“Emilio raced down the field, his eyes fixed on the black and white soccer ball.” —Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt, Three Cheers for Emilio! 2nd Grand Prize Winner “The inky skyline stretched from the rooftop garden like yards of beaded silk.” —Anne Freeman, Honeybee and the Sting of Love 3rd Grand Prize Winner “‘Let me tell you about the Alphabet of Predators,’ Ava said, her delicate flip-flopped feet smacking the decaying boardwalk below us.” —Stephania Jean, Sweetwater, LGBTQ+ Winner “As I drifted into this vast darkness that engulfed my body, I knew that this was the end of me.” —Travis A. Seabrook, Stolen By The Sea, Fairy Tales/Fantasy Winner
2025 NEXT GENERATION
“Intense light from the midday tropical sun burned straight down without mercy.” —Robert Wright, Grooves and Blisters, Grand Prize Winner
SHORT STORY AWARDS
The Next Generation Short Story Awards brought exceptional writing from a plethora of writers around the globe. The competition was tough and the judges had difficult decisions to make. The winners have now been named and they are celebrated in this single volume of excellence.
2025 Next Generation
Short Story Awards Anthology of Winners
Next Generation Short Story Awards Terra Alta, West Virginia, USA - ANDCalgary, Alberta, Canada
2025 Next Generation Short Story Awards Anthology of Winners copyright ©2025 Next Generation Short Story Awards All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from the Next Generation Short Story Awards. Next Generation Short Story Awards P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV. 26764 USA 167 Midland Place S.E. Calgary, Alberta T2X 1N1 Canada www.ShortStoryAwards.com Info@ShortStoryAwards.com ISBN 13: 9781958914793 Library of Congress Control Number: 2025939670
P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A
Contents GRAND PRIZE WINNERS 1st: Grooves and Blisters by Robert Wright................................ 1 2nd: Three Cheers for Emilio! by Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt..... 6 3rd: Honeybee and the Sting of Love by Anne Freeman......... 11 CATEGORY WINNERS African American Spare a Little Change by Kimberly E. Banks............................ 22 Animals/Pets Luce by John Paul Godges........................................................... 36 Soul of a Griffin by Shilo Creed.................................................. 49 BIPOC Neighbours by Sanchana Venkatesh.......................................... 64 Children's/Juvenile The Anywhere Home by Amy E. Whitman.............................. 79 College/University Students Julie by Eva Carignan.................................................................. 92 Fairy Tales/Fantasy Stolen By The Sea by Travis A. Seabrook................................ 104 Family/Parenting Caller ID by Terri Friedlander.................................................. 118 General Fiction (2,500 to 5,000 words) Eleanor by Tom Ball................................................................... 124 Heartland Terror by C.W. Lewandowski................................. 139
General Fiction (Under 2,500 words) Her hand in mine by Amelia Booth........................................ 155 High School Students Rain by Clare Mullins................................................................ 160 Historical The Name by Judy Campbell.................................................... 167 Horror/Scary Stories/Paranormal Panspermian Dreams by Cain Alexander Stepaniuk............ 176 Humor A Tail of Two Dogs by Rocky Leplin....................................... 189 Galaxia and the Supreme Destroyers by Rakel Rae............... 194 Inspirational Home Away from Home by Success Aifuwa.......................... 208 Herding Pigs by Amber Swan................................................... 213 LGBTQ+ Sweetwater by Stephania Jean................................................... 221 Middle School Students The Last Conversation by Aarav Trivedi................................. 233 Mystery The Riddle Inheritance by Michelle Corbier.......................... 239 Poetry Antares: A Life At Sea by Gary Westphalen........................... 260 Relationships Cassandra by Gerard Marconi................................................. 265 Science Fiction Invisible Ink by Liza Fables....................................................... 273 Seniors (60 to 69 years) Fishing for Atonement by Don Carter.................................... 281 Seniors (70 years and above) Welcome the Wrong Turns: a true travel story by Mike Day............................................................................. 289 Social Change/COVID 19 Pandemic The Cure by Helen Jennings..................................................... 298
Spiritual/Religious A Doll of Hope by Vanessa Caraveo (unpublished)...............302 Survival/Overcoming Adversity Smoke Screen by Faith Anderson............................................ 303 Suspense/Thriller The Blood Stone of Shiva by A.K. McCutcheon..................... 307 Travel My Brief Career As a Laundress by Zelda Leah Gatuskin......................................................... 319 The Wizard of East Jesus by Laurie McAndish King............. 328 Wild Card Sandpiper Feet by Don Carter.................................................. 336
Introduction The Next Generation Short Story Awards is an esteemed not-for-profit international awards program for authors of short stories. It is brought to you by the Next Generation Indie Book Awards (the largest book awards program in the world for self-published authors and independent publishers) and the Independent Book Publishing Professionals Group. This program is designed to celebrate the best short story writing and the creative minds behind the words. This is year two for the Short Story Awards and entries were excellent. We look forward to many more of these authors being published in the coming years! This Anthology of Winners includes the stories of the Grand Prize Winners and category Winners for the 2025 Next Generation Short Story Awards. Congratulations to all Winners and Finalists! Happy reading. For information visit www.ShortStoryAwards.com.
