Creation Archives--Previously Featured Work

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October

Prom Queen
By: Francine Garson

Excuse me, dear. Is your momma's name 'Peggy'?

I thought so. You look just like her. Same blue eyes. I knew Peggy back in high school. We weren't close, but I knew her. She sat next to me in English. Senior year. I remember how she used to write her name with a little heart over the 'i'. Does she still do that?

I didn't think so. You do outgrow that sort of thing. Peggy used to have a friend named Donna. Those two were thick as thieves. Are they still close?

That's too bad. I think Donna went away to college. That must've been hard for Peggy. I still remember when Peggy was Prom Queen and the prettiest girl in school. She had long blonde hair, the kind that never got frizzy, even in the heat. Every boy was after her. But, she never paid them any mind. She only had eyes for Dwayne. He was captain of the football team. They had a great season that year. Undefeated, I think. But I remember Dwayne getting into some kinda trouble at the last game. It was for fighting as I recall. Still, there was some talk about him getting a football scholarship to State. Did he ever end up going?

I'm real sorry that didn't work out for him. I remember when Peggy and Dwayne were voted Class Couple. They ran against Ray and Mary Jean. Ray took over his daddy's gas station. Ran that business right into the ground. Anyway, Peggy and Dwayne won by a whole lot. They even got a separate picture in the yearbook. Just the two of them. Holding hands. I remember hearing that Peggy and Dwayne got married. Right after high school, wasn't it?

In fact, I don't recall Peggy even being at the graduation. I think she finished up on home study. Actually, you do look a little like Dwayne. You've got his mouth. But you're a little more serious-looking. Not that that's a bad thing, dear. And how old are you?

And with such young parents. That must be nice for you. So, what's your daddy doing these days?

Well, next time I'm in the Walmart, I'll be sure to look out for him. In Sports Equipment, right?

And are you gonna run for Prom Queen this year?

Well, good luck to you. In fact, I saw Peggy just last week at the Stop-N-Shop. Maybe she didn't recognize me because she didn't say hello. She's pretty as ever. But, she was wearing a shirt with real long sleeves. Kinda like yours, actually. And in this heat. Aren't you warm in that?

And Peggy, I mean 'your momma', was also wearing these huge sunglasses right inside the store. Are they the style now?

Well, she did look real glamorous. But honey, what happened to your eye? Did you walk into a door?

