalie stands in the shade fanning herself with her purse. We melt into the car and she asks to stop somewhere for cigarettes before heading to my place. The Gulf Freeway is wide open and sings beneath my tires. 

     “You owe me for breakfast,” I say.

     “Mmmm,” she says, waving her hand toward me.

     The sun chases us from behind and the waitress’s world closes up around her.  

     “Oh crap.” Natalie says.

     “What?”

     “You forgot the flowers.” 

     No. I didn’t forget. It was a gift for the first sister. Still shrouded in dad’s secrets. But definitely not forgotten.

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2nd Place

            My sister’s always known how to make me cry. It started when we were kids, with a mangled Barbie under my pillow where change for a lost tooth should have been. “Poor Tooth Fairy,” she’d written on a note that accompanied the trunkless head, its features obscured by blood-red crayon scratches.

            But the spiders in my sheets, the “accidental” burns when she straightened my hair, and backpack kicking at the behest of her school friends were ignored by our parents. There was no way their perfect oldest daughter would ever commit any of the horrible acts I accused her of.

            My life continued like this throughout high school, with some reprieve only in my final two years, when my sister started her higher education out of state. This separation provided me with much needed autonomy that I was loath to relinquish when I was forced to enroll and dorm at the same college as her.

            The fall semester started off well enough, with cool, late summer breezes enveloping me in optimism each morning as I walked to class. But by halfway through October, my sister began her domineering again.

            “You can’t go out alone anymore,” she said one morning. “The other night one of my sorority sisters was attacked.” Her voice faltered. “The monster that did it is still out there.”

            “Well I never go out at night anyway, so I shouldn’t have a problem.”

            “Listen!” She screamed, trying to swallow her fear. “You didn’t see what I saw. Whoever did this beat her face in and ripped her hair out!” She slouched into a chair and cried silently.

            “You can’t control me,” I said, massaging a burn scar at the base of my hairline. “Besides, I’m pretty sure if I was out at night, I know enough Krav Maga to hold my own.”

            In response, my sister sobbed louder and imposed a curfew.

            Police searched for the person who hurt my sister’s friend, saying that the beating was so violent it must’ve come from someone close to the young woman. But nobody was ever charged or even brought in for questioning. And as the weeks passed and the weather became colder, so did the investigation.

            Though I wasn’t one for going out at night, my sister’s curfew made me defiant, so I began sneaking out of my bedroom window after she was asleep. I found a new companion in the stinging bite of the clear autumn nights. In the dark silence, I found peace and stillness. But with the stillness came a feeling so uncomfortable that I hesitated to address it at first.

            In this whole ordeal, it wasn’t her friend being hurt that affected me the most. It was that for once, I’d seen my sister cry. Seeing her so vulnerable while I, for a change, was implacable, stirred and disturbed me. A horrified shock ran through my heart, but a smile tugged my lips upward.

~~~

            By fall of my sophomore year in college, it seemed as though everyone had forgotten about the sorority attack from last year, except my sister. She’d dropped out to join the police force. “If they won’t do anything to help my friend, I will,” she said.

            But before she had time to avenge her friend, she was preoccupied by a case that shook the department, college, and whole town.

            A series of murders were committed, reminiscent of the attacks on my sister’s friend, albeit more extreme. The victims were found near campus, flesh torn from their bones from being dragged over the road, hair pulled unsparingly in clumps from their heads, faces so fractured they could not be recognized.

            And every night, when my sister called me, breaking down about the newest horrors she’d seen, I couldn’t help but smile. As she pleaded through tears for me to stay safe, I reassured her that I was so careful nobody, not the killer, nor the bogeyman, nor anyone else would catch me.

Part of me knew the killer would have to stop or be caught, but I hoped that before then I could still get a few more schadenfreude-inducing phone calls from my sister.

            Winter break offered some respite, for me at least, and I occupied my time by deep-cleaning the room my sister and I had shared throughout our childhood.

Simplistic kindergarten drawings, embarrassing letters never given to our crushes, beauty products we obsessed over for a week then forgot about all met their fate in the bottom of a contractor bag.

I fished magazine after torn magazine from beneath our beds, stretching my arms as far as they would reach, when my hand brushed against something wedged between a leg of my sister’s bed and the far corner of the room. I fought the furniture for firm purchase on the object and finally pulled it free. What greeted me was the headless trunk of a Barbie doll.

My sister had been so particular in the upkeep of her dolls over the years that I immediately knew what this was, hidden in a dark corner with the express purpose of being forgotten. It was the missing body of that defaced Barbie my sister had hidden under my pillow so many years ago. I gasped as I recalled the trauma of seeing the crayon blood on that plastic face.