General Non-Fiction
First Grand Prize
Grooves and Blisters by Robert Wright
1st Grand Prize Winner Intense light from the midday tropical sun burned straight down without mercy. From the water’s cool edge, the lieutenant gingerly skipped back barefoot on searing hot sand to the rusted metal-roofed shack in the shade of the palms. A doorless entry and glassless windows framed the floor of bare wood planks dusted by grains of sand. A man stood behind a wide board set on upended crates. Wrested from fields of cane, bottles of island rum rested on the shelf. The shack was almost a sacred place for the villagers who labored on the sea for their livelihoods. Once a fisherman, the face of the aging man had been weathered by the wind, wrinkled by the rays of the sun, and embedded by the wisdom of the sea. Bright-faced naivete entered. The young gringo from America had taken a break from the demands of the nuclear bombers that awaited Armageddon on the base above the bluff of the beach. An honest greeting reached out to this stranger. “Bienvenido. Ron?” The lieutenant had studied economics. Linguistically challenged, he asked, “Rum?” “Si.” “Yes...er...si.” 1
The old man unfolded his calloused hand wide and reached for a bottle. Revealed deep grooves told his life story: hooked on the jaws of running big tunas, fishing lines had burned through that clenched hand for years, for decades, since his youth. As he poured the shot of rum, the other hand told the same story, amplified by the wrinkles on his face. The lieutenant sipped clear rum and gazed out at the simmering sand, saw and absorbed the brightly painted wooden fishing boats resting away from the reach of the breakers. Bow to stern, their flat bottoms curved gracefully upward. Other boats were out on the water. At one with the sea, they floated, sunbaked fishermen on wind-driven white-capped waves. A fisherman approached from the horizon and returned through the surf. His boat met the shore in the shallow white froth. With help, he slid it up next to the other boats, then lugged his heavy catch barefoot across the same burning sand. A creaking scale hung from a nail in the palm tree next to the rum shack. The two big tuna were weighed and purchased by the wholesale merchant from the neighboring town. Proud, the tired fisherman entered the shack and firmly slapped money down on the board, “Ron, por favor.” “Si.” Eyes met across the cultural and economic divide. Hesitation, then another order, “Y una para la yanqui (And one for the Yankee).” “Si.” In English, for the lieutenant, the fisherman wove words into the tapestry of sun, sand, surf, and sea. The lieutenant asked if he owned the boat. “Si.” Then his history was woven into the fabric that hung on the day. The lieutenant nodded slowly and smiled at this expected confirmation: the boat had been purchased from its builder in the nearby town had been used by the fisherman to labor and catch fish sold to the merchant at local market prices. Capitalism 2
was at work in the small fishing village and in the rum shack. Rum was sold at a small profit for tending the board. The day waned and cooled. The fisherman bade adios and left the shack for his small house and family among the palms. There was time for a third shot of rum to watch the sunset from the entryway. The lieutenant saw excited silhouettes against the darkening sky at the end of the long pier. Boys, still naked from their play in the water, pointed and shouted, “Pescado! Pescado! Pescado!” The village heard their alerting announcement: fish were schooling near the pier and just beyond the beach. Men and women, young and old, flowed out through the palms from their humble houses for the evening ballet of the net, even the fisherman who had worked hard on the water that day. The villagers divided naturally in two. One group gathered by a decrepit boat. Peeled paint and cracked planks, it had seen better days when it had been used by the old tender of the rum shack. The other group went farther along the water’s edge to the base of the pier. The old boat was ready; the village crew had been on alert. Instead of bombs, a long fishing net lay neatly folded in the boat; instead of eight jet engines, a pair of oars were set inside. They slid and launched the boat onto the water. One held the end of the net. In synchrony with the launch, two young men jumped in; one sat and pulled at the oars, the other stood and let out the net over the stern. Wood floats were attached to one edge, lead weights along the other. The boat was rowed in a wide semicircle to those waiting by the pier, leaving a water-borne fence to entrap their target, the unsuspecting school of evening pescado. The boat slid to a stop on the wet sand; the young men jumped out. The waiting group scrambled quickly to grasp the two ropes at the end of the net. Down the beach, the other group had done the same. Motivated by the activities and three shots of rum, the lieutenant ran across cool sand to assist the group by 3
