The Shine Journal
Exceptional Flash, Poetry, Art and Photography!
FIRST PLACE and Winner of $200.00
Field Day
by
Mark David
I tried to ignore Billy Bullwich, leaning against the school building, one foot propped on bricks, his right hand on hip. If he’d had a cigarette in his mouth, smoke seeping from his nose, he could have been a miniature James Dean, nerves of steel, attitude as cold as dry ice.
I knew I wasn’t mean enough to kick his butt, but I wanted his title. He was the fastest human in Mrs. Weaver’s fifth-grade class. He’d won the title last year by beating my brother in the fifty-yard dash at the year-end field day, and the only reason he got to defend it was because he had to repeat the fifth grade. I had one shot, do or die. Reputations would be built, respect earned, autographs signed, movie deals negotiated, and pro contracts finalized. I wanted a Bullwich sandwich, dead or alive, keep the reward. I just wanted him off the playground.
I stretched. He leaned. I spoke to friends. He leaned. I broke out in a sweat. He bared his teeth and trained his eyes on me. Ten minutes until start time, right after the football kick and softball throw. I made the mistake of looking right at him. Our eyes locked; I couldn’t look away. He grinned and reached above his right ear for a yellow pencil stub, raised it to his teeth and bit off the eraser. He chewed it like Red Bull tobacco and finally swallowed it. I ducked when he flipped the stub with his middle finger and thumb, a move I’d seen Dean do in Rebel Without a Cause. I felt like Billy’s personal ash tray.
Our stare-down was broken when Mrs. Weaver called for the runners to assemble at the start line. I surrounded myself with buddies, friends who pretty much understood the race would be between me and Bullwich. Billy had other ideas. He squeezed in next to me, making room with a stray elbow. I avoided eye contact by lowering my head. That was when I noticed his shoes. He wore ragged tennis shoes splattered with red river clay that reminded me of blood. Had he kicked the life out of the last person to defy him? Would beating him in this race earn me a black eye, a broken nose, or worse yet, cost me my life? I imagined my lifeless body floating face down along the river bank near his old man’s shack.
My dark thoughts refocused when I noticed his lethal shoe was a fraction over the line, but I didn’t care. It would be a detail that would add to the story, the legend. It would be retold for days that year and every year thereafter when field day rolled around.
The whistle blew and he was off like a bullet. I’d spent too much time worrying about his reputation and my surviving, but once my legs 
reached full speed, I passed him about twenty yards out and felt like I owned the race. My stride lengthened, my arms chugged like tie-rods on a locomotive, and my whole body synchronized like a jump shot that swishes from the top of the key. It was pure athletic poetry.
At the finish line, the great Billy Bullwich came in third. My beating the reigning champ was lost in the celebration by Sally Fleetwood and her friends. To my utter amazement, she’d blazed past me with fifteen yards to go. To this day, I have no idea how a girl could run that fast in patent-leather shoes and a yellow dress with puffy sleeves.
The Judge's Comments:"There is lots of movement in this story, and it has a surprise ending which I did not see coming. There is not a wasted word in this short piece, which attests to the skill of the author. Nothing would be gained by it's being a longer tale."
Playground photo by: Garret Voight
SECOND PLACE
&
WINNER OF $100.00
The Last Drop
by
Doug Campbell
Like generosity itself, the sun pouring down on the patio warmed Dora's achy joints. She spooned honey into her cup and stirred her tea, her hand shaking ever so slightly. Strands of her gray hair, tossed by the breeze, tickled her ears, while bees and flies spun through the air around her, buzzing like little clocks.
The English ivy, rank and relentless, had at last completely overrun the garden. She hadn't the strength now to cut it back, but Dora smiled, because she no longer felt the urge to. Oh, the relief of old age! Let the ivy grow. Let it have the garden. Let it take the toolshed, the fence and the path to the river she could no longer travel.