You gotta be careful. Especially if you wanna be Prom Queen.

~~~

Francine Garson's work had appeared in All Things Girl, Faith, Hope and Fiction, Still Crazy, WorkLIfeGroup.com, Writer Advice, and WritersType. She lives in central New Jersey. To more of the author's work, visit: francinegarson.com.

November

Streety
By: Paul H. Yarbrough

There was a dog down the street from us named Streety. My brother and I hadn't got our own dog yet; that was five or six months in the future. So we had adopted Streety as our own---though many in the neighborhood had done the same. He belonged to an elderly gentleman (I think he was about 80, though as a six-year-old, it was difficult to guess ages) named Mr. Worley. My mother said Mr. Worley's wife had died the day after I was born and Mr. Worley had taken Streety in shortly afterwards.

Streety was all over the neighborhood, a friend to all, a large mutt of mixed ancestry. All of this was typical of small town Southern life. Not that Yankees didn't have small towns, dogs or friends, but they weren't stranger oriented, as they were more interested in what you did (money) as opposed to where you were from (family). Besides, Yankees don't love dogs as much as they prefer to kick them. But I'm a bit away from the story.

Streety was friendly and dirty: both most of the time. He loved the drainage ditches in front of the houses and when it rained he was in Hog Heaven. Often in the summer we would join him in the water-swept ditches, attempting to ride on his back (his mixed ancestry had some big dog in him) down to the end of the street where the ditch emptied. A day later after the water subsided we would spot Streety back in the ditch, enjoying the mud---this was from Hog Heaven to Pig-in-Slop. My mother allowed us the first but not the second, though she had, in a minor way, adopted Streety, too.

Streety sure loved Mr. Worley. We often saw Mr. Worley walk out onto his front porch and spread his arms as Streety bolted toward him, his front paws landing on the top of Mr. Worley's shoulders. Mr. Worley would turn his head to one side in order to avoid the face-on-slurp and lick. After a moment, Mr. Worley would sit in his chair and Streety would gather his 90 pounds or so at his feet, content just to be there, while Mr. Worley smoked his corn cob pipe. He was the only man I ever saw smoke a corn cob pipe in person.

Streety was so friendly and could size people up quickly that our neighborhood mailman actually brought Streety treats from time to time. Often Streety followed the mailman on his rounds, as if he were protecting him from some growling stray that might be about.

One day Streety was killed. A truck driver speeding down one of the neighborhood streets hit him broadside. I cried as much for Mr. Worley as for Streety, I think.

As I got older I was to look back and remind myself that this was something coming to the South that would change its character to some extent. Cars and trucks racing through neighborhoods was not localism, not Southern.

I don't know why, but though I saw Mr. Worley on the porch after that, I never again saw him smoke his pipe. My mother said that maybe he had quit smoking.

I thought maybe he had just quit.

***

Paul H. Yarbrough has been published in Muscadine Lines, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Dew on the Kudzu and in Oxford So and So. His first novel, Mississippi Cotton, is due out in early 2011 by Wido Publishing. He was reared in Mississippi and currently resides in Texas.

***

October's Featured Creation
Treasure Chest
By: Melissa Martin

"What is it Dad?" Joshua curiously asked as Mike pushed the dirt away from the large square object.

"I don't know but it looks like a box or a chest," Mike replied as he continued to dig.

"It's a treasure chest!" Joshua squealed when he saw the huge metal container. "We're rich! It's full of buried treasure and gold coins!" Joshua jumped up and down.

Joshua's younger sister, Tina, modeled his behavior by hopping in circles. Mike pounded the lock with his hammer but it wouldn't break.

"Let's go home and eat. I'll use the blowtorch to open it next weekend," Mike responded with fatigue in his voice.

Joshua argued, "But Dad, it's gold and someone will steal it!"

Rita laughed, "No one would want that old piece of junk. Besides, it's late and time for dinner." Rita, a stay-at-home mom, loved to cook for her family.

On the ride home, Joshua and Tina chattered about the contents of the treasure chest. Rita chattered about the new house they were building. "The Hudson family will finally have a new home with lots of room and we can plant our own apple trees!"

Two days later, Samantha, the church secretary called and inquired about the treasure chest. "Joshua told Mark, who told my son, David. Did you really find gold coins?"

Rita laughed. Samantha, the town gossip, was always the first to know any newsy tidbits. The small town would be buzzing with tall tales very soon. "No, Samantha, we found an old chest and there is no gold." Rita explained with irritation. Rita adored country living but sometimes the nosey neighbors bothered her.

The news about the contents of the chest spread quickly and the story became more exaggerated each day. The grocery store clerk asked if the diamonds in the chest were real. Joshua's baseball team requested some of the gold coins to buy new uniforms. Rita became annoyed but Mike laughed with good humor. "It's summer and there's nothing else to do in a small town. Everyone is just dreaming and having some fun!"

