Contestants in the Gibsons Public Library’s Postcard Story Contest were asked to write a compelling story (either non-fiction or fiction) in 500 words or less.
Winners were announced at the library on Aug. 29.
People’s Choice Winner:
It Still Rains in Winter
– Diana Earth/Deborah Greaves
Callum slumped in a dark chair in the study. He didn’t want to be in this weird town, without friends. Again, his mother had pulled a crazy.
Being 12 sucked. You could be dragged all over Hell by your Parent. His mother didn’t seem “single” – she was a force. She’d managed to get the two of them onto a cargo ship.
If only he could have saved at least one of his friends.
Now he looked at this odd little woman he’d been told was his grandmother. Grammie was very short, had crazy white hair and wore thick glasses. He noticed her eyes weren’t blue, like Mum’s, but an odd pale brown. Her voice was surprising – it didn’t sound old.
“Things aren’t what they used to be,” she said briskly. “People have said that forever, but now it’s deadly accurate. So we have to adapt.”
Callum looked out the window. He hadn’t seen trees since he was three. The wind was moving the – were the green parts called leaves? They made a whispering sound. He wished he could tell his friend Dylan, but Dylan …
“Why do you have trees here?” he asked.
“We were a little behind,” said Grammie. “Small population of humans, more trees. People stopped pruning and let them go sky-high for shade. We have animals – just a few. More on land than in the water, of course. Sea here is thrashed like most places.”
“How do the people and animals get drinking water?” Callum asked, wondering. No one at home had pets. No one he knew had seen a wild creature.
“We catch the rain, and filter it,” said Grammie. “There’s still rain in winter.”
“The roads sparkle,” observed Callum.
“Yep. We stopped piling up jam jars and went back to grinding them,” said Grammie, “but we didn’t make asphalt. Too hot. So we made the roads pale.”
Luckily, the gleaming silvery roads worked well with electric vehicles. They kept the heat down, too, and had a pacifying effect on people. Reminded the adults of streams.
“Who’s Dylan?” asked Grammie. “A boy you know? Heard you say that name in your sleep. Stuff in the groundwater here, not many boys around.”
“He was my friend,” Callum murmured. “Hey – why can’t people go on jets anymore?”
Grammie had her back to him now, but he thought her shoulders were shaking. “Well, they had to stop almost everything, to halt the Sixth Extinction.”
“Mum told me about the Extinction,” said Callum. “But what’s gone?”
“Gone and still going,” said Grammie. Her voice was rough.
He’d grown up in a huge city. He’d never seen fish, bears, deer or eagles. He hadn’t heard a frog or cricket, even a songbird. He’d never seen a river or walked in a forest.
Here, there were trees. Grammie said there were a few insects; someone had seen a small bird.
“Maybe we’ve stopped it,” said Grammie. Her face softened. “And someday, Callum, you just might see a deer.”
Jury’s Choice Winner:
Low Score
– Michael Wilson
Not another E. He looked at the wooden tile in disgust and placed it alongside the others neatly arrayed in front of him. An A, a C, one T, and now four Es. Why couldn’t he have picked up a consonant? Like an H? Or an R? There were lots of opportunities for an R. He stared at the board as he absent-mindedly rearranged the tiles. Ankle. What goes with ankle? Tankle, cankle … rankle. Why couldn’t he have picked up a bloody R?
“M-A-R-C-H,” she said, carefully laying down her letters. “Let me see – three, four, five, eight, 12, and doubled is 24.” She wrote the score down neatly and picked up her knitting. There was a period of silence, broken only by the clicking of the needles. “It’s your turn.”
He didn’t look up. Just stared at his letters and wondered why he bothered. There was a time when they used to play this game for fun. Strip Scrabble played on cold winter nights. He remembered when the reason she wanted him to hurry up was so they could make love on the floor in front of the fire. When she would deliberately play a low-scoring word in order to slowly peel off a sock or a bra and wave it teasingly in front of him before tossing it aside. Not much chance of that now.
“You could spell cat,” she said. “I can see your letters,” she added apologetically.
Yes, he could spell cat. But he wasn’t about to humiliate himself further.
Picking up the letters, he held them momentarily over the table. Then he looked up and smiled mischievously. The knitting needles froze and she raised her eyebrows expectantly.
“Cat. Five points,” he said, and began to unbutton his shirt.
Jury’s Choice Youth Category Winner:
Cloud Stories
– Bella Miller-Hogg
Hands. Joining together, creating an everlasting bond, a forever friendship. Forming a deal, an oath, a bargain. Made to last a …
”What are you looking at?” my mom asks, bringing me out of my trance.
“Oh, nothing,” I say. “Just narrating the clouds.”
Hands. Joining together. Or, at least, until the wind blows.
– Submitted