No, the river path would be treacherous for her now. Too steep in its final descent to the water, with tree roots snaking everywhere and stones jutting out, waiting to snag a careless step. Still, she often wished she could take that walk one last time, to see the old swimming hole. William had been gone fifteen years, but the swimming hole, she imagined, might set her heart beating wildly again, beating as it used to in the early years of their marriage, when she and William would walk to the river on summer evenings, strip away their hot, dusty clothes, and plunge in. They'd swim and laugh and sooner or later come together to hold each other, to feel the lovely warm promise of their skin in the cool water.
She sipped her tea, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against the cushion, listening for William's voice.
"Calling for big thunderstorms tonight," he said. "We could use a good soaker."
Weather, soil, the price of soybeans, the wonders and vexations of farm machinery – such things had been the focus of his life, the sources of his joy and sorrow. He never lost his patience or his passion for his work, never lived a day without finding some pleasure in it, never came inside in the evening without a smile and a brightening in his eyes that told her how glad he was to see her.
A motor rumbled in the distance. Len Jenkins, bringing in his corn with the combine, working the fields she and William once farmed.
Selling those fields after William's death had nearly broken her heart all over again. But she couldn't have cultivated them alone, and she'd needed the money. She'd sold them reluctantly, but with pride. She and William had let them lie fallow, rotated their crops, and every spring plowed in a cover crop of rye so thick and green the earth looked like a rolling lime skin. When she sold them those fields were richer and more productive than ever.
She drank from her tea again. When she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, a dog began barking. She knew that bark. That would be Sonja, the finest of all their dogs, a sweet-tempered border collie who'd been such a help when they'd taken their fling at raising sheep. Gone thirty years now, but she could still see Sonja bounding across the yard through deep snow or racing through shimmery summer heat. Tireless and smart, Sonja had worked the sheep to perfection, forceful when she needed to be, but otherwise calm and steady, never harassing or frightening them needlessly.
"That Sonja knows sheep way better than I ever will," William often said.
How she'd loved that dog and doted on her! Slipping her tidbits of people food, sitting with her in the sugar maple shade, brushing mud and sticky seeds out of her coat, or scratching her belly while Sonja groaned and pawed her, begging for more.
The sun had slipped toward the horizon, and Dora turned her face to capture its full warmth. In the timeless landscape behind her closed eyes she saw them, William and Sonja, side by side, walking away from her in the evening light. She watched them go until they disappeared through the open doors of the barn, and into its darkness.
The back door squeaked open. "Dinner's about ready, Mom," her daughter Marcy called.
"Okay, dear."
Another pleasure of old age. Lord, how many decades had she labored over cutting boards and steaming pots in that kitchen? Now she didn't have to lift a finger. Her only task was to shuffle to her place at the table, where a loaded plate would land in front of her.
She opened her eyes, reached for her tea, and finished what was left in the cup. A little extra honey must have pooled on the bottom, because it slid gloriously down her throat, the flavor especially rich and delightful.
She closed her eyes again and heard running footfalls thumping inside the house, then childish voices clamoring in the kitchen. Her grandchildren, Thomas and Cynthia. The back door squeaked open again.
Goodness, those hinges need oil, she thought.
Soft, slow footsteps approached her chair. Thomas would have launched himself off the stoop and landed with explosion sound effects. Those footsteps had to belong to Cynthia, seven years old, a wiry, freckly little pixie.
The steps crept close, then stopped.
"I feel big blue eyes watching me," Dora said. She opened her own eyes to look at Cynthia, who continued to stand there, studying her with a serious, slightly worried expression.
"What is it, sweetie?"
"Does it make you sad to be old, Grandma?" Cynthia asked, in a half-whisper, as if aware she might be saying something she could be scolded for.
Dora smiled. "Heavens no, it doesn't make me sad." She patted her lap. "Come sit here."
Cynthia settled into her lap and laid her head against Dora's breast. Dora stroked her hair, then spoke in the same half-whisper Cynthia had used. "I don't know much," she said, "but one thing I can promise you, sweetheart – the last drop of tea is the sweetest."
The Judge's Comments: "A very sweet, nostalgic story with nice description. I particularly like the way the author winds the end of the tale back to the beginning. A great title and theme."