"Mike, Mr. Keens called and asked if he could stop by tonight." Rita later stated.

Mike glanced up from his dinner plate with a puzzled look. "What does he want?" Mr. Keens wasn't the visiting type.

At eight o'clock the doorbell rang. "Come in Mr. Keens, would you like some iced tea or coffee?" Rita politely offered. "I made an apple pie for dessert." She knew Mr. Keens, a widower, would welcome a homemade goody.

"I don't want coffee or pie. I want my share of the gold, silver, and diamonds that you found in the treasure chest on my land!" His face turned fiery red with anger.

"There isn't any gold or diamonds!" Rita shouted, "And it's not your land anymore. We bought it!"

Mike interrupted, "Honey, calm down. Mr. Keens, please sit down and we'll explain." Quiet and gentle, Mike continued. "Mr. Keens, we haven't even opened the chest. I found it last weekend when I was digging a foundation for our new house."

"Well, I'm calling my attorney, the judge, and the police chief. You're not going to cheat me out of my gold and silver!" Mr. Keens shouted as he raced down the front porch steps. Rita and Mike stood silently with perplexed expressions.

By Wednesday evening, the church congregation seemed to be in an uproar when the Hudson family arrived. The women's committee voted and wanted the treasure equally split with Mr. Keens. The men's prayer group wanted the gold coins donated to the church for a new roof and parking lot. The schoolteachers wanted a new library for the town.

"Reverend Moore, we haven't even opened the chest yet!" Mike persisted.

"Mom and Dad, come quick. Joshua and Jeff are fist fighting in the hall!" Tina yelled. Half the congregation sprinted to the main hallway.

"What's going on?" Mike demanded.

"Josh won't share the treasure!" Jeff screamed as blood poured from his lower lip. Chaos erupted as everyone tried to give an opinion about the treasure chest.

"There isn't any treasure!" Rita yelled as she hurried Joshua out the side door and headed for the car. Mike and Tina followed. They drove home in a confused silence.

Nine o'clock the next morning, Sergeant Baker served them a subpoena. Rita burst into tears. The town judge ordered the chest to be confiscated and opened on Saturday with all parties present. Mike slumped in his chair. Their eyes met and held. Laughter suddenly bubbled up and spilled into the living room.

"This situation is preposterous," Mike commented.

"It's our treasure!" Joshua muttered as he rubbed his black eye.

"There isn't any treasure," Rita repeated.

"But is there any apple pie left?" Sergeant Baker grinned.

Saturday morning blazed hot and sunny. Reverend Moore and his wife stopped by for coffee and pie. "Folks, greed is working overtime in our church and community," he admitted. Joshua and Tina sat at the kitchen table making a sign that read, The Hudson's Treasure Chest.
Each had a long list of items they would buy with the gold and silver coins.

Mike shook his head and commented, "If you do your chores, you can earn enough money to buy the things on your list."

The parking lot at the police station was roped off and the huge chest was displayed on a large table. Samantha organized the event. Sides were drawn. People who believed the gold, silver, and diamonds belonged to the Hudson family stood on the right and people who believed the contents belonged to Mr. Keens stood on the left. A small group of church members wanted the contents donated to the church for renovations. Sergeant Baker fired up the blowtorch. The judge and police chief stood behind the chest. The rusty old lock came apart and fell to the ground.

Judge Adkins stepped forward. "I'm not sure what all the fuss is about, but the whole town is acting wild. I want order and I want the bickering to stop!" All eyes were glued to the chest.

"Did you hear the judge?" Reverend Moore echoed the reprimand.

"Just open the chest," Mr. Keens and his attorney demanded.

The lid squeaked loudly. A hush fell over the crowd as Judge Adkins peered into the mysterious chest. He dug through the mildewed newspapers and musty wrappings. He turned the chest over and spilled out its dusty contents.

The crowd walked away in disappointment with shoulders hunched. Mr. Keens and his attorney slithered away unnoticed.

"Mom, you were right. There isn't any gold, diamonds, or silver," Joshua whispered.

"I know what my sermon is going to be about tomorrow," Reverend Moore commented with a sigh.

"Who wants to come to our house for apple pie and cider?" Rita shouted to the small group.

"I do," echoed multiple times. Rita was known for her homemade apple pie and hospitality.

***

Melissa Martin dabbles in creative writing, short fictional stories, poetry, and prose poetry. She resides in Ohio with her spouse and two dogs.

***

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May's Creation

Grandma's Four Stories
By: Lyzette Wanzer

The house with the porch, the wooden swing, with the garden, the alley cats, with the woods, the hidden lake, with the fruit trees, the aunts, uncles, greats, blood cousins, convenience cousins, from points north and south, in the green kitchen and earthy den, with the attic bedroom, the dusty basement, with the crawl spaces, the hidden panels, with the tunnel, now sealed, part of the Underground Rail. She so spun her fairy tales without sugar coating, not even for a preschooler, I got to imagining a slave collapsed, red bandana over her hair, tattered skirt, single-sandaled weary, frightened, glad to have reached refuge.