the pier. His soft, tender hands grasped a salty, bristly rope that was being pulled by others. The old graying fisherman from the shack joined in. Too feeble to help, he encouraged all with a slow coxswain-like beat, “Jalar...Jalar...Jalar” – when to lean back, handover-hand, and pull...pull ...pull. All worked as one. In the twilight, hands passed over floats and lead weights and gripped bare rope. The two laboring groups moved towards each other. Pulled-in net trailed on the sand. The floating remainder constricted around the hapless school of small silver fish. Corralled closely together, a few leapt in panic over the net. Finally, the fish were dragged out of the water into a heap. Their fluttering death throes flung sand into the air. A grain lodged in the lieutenant’s eye. The others knew to look away until the mass twitching stopped. He went to splash and rinse it out. Salt water stung sharply. Overzealous, caught up in the moment, blisters had formed on the tender skin of his palms, had broken, and now exposed raw flesh. Pails and pots were brought to the pile. The fish were divided up. The lieutenant just watched and winced from his pain. Some took more than others without arguments. He asked a man standing next to him: the old ones and widows needed more. A child ran up and tapped his leg, “Señor.” He turned and saw a smiling face. She handed up a blue plastic toy bucket which her mother had filled with a few fish. It wasn’t much, but for the lieutenant, the gesture was enormous. Back in the rum shack, a single electric light bulb hung on its cord from the bare beams of the roof, pushing away the darkness. The old man had returned. The villager who had pulled on the rope right next to the lieutenant and had answered his quiet questions purchased a shot of rum for him with a welcoming pat on his back, “Bienvenido, señor, bienvenido.” The old man behind the board glanced at the lieutenant’s hands, then his own, poured 4
the rum, and nodded his approval. In the dim light and the camaraderie of the day, the lieutenant struggled to balance conflicting images. He had been part of a collective effort: each had contributed according to their abilities, from young children to working fishermen to the old man who had called the cadence; each had received according to their needs. He counted three fish in his plastic blue bucket; that seemed about right. Communism was at work in the village, right alongside capitalism, in apparent harmony. The lieutenant bade his new amigos farewell and drove back up to the base; his broken blisters stung on the steering wheel, the little blue bucket by his side. He gave a salute at the gate, entered, and wondered, ‘Could the economic balance he had just observed be achieved among nations?’ From across the runway, the silent answer came from nuclear bombers on hard alert with the means to do more than groove hands and blister skin. About the Author Robert Wright was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. He spent 27 years in the United States Air Force, retired in the rank of colonel, and worked for a decade in Washington D.C. Writing in retirement, he self-published: You’ve Got Rocks (non-fiction, anthology of memoirs); The Brass (non-fiction, world-famous pub in Portland, Oregon); 3FTx – Timed Terror (fiction, suspense/ terror); Nudging Nyame (hard science fiction, suspense/terror); as described at https://www.wrightstuffpress.com. Robert’s short stories have been published in online magazines; opinion pieces and essays in the local newspaper; and won second place grand prize in the 2024 Next Generation Short Story Awards. General Non-Fiction Finalists The Monster in my Mouth by Iqbal Hussain My Love Language is Ping Pong by Tara Prakash The "Quill" is Mightier Than the Sword by Gail E. Wind 5
Children’s/Juvenile
Secon Grandd Prize
Three Cheers for Emilio! by Elizabeth Weiss Vollstadt 2nd Grand Prize Winner
Emilio raced down the field, his eyes fixed on the black and white soccer ball. Over and over it turned as he dribbled in perfect control. Left foot . . . right foot . . . left foot . . . right foot . . . Emilio and the ball flew toward the goal. The score was tied, 2-2. Time was running out. Emilio could already feel the triumph, see everyone crowding around, cheering him for scoring the winning goal. Just a few more seconds and he’d have it. Oh no! Three players in bright red shirts ran between him and the goal, blocking his shot. Emilio slowed down, still protecting the ball with his feet. He ran to the left, looking for a space to make the goal. But there was no opening. “Emilio! Over here!” Emilio looked to his right. His teammate Sean, in a white Eagles jersey like his own, was shouting and waving his arms. Emilio could see that Sean had a clear shot at the goal. Fast as a rocket, Emilio passed the ball to Sean. Sean trapped it, then shot it toward the goal. The goalie dived for the ball but couldn’t reach it. Score! And just in time. The referee’s whistle ended the game. The Eagles had won! Sean waved at Emilio. “Great pass!” he shouted. 6