~~~

            The serial killer’s final victim was found a week later. Her body was burned severely, then splattered with blood that had been collected before immolation. Her head was missing, but a few teeth were sprinkled around her corpse, and tucked under her body was a note that read, “Poor Tooth Fairy.”

            My sister rushed away from the crime scene, emotional beyond words.

            So her colleagues weren’t surprised when the next day, they found out that the pressure of the case had finally gotten to my sister, who was found hanged in her apartment.

            But I know the truth. Because like I said, I’m so careful that nobody will catch me.

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3rd Place

     Delany was a young witch just learning the rules. She wanted to make a cake for her sister, Rayne.
     “That is wonderful. But NO magic,” Mom said. “Magic without my permission gets you in trouble.”
     “What happens if I use magic?” Delany asked.
     “Strange things happen to your body,” Mom replied.

     Delany headed to the kitchen to get started. Her cake needed to be as good as her mom’s. Mom made awesome cakes. One time, she made a 5-foot tall cake with sparklers on top.
     She got all the tools she needed, a big bowl, spoon, and measuring cups. Then she got the sugar and eggs and sat them on the counter. When she reached for the flour, it slid out of her hands, hit the floor, and exploded. Flour was everywhere.
     “Oh, no,” she whispered. “What a mess.”
     “Delany, are you okay in there?” Mom yelled.
     “I’m okay, Mom.” She looked at the floor. “I’m going to have to use magic on this. It’s important,” she whispered to herself.  
     She looked around to make sure Mom wasn’t nearby. She pointed her finger at it and made a circle. “Go away!” Poof! It was gone. She looked around, but nothing had happened. But there was a sharp pain in her foot.
     She measured, poured, and stirred the mixture. Now she needed to add the egg. She cracked it open and it splattered all over the counter.
     “Not again,” she whispered to herself. Again, she looked around to make sure Mom wasn’t behind her. She pointed her finger at the mess and made a circle. “Clean up!” Poof! It was gone.
     Delany turned to get another egg out of the fridge. She almost fell. The pain in her foot was worse.
     “Ouch, that hurts.” She wiggled her foot. It was better and started to sting. She got another egg and hopped over to the bowl. This time it went in without a mess. She mixed the dough and poured it in the baking pan. Half of it went on the counter.
     “Oh, no!” she cried. “Not again.”
     “Delany,” Mom yelled, “do you need help?”
     “No, Mom, I’m okay.” Once more, she twirled her finger and said, “Get in the pan.” Poof! It was in the pan.
     Now her foot really hurt. She looked down. It was big. Her shoe popped off and her sock was ripping apart.
     “Mom!” she hollered. “Come quick. I need you now.”
     Mom ran to the kitchen. “Delany. What’s wrong?”
     “Mom.” She was crying. “Look at my foot. It hurts.”
     “You.used magic, didn’t you?” Mom asked.
     “I had to,” she said, tears running down her face. “I made such a mess. I wanted it to be perfect for Rayne.”
     Mom put her arms around Delany. “Oh, honey, it will be.”
     “Did you or Dad ever use magic without permission?” she asked.
     “Many times,” Mom said. “My nose grew really big one time, and Dad’s ears got so big, the kids called him Dumbo.”
     Delany stepped back and wiped her face. Sniffing, she asked her mom, “Can you turn the oven on? I need to bake it and my foot hurts too much. I’m afraid I might blow it up.”
     Mom laughed a little. She turned it on and put the cake pan inside. She turned and looked at Delany. “Young lady” – she put her hand on her hip – “since you disobeyed the rules, you now have to suffer the punishment.”
     “Yes ma’am,” she sniffed. “How long will it last?”
     “Three days. Then it will be normal again,” Mom explained. “Will you go against the rules again?”
     “No way!” she said. “I don’t want big feet.”

     When the cake was done, Delany asked Mom to help her decorate it. No more magic had to be performed. The cake was beautiful.
     They called Rayne to come see her birthday cake. “Oh, Delany, it’s beautiful!” she said.
     Mom lit the candles. Rayne made a wish and blew them out.
     Mom cut the cake into pieces for them. They sat down and ate. When they were finished, Rayne looked at Delany and said, “Thank you, Sis. I had a wonderful birthday.”

     Delany looked at her mom and smiled. She was not going to tell Rayne about the trouble she had doing it.