~~~~

Three yellowed pine needles spanned the part in her hair as she led me through soaring boles, damp wind churning the clouds' meringue faces, prickling our noses, top notes of spring rain. Past the casual buzz of bumblebees, whipping motor of hummingbird wings, through the creek's running light, cupping apples in our damp grainy palms, skittering from one rock to the next like a pair of dusky water spiders, breeze freighted with seaplane fumes, a here-and-there square of muted sunshine poking through, queue of cats trailing after us. No friends of mine, but they knew her and I had to share. We all left firm, fine prints in banked sand.

~~~~

A stroke swooped down on the wings of the quietest bird you ever didn't see. After that. Underground stories, woodland treks, gatherings in the presence of the ancestral, nixed. I was still shapeless, all elbows, knees, beaded braids, roller-skater skinny, and very much interested in being a boy. Was told she lost the house, just couldn't fathom how anyone could lose a house that huge. Was migrated with her to the city, to Murray Hill, to the East Side one-bedroom with dueling TVs, Planet of the Apes vs. King Kong, folks digging their turkey, stuffing, their Smithfield, cranberry sauce, their collards, cobbler, their kale, salsa, their pig's feet, sugar pie on the balcony, the sofa, in the kitchen, the bathroom, in the foyer, the closets, and for the under-18s, the outside hallway.