Seconds later, a crowd of white shirts surrounded Sean. “Way to go!” “What a kick!” “Three cheers for Sean!” The words drifted across the field to Emilio. He stood alone. No one even knew he was there. He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes and kicked the ground. Another teammate, Tony, raced by. “Great ball work, Emilio,” he yelled over his shoulder. Then he joined the cheering crowd around Sean. Emilio looked up and forced a smile. But he stayed where he was. He was glad they won the game, but just once he wanted to be the hero. Just once, he wanted to go home and tell his Mami and Papi that he had scored the winning goal. He could see the pride in Mami’s eyes and hear Papi say, “See, Emilio, I told you. America is a good country for us.” But it didn’t happen. It never happened. Nothing had been right since his family left Costa Rica to come to the United States. The winter had been so cold, and English was so hard. This morning in school the teacher had returned yesterday’s spelling test. He failed again. How could anyone spell English? He had spelled “throw” right. How could he know that cookie “dough” was spelled differently? They sounded the same. He longed for his beloved Spanish . . . soft, like music . . . where you spelled words the way you said them. Only when he played fútbol, or soccer as they called it here, did he feel at home. In Costa Rica, all the boys dribbled fútbols on the way to and from school. Emilio felt that the ball was part of him. “No one can handle the ball the way you can,” said Coach Steve. Other teams saw it, too. They guarded Emilio carefully. Whenever he got close to scoring, their defense double- and triple-teamed him. Emilio had to pass and watch someone else 7
get the goal. And getting the goal was all the Americanos saw. Now there was only one more game, one more chance. The morning of the last game was sunny and warm. The field had been freshly mowed. The damp cut grass smelled as sweet as the field behind their house in Costa Rica. It was a Saturday, and Mami and Papi had come to watch. “Hi, Emilio,” said Sean, making room for him on the bench. “We’re gonna cream ‘em, I can tell.” Emilio frowned. “Cream ‘em?” Sean laughed, but in a friendly way. “It means beat them, win the game.” Emilio nodded, but he thought again what a strange language English was. The Eagles lost the opening toss. The blue team had first possession. Down they advanced toward the goal. But the Eagles’ goalie stopped the shot and threw the ball to Emilio. Emilio dribbled it back up the field. He tried to score, but the goalie blocked his shot. Now the blue team had the ball again. They all raced back down the field. Another kick, another block. Back and forth they flew. Once, Emilio got the ball away from a player who was dribbling toward the goal. “Great tackle!” yelled Sean. But still, Emilio couldn’t score. Finally, the game was almost over, and the score was still 0-0. Emilio breathed hard as he dribbled the ball down the field. Time was running out. The ball moved fast between his feet. Finally, his chance came. He charged toward the goal. Not again! Two blue shirted players came in from the side to block his kick. Emilio looked around. Sean was clear. But he wanted that goal for himself. Should he try? Emilio took a deep breath and kicked the ball . . . right to Sean’s waiting foot. Sean shot the rolling ball. Goal! The final score was 1-0. Once again, Emilio watched his teammates surround Sean with cheers and congratulations. He was standing by himself when Papi came onto the field. 8
“You are a great team player, my son,” Papi said, putting an arm around Emilio. “I am proud of you.” Emilio shrugged. Papi won’t be so proud at the banquet tonight, he thought, when Sean wins all the prizes. That night, happy sounds filled the school cafeteria. Voices shouted. Chairs scraped. Knives and forks clattered. But when Coach Steve stood up, the room quieted. “We had a great season,” he said. “We’re proud of all the boys.” He called up each team member. Everyone received a team picture and a patch for his jacket. Next came the special awards. Finally, Coach Steve announced the trophy for best offensive player. Emilio wanted this award so much, he could almost hear his name. Please, please, he begged silently. But the coach said, “Best offensive player is Sean Mallory. Sean broke the record for the number of goals scored in one season.” Emilio applauded with the others, but inside he fought back tears. Fútbol was the only thing he could do in this country—and even that wasn’t good enough. Coach Steve continued. “There’s one more award, Most Valuable Player. It’s extra special because the boys vote on it themselves. This award goes to the person who helped the team the most.” He paused. Emilio looked around the room. Sean, he thought. He had voted for Sean. Sean would get that too. Coach Steve went on. “This year the award goes to someone who can handle the ball better than anyone. He always got the ball into scoring position and made most of our goals this year possible. He’s a great team player and a new American—Emilio Martinez.” Emilio stared at the coach. Me? Most Valuable Player? “But I thought” . . . He felt Papi’s hand on his shoulder. He turned to see a proud smile light up Mami’s face. 9
