The winners of the third-annual AWC 100-Word Short Story Competition have truly captured the spirit of brevity by distilling their stories down to their essence -- without sacrificing their narrative impact.
The contest, open to all current AWC and NAU-Yuma students, faculty and staff, is for original, unpublished fictional works of 100 words or less. Besides limitless glory and world-wide recognition, the two first-place winners (one from both the Student and Faculty/Staff categories) received a prize of $50, and the two second-place selections received gift packages.
Submissions were judged blindly, with the author's name removed, by AWC English Professors Ellen Riek and Ed Schubert, and David Coy, retired English professor and Director of the AWC Writing School.
And the winners areÖ
Student Category:
1st Place: Alba Amador, "The Mango Tree"
2nd Place: Joan Koblas, "Green Papaya"
Faculty/Staff Category:
1st Place: Moses Camareno, "His Mom and Cesar Chavez"
2nd Place: Emily Brooks, "The White Rag"
Honorable Mentions:
Lori Stofft, "How to Delay Construction of Your Daughter's Halloween Costume"
Alejandra Diaz, "Window Shopper"
Lynn Hourani, "Apple Pie"
Ami Abrian, "Weapon of Choice"
The Mango Tree, by Alba Amado
The Mango tree was heavy with fruit and smoke. It stood rigid, unmoving, in the stagnant summer heat; tendrils of smoke caressed the waxy red-orange fruit. Neglected branches hung close to the ground, concealing a reclining figure. Flecks of hazy sun revealed a pair of crossed legs, male, darkened unkindly by the sun. My hand reached out slowly to part the branches; trembling fingers sent the leaves into a quivering frenzy. But underneath, the canopy stood empty. A cigarette laid smoldering in the grass, but my father was not there. Only the roots reached out to me, like fading dreams.
His Mom and Cesar Chavez, by Moses Camareno
As a teen in the summers of the 1960's, his family of 12 would go to California to pick prunes. His dad would have them picking before the crack of dawn because the child labor laws dictated children stop by 2:00 pm. His mother would wake them at 2:30 am to sit on the toilet till they went. She said, "NO CHILD OF MINE IS GOING TO GO TO THE BATHROOM IN THE FIELD LIKE AN ANIMAL!" Now as he sees all the labor busses with bathrooms behind them -- he remembers two of his heroes -- his mom and Cesar Chavez.
Green Papaya, by Joan Koblas
She trades her school clothes for a silk kimono and places her school books aside. She's starting dinner before her husband returns. She's a child bride at 15 -- to a hardened man twice her age -- who survived a brutal regime in Laos. Refugee camps are a catalyst for the merging of families -- with marriages arranged in the old ways -- by wiser elders.
Kneeling on a bamboo mat on her kitchen floor, she grips a knife and a fresh green papaya. Shaving matchstick shreds of the familiar staple -- layer by layer -- romantic dreams comfort her.
The White Rag, by Emily Brooks
(In memory of Jacques DeLaurier)
Our lines stretched over the clear, blue water. Gentle waves lapped at the boat as we trolled around the pine-covered islands.
Puttering close to shore, my lure snagged something in the reeds. I let it drag awhile, feeling its weight tug on the line.
"Caught something?" Papa's soft, strong voice cut through the humming motor, breaking the early morning silence.
"Nah, just an old white rag."
But as I began reeling, the rag came alive, thrashing and jumping in the water.
"Be strong. Hold steady. I'm right behind you." His words guided the majestic great
northern pike into our boat.
How to Delay Construction of Your Daughter's Halloween Costume, by Lori Stofft
When that most hallowed eve draws near, and your progeny pleads with you to whip up a fantasy in fleece, don't delay. Race to the store and plunk down a ransom for materials.
Then ponder. Be busy every weekend. Nap. See a movie. Invite friends over. Resent the bag sitting in the kitchen corner. Write a short story. Make noise about your intentions. Solicit advice on Facebook.
Then, in one magnificent flurry, engage the sewing machine, glue gun, loud music and hurricane coverage while you snip, stitch, burn flesh until midnight. Celebrate safety pins. Indulge in Snickers. You've earned them.
Window Shopper, by Alejandra Diaz
Down the busy square, where the bold and affluent shop, there's little room for the frugal. Nonetheless, I manage with the space I'm given.
I zigzag every inch of the square, ensuring I miss no beauty.
There's a jade clutch hung at the corner of one store. After an insincere glance, a woman and her large hat passes it. I question if I can even afford staring, then look down at my drooped, potato colored bag.
That's enough for today, and I squeeze myself out of the square; back to the mill, ready to earn my way to similar apathy.
Apple Pie, by Lynn Hourani
The leaves on the apple trees rustled as a blast of cool air swept through them on its way into the kitchen.
Sara caught the breeze, and the scent of freshly mowed grass took her back to a time when she was free.
She heard the voice of Becky in her mind.
"Come on slow-poke, race ya to the barn."
"Yeah, well eat my dust apple-core!"
The window suddenly slammed shut. Startled, Sara dropped the spoon.
"Wake up woman," she said to herself sternly, "Becky's gone now; six feet under."
Solemnly, her attention returned to stewing the apples.
Weapon of Choice, by Ami Abrian
One track mind -- I am handicapped by my vices.
I walk into the cafe in search of another one of my crutches.
And again, like every Tuesday and Thursday I'm at school,
the silent negotiation between the cafe clerk and I is made.
"I'll trade you Massachusetts, Connecticut, Wyoming and Nevada
for this almost lukewarm cup of tolerable coffee."
Drink this -- it's said to make your heart race.
Smoke this -- it's said to make your heart stop.
"Last one" number nine this month, is warfare between my fingertips.
I admit defeat, wicked brown filter. You win -- your prize, a kiss.
Is brevity really the soul of wit?