~~~~

A hush and a patience lay over 480 Second Avenue, #11F.

~~~~

Lyzette Wanzer is a native New Yorker currently residing in San Francisco. Her stories have appeared in Tampa Review, Illumen, Specs, Pleiades, West Wind Review, Yalbusha Review, Philament, Iris: A Journal About Women, Apalachee Review, The Healing Muse, Bryant Literary Review, artisan, a journal of craft, Curious Rooms, AIM Magazine, and Gender On Our Minds.

April's Creation

Final Destination
By: Taylor Dibbert

After five years abroad, moving to New York City is like sliding into a warm bath. This place is magical, the start of something bigger. My own fiesta has arrived. My life unfolds before my eyes---no complaints. I strolled through Austin, Athens, Buenos Aires, Innsbruck, Valencia, Guatemala City, Managua, and Madrid on my way here. This is no accident. Here there is life. Here there is energy. Here I see people who are nothing like me, who are everything like me. I am by myself, but I am never alone. I do not have a girlfriend. I do not have any money. I do not own a car. My possessions consist of underwear, Levi's, and books. I do not even own a towel. Yet I am not poor.

I live in the East Village. I revel in Manhattan's intellectual vibrancy---poetry readings, plays, film screenings, concerts, novels, newspapers, and conversation fill the hours. Nearly drowning in culture, I only crave more. I have become addicted. The number of cool bars and restaurants here lingers on the edge of infinity. What took me so long? Three decades, sixty countries, and one too many one-night stands later, I am seeing it all for the first time. And in doing so, I have found my final destination.

Taylor Dibbert is currently pursuing a Master of International Affairs at Columbia University's School of International and Public Affairs (SIPA).

March's Creation

The Holy Grail
By: Jan Campana

After twenty grueling years, the elusive search is over. In a barn filled with wild rats, she sits with rusty decay. A cracked side panel frames bare wheels on crumbling cinder blocks, while inside, springs empty of black leather await a ghostly driver, and dirt and grease cover the remaining metal of dark highland green. Her existence is overwhelming. I bow before the 60's icon and anticipate a life uncovering the star's powerful essence. As the image takes form, the Hollywood symbol races toward a significant future as a classic American tale of dreams---lost and found: Steve McQueen's Bullitt.

***
February's Featured Creation

As I Saw It
By: Fred Miller

A beautiful candlelight ceremony was the centerpiece of the Jones/Deerfield wedding in the university chapel this past Saturday evening. The bride, nee Miss Doris Anne Jones, wore a traditional white gown. The bridesmaids were clad in ubiquitous little black cocktail dresses and the groom, Mr. Samuel Deerfield, was dressed in an off-the rack tuxedo as were his groomsmen. Mothers of the couple-to-be graced the rite in pale pastel gowns cut to mid-knee.

Following the mothers down the aisle in an orchestrated half-step, the father of the bride, Mr. Michael Jones, appeared in a stunning Imperial gray worsted wool Armani suit with Chinese raw silk lapels and matching trouser stripes that flowed to the tips of imported Italian ebony slippers offset with shimmering mother-of-pearl buttons. The boutonniere Mr. Jones wore was a rare red and white carnation flown in from Ecuador the morning of the wedding, we were told.

As the father of the bride reached his appointed pew, he made a jaunty oblique turn and raised a hand, palm in, fingers touching, and, in a royal gesture, waved to adoring fans in the congregation. This flourish exposed a fine Egyptian cotton French cuff shirt made especially for the occasion by Paris designer Givenchy as well as a diamond-encrusted gold Tiffany cufflink. Enhancing this display was a slightly naughty half-carat diamond stud in his earlobe that gleamed in the sanctuary's ambient glow.

After routine vows were exchanged by the bride and groom, the wedding party traveled to the University Club for a gala reception where the happy couple greeted hundreds of well-wishers.

As the band began to play, a line of attractive young ladies formed near the dance floor where excited whispers could be overheard as each waited for a dance with the father of the bride. The tango, the mambo, the fox trot, the cha-cha, all appeared to be within the repertoire of this artistic, multi-talented man.

Late in the evening after much pleading from many ardent fans, Mr. Jones, in a porkpie hat of fine lambs wool that displayed his family's Welsh Royal crest, rose to a tabletop and began a rendition of the first of many popular tunes from recent Broadway hits. This was topped off with a finale of early American folk songs he played on his handmade Earl Scruggs banjo.

Around eleven in the evening, the happy couple sped to a waiting limo for a glorious honeymoon at the five-star Balboa Hotel in St. Tropez, compliments of the father of the bride.

Unnamed sources reported later seeing the father of the bride leave the party on foot en route to a local bus depot to take a Greyhound bus back to New Orleans. He could be heard whistling a Depression era tune that was popular with the down-and-outs of the time. It was said that he planned extended penitence at the main branch of the Whitney Bank there and sources close to Mr. Jones added that this lone vigilance could continue for some time to come.

***

Fred Miller, born in Mississippi and currently living in South Carolina, is a retired Wall Street executive who holds two university degrees. His first short story was published in 2003 and he has been published in Puckerbrush Review and Oxford Town.