THIRD PLACE
&
WINNER OF $50.00
In the Empty Ward
By
Zach Lee
Footsteps echoed through the ward, but did not rouse its sole occupant. His eyelids flickered, and he voiced a barely audible moan as they drew closer. The doctor, graying and bent at the shoulders, took his pulse and felt his forehead. He slid the syringe into the patient’s vein, injecting the murky yellow liquid. The bottle it came from had been tossed down the old latrine in the yard. He checked the patient’s pulse one more, holding the wrist steady against the man’s sudden shivering. Satisfied, he slipped back out of the room.
“Doctor Jasinki, it has been a week. This man should be well by now. Look at him! He’s dying. This is unacceptable.”
The Doctor focused on the insignia pinned to the officer’s shoulder. He could not look him in the eyes. “I am doing everything I can, sir. I assure you he is not dying.”
“But…” the officer said, “but look at him, Emile. He’s skin and bones. Shouldn’t he be well by now?”
The Doctor shook his head. “Please, I am the doctor here. Trust me.”
Night time. The patient was strong. He was getting stronger everyday. Soon he would be well, and ready to leave the ward. The doctor plunged the needle into the man’s arm, speaking soothing words when his eyes fluttered open. “It’s ok, he said. “Back to sleep.” The poison did its work quickly.
“Doctor, what is the meaning of this?”
The doctor bustled about the patient’s bed. The officer stood to the side, escorted by two men in the black uniform of the secret police.
“I thought he was responding well to the antibiotic treatment, but he appears to have had a relapse,” the doctor said.
“A relapse?” the officer said. “These men are here to escort him to the palace, and now you tell me he has a relapse?”
The doctor shrugged. “I am very sorry sir. The human body can be a complicated thing. Each person is different. Some respond well to treatment, others do not. It is only a setback sir. Do not lose hope.”
“Doctor, understand that you have far more to lose than I do. I will not tolerate another embarrassment like this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Night came and once again the doctor shuffled to the end of the ward to see to his only patient. He looked up at the doctor with heavy eyes.
“You feel bad, yes?” the doctor asked. “I am sorry.”
The patient tried to speak, but only managed to sigh.
“Do not speak. Just rest. I think it will all be over soon.”
He pulled the syringe out of his pocket.
“You understand that this was your last day, doctor?”
The doctor stood silently, studying his feet.
“Rather than recover, the patient has withered under your care, is this not so?”
The doctor nodded slightly.
The officer leaned forward in his chair. “I know you, Emile. I know you are a competent doctor. I cannot help wondering whether you want the patient to recover.”
The doctor raised his head. “Sir, I assure you…”
The officer silenced him with a flick of his hand. “It doesn’t matter now. His Excellency has run out of patience. You understand that he cannot parade a man in that condition in front of the reporters and news cameras. It would be an embarrassment. It would look like he was tortured, and the International Council would involve themselves in the war, on the side of our enemies. It would be disastrous.”
“Perhaps he could simply be tucked away somewhere and forgotten,” said the doctor.
“Absolutely not. This man lent aid to the enemies of the state. Such an act will not be tolerated. There must be an execution. The people must see justice done.”
The doctor shrugged. “I’m afraid I see no other choice. You see the condition he is in.”
The officer leaned forward. “His Excellency is obviously more creative than you. There will be an execution. His Excellencies police are on their way right now, doctor. I trust you will accept your death with dignity, knowing that you are serving your people.”
The bombs arrived before the police did. The ward shook with them as Doctor Jasinki lurched down the row of beds. The patient tried to raise himself onto his elbows but could not muster the strength.
“Marcel,” the doctor whispered, “Do you hear them?”
The patient nodded slightly and smiled.
“I told you the end was near, didn’t I.” Tears were mixing with the dust on the doctor’s cheeks. “They have come finally. The war will be over soon.” The sound of gunfire drowned out his voice, followed by another explosion.
“Marcel, you made it through,” the doctor said.
The patient took the doctor’s hand in his and squeezed it weakly.
“Thank you, brother.”
The Judge's Comments:"A story of self-sacrifice and friendship in the midst of horror. I like the way the story ends with hope for mankind. I always enjoy a story with a foreign setting... a well-told tale."
