2024 NATIONAL MEDAL
for Museum and Library Service Finalist
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The Afghan by A. Lee (a Short Story Contest entry)
Fluorescent lights buzz overhead inside the dusty old thrift store - and in my hands, a homespun afghan drapes over my fingertips. There's a superstition within the crochet community that your soul is imbued in the things you create, so it’s wise to leave a mistake: a door for your soul to escape, if need be.
I examine the afghan, admiring the intricate designs. “Flawless,” I whisper - an unnatural warmth pouring from its stitches.
Anne sat by a fountain, blending in with people enjoying a spring day. It was her grandson’s second birthday. The party would be nearby but she wasn’t invited. A few months earlier her daughter had said, “Mom, I’m taking a break from you.” The separation was breaking Anne’s heart. Her phone in her lap, she waited hopefully for a call to join the party, doubting it would come.
You lived for 87 years and somehow it just was not enough. To write a 73 word ode about you is a difficult task. I will say, you were an avid reader and loved the library like a third child. You picked books and the library got them for you. You instilled in us the importance of education and reading. We will continue to read and enjoy it, to honor your memory! Love you Mom!
Fluidity by Shikhar Dixit (a Short Story Contest entry)
In the truck’s bed, they endured the hot Louisiana night. Jules slapped desultorily at mosquitoes.
“Alice, you said blood don't taste like it does for rest of us,” Jules said. “Sooo, what does it taste like?”
Alice shrugged, and simultaneously shook her head. Not a gesture mortals could pull off with her graceful fluidity.
Jules' breath was baited. Alice didn’t breathe at all.
“Tastes like Diet Coke.”
The Black Mermaid by Shikhar Dixit (a Short Story Contest entry)
Her origins are lost in the mists of time. Shadows of rumors place her far back in ancient Mesopotamia. A Muslim cleric living in the shadow of Turkey's Mount Nemrut claims she was discovered by nomadic Homo Ergaster upon African savannahs.
Physicists speculate on the black substance, resistant to any and all methods of modern forensic inquiry, including the powerful Zetawatt-Equivalent Ultrashort Pulse Laser.
Her very presence induces horrific nightmares.
The Invisible Man was driving us home. Actually it was our father who sat in the passenger seat and gave him directions to our house.
My sister and I were mesmerized and a little scared as we watched the driverless car make left and right hand turns at the passengers command. All was smooth until our house was in sight. At the exact moment we went to turn into the driveway the car swerved.
Raisin Rage by Andrea Santo Felcone (a Short Story Contest entry)
In her twenties, Ruby’s perfect shade was Revlon’s ‘Raisin Rage’. A vampy red lipstick: it never overpromised. But the name?
“What would make a raisin angry?” Ruby laughed.
In midlife, wearing ‘Raisin Rage’ felt … ‘inappropriate’. (Now the raisin wasn’t the only one angry.) Ruby understood all too well: That “raisin” was once a wrinkle-free “grape”. Now she’s shriveled beyond recognition—so not her former self--she’s been RENAMED!
What’s next? ‘Prune Apocalypse’?
All her parents’ dreams - carefully lined up in alphabetical order – Achievement. Beauty. Confidence. Doctorate. Everything. Finalized. Get in everywhere. Hope with a capital H. Intelligent. Just so I can brag. Knowledgeable. Look. Mom did it.
It’s just that they forgot one thing – what she wants, in her heart. They forgot to ask who she is.
Artistic. Binge eater. Crazy about girls. Dreamer. Energetic. Fickle. Grateful. Hurt. Insubordinate. Jealous. Know-it-all. Lackadaisical. Miserable.
Tea & Misery by Andrea Santo Felcone (a Short Story Contest entry)
Forcing Jesse to have “afternoon tea like The Royals” felt extra passive-aggressive, even by Lisa’s standards. He’d told her before: coffee (with cake) was for happy times; while tea (with honey and lemon) was for misery: divorce, funerals, illness.
Everyone knew this. Everyone except Lisa.
Lisa loved Chamomile--it “soothed her”. Funny, she didn’t seem so “soothed” while tossing his belongings out after he refused ‘afternoon tea’. Tea: The beverage of ‘break-ups’, too.
Get Up by Donald Carugati (a Short Story Contest entry)
I was sleeping. It was my first day of summer vacation. I had just completed my junior year of high school. My summer plan was to get a job and save for a car. At 7:30, I suddenly woke to the noise of a vacuum cleaner in my bedroom. It was my mother who announced if you want a job start looking early in the morning. Guess what! I got up.