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Creation for December

A Vermont Country Christmas

By: D. Malone

(This condensed version is based on an original story by K. Worrell)

The black trench coat and leather gloves protected Ken Westmore from the light snow but did little to stop the painful memories. He stepped out of the Washington, DC Children’s Home on the day before Christmas Eve onto the slushy pavement. It turned his mind back to the Blizzard of 1981, the fatal car crash, the loss of his parents and sister, and the beginning of his life alone.

Every year since the accident, Ken purchased boxes of cookies, pastries and doughnuts, and donated them to the other orphans. From his Georgetown townhouse, he walked past an endless array of holiday decorations and glimmering lights to the little bakery, dropped off his goodies, and finally emptied his pockets into a near-by Salvation Army kettle. The pretty bell-ringer always played a familiar tune, inquired about his health, and wished him happy holidays. It was a tradition made possible thanks to his career with the C.I.A.

Ken returned home and turned on the 65-inch plasma TV, which hung above the fireplace mantel. “A Muppet Christmas Carol” played as he ate a lonely dinner. A rare smile visited the self-proclaimed work-a-holic’s face as Kermit, portraying Bob Cratchit, begged for his day off from Scrooge. It brought visions of the year he received a Kermit for Christmas, and the fun he used to have terrorizing his sister’s Barbies. He wondered whatever happened to poor Kermit. He guessed it must have met the same fate as Stretch Armstrong, and turned into a pile of green goo. His mom warned him about stretching the thing too far.

Nostalgia spread into his thoughts like icing dripping down warm gingerbread. He recalled a happier Christmas when his family had traveled to Alabama to visit his grandparents. Grandpa was so excited to see his little grandson that he hoisted him up onto his shoulders. Ken had to duck as they entered the little house but still managed to grab the mistletoe hanging overhead. Faster than a hungry puppy, Ken had eaten half of it before Grandma ripped the rest out of his wet hands.

Another Christmas, his sister had gotten a stereo. She drove everybody crazy with the Partridge Family song, Roller Coaster, blaring it over and over again. Ken thought it sounded better than his dad’s attempt at 'When the Saints Go Marching In' on the kazoo Santa had left in his stocking.

The welcomed memories made Ken wish for a family of his own. The cozy fire and rum-laced eggnog gave Ken a needed sleep. He dreamed of better times: Grandpa lifting him up, an evil Kermit eating petite Barbies, his father playing a kazoo, and his mother warning about stretching the thing too far.

On Christmas Eve morning, Ken placed his mother’s handmade wreath on the front door. Inside, he rummaged through a catalog from the Vermont Country Store. He found memories, which came alive on every page. There was Stretch Armstrong, portable stereos, vinyl records, kazoos,and real mistletoe. Silver bells marked each item as a special holiday value. Ken imagined the bells ringing out his father’s favorite, 'When the Saints Go Marching In', and knew he had heard it before, only played with bells.

Suddenly, he remembered the kettle girl and her Christmas tune. He could not believe he had been so stupid, and ignored her genuine sweetness for years. With the Vermont Country Catalog still in his hand, Ken raced out of the door towards the sound of bells, and a new Christmas dream.

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D. Malone is a new writer who combines family stories, traditional values, and a love of storytelling
into short fiction for today's fast-paced generation.
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Creation for November

“Dear Jesus”

(from the one-act comedy “Elvis of Nazareth” by Jay Huling)

music and lyrics

Jay Huling

ELVIS

(Verse One)

Dear Jesus,

I don't understand,

Why did you have to go away?

You were a friend to hoodlums, harlots, and thieves;

Sinners just like me.

To the poor and the meek,

The humble and weak,

You opened up your loving arms.

You gave a damn for the damned;

Every woman and man,

Sinners just like me.

(Chorus)

When all the finger-pointers were pointing at you,

You said forgive -- they know not what they do.

Love your enemies,

And learn to turn the cheek;

Give and it will be given you.

(Verse Two)

Dear Jesus,

I'm afraid I'd a-been,

One of the ones to do you in.

I would have lied and cried,

And three times denied,

Before the mornin' light.

I can see myself now,

Doubting what, when, and how --

Show me the wounds so I can see;

Blessed are the ones who've not seen yet believed,

Sinners just like me.

(Repeat Chorus)

(Verse Three)

Dear Jesus,

I don't understand,

Why did you have to go away?

You were a friend to hoodlums, harlots, and thieves;

Sinners just like me.

You said if we believe like the mustard seed,

We can accomplish any deed;

If the Son sets you free,

You will be free indeed,

Dear Jesus help my unbelief;

Dear Jesus help my unbelief.

# # #

Jay Huling is a playwright whose plays include Trilogy for Two, winner of the Premiere Performances International Playwriting Contest; The Sing Sing Suite, winner of the Pickering Award for Playwriting Excellence; and Plumber’s Butt, winner of the McLaren Comedy Award. His one-act Elvis of Nazareth is featured in “The Best American Short Plays 2007-2008,” published by Applause Books. He can be contacted at www.jayhuling.com.