Then everyone crowded around him. “I voted for you,” said Tony. “Me too,” Sean said. “You set me up to score all the time.” Then he yelled, “Three cheers for Emilio!” Emilio grinned. The cheers sounded wonderful—even in English. THE END About the Author Elizabeth Vollstadt has worked as a writer, editor, and teacher. Her favorite job was producing an award-winning magazine for a children’s hospital, where she wrote stories of hope. Today, she concentrates on writing for children. Elizabeth’s stories have been published in magazines such as Highlights for Children, Children’s Digest, and several anthologies. She also co-authored a short story collection, Young Patriots: Inspiring Stories of the American Revolution. Her latest books are preteen novels, Pairs on Ice and Pairs at Nationals, inspired by her love of skating. Pairs on Ice received a Royal Palms Literary Award from the Florida Writers Association. www.amazon.com/author/elizabethvollstadt
Children’s/Juvenile Finalists Princess Maggie & the Singing Fairies by Sophia Alexander The Boy and the Brush by Suzy Shepherd Cloud and Rain by Julie Stielstra
10
Romance
Thir Grand d Prize
Honeybee and the Sting of Love by Anne Freeman
3rd Grand Prize Winner The inky skyline stretched from the rooftop garden like yards of beaded silk. Melissa Martin wrapped her pea coat tighter. In the distance, the cluster of buildings forming Melbourne’s CBD seemed to huddle together against the cold. Melissa exhaled a steamy breath as her tension unfurled. Strung fairy lights overhead shimmered in unison with the city lights and the stars above, and Melissa marveled at how many spiky natives were in bloom at this time of year. Grevillea bushes heavy with loopy lemon flowers, and epacris with their white-tipped crimson tubes, sprang from raised planter boxes fashioned from timber pallets. Synthetic turf carpeted the ground while a border of tea trees ran around three sides of the perimeter. Choosing an apartment based solely on its rooftop garden may seem foolhardy to some, but Melissa knew it was the right decision. Who had created this tranquil haven? Melissa thought of the cardboard boxes begging to be unpacked in her new apartment. She pictured her father alone for the first time since her mother died all those years ago. Guilt panged, but she snuffed it. What was the point of putting her twenties on hold when her father remained unreachable? Inhabiting an island of grief that not even she could sail to. 11
Melissa’s memories of her mother were faded now—as curled and discoloured as the family photographs she’d spent her childhood poring over. Perhaps if her mother’s memory had been kept alive, Melissa would have more than an echo chamber of unanswered questions to remember her by. She fingered her shoulder-length dark curls—identical to her mother’s—twirling the coils and conjuring her image. She imagined Eleni fussing over her new apartment, bringing over big batches of food from her Greek homeland recipes and tsking over her housekeeping. Melissa turned to rest against the railing, imagining the rooftop garden in summer. Clusters of colourful milk crates were strewn around and hope of new friends crackled in her chest like a sparkler. Beyond them, behind raised garden beds, she noticed a series of white towers about the size of filing cabinets. She cocked her head. Was this some cool inner-city art installation? She walked towards them. Close up, Melissa was no clearer as to what they were. She placed her hands atop one and listened. A low buzz like an electrical current emanated from the box and she wondered if it was a power generator. The rooftop door clicked open loudly and she jumped, knocking the top of the tower off kilter. A sharp, searing pain pierced the mound of flesh at the base of her thumb. She noticed bees buzzing around her. “Hey!” Melissa’s head whipped towards the sound. A dark figure ran towards her. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. Hot, prickly pain throbbed from her hand and she cradled it as though it were a wounded finch. “I’m sorry I...” Melissa began. The man pushed past and repositioned the lid on the structure. “What were you thinking, disturbing the hive? They’re hibernating!” He said this as though it was common knowledge and Melissa almost laughed at the absurdity. 12
“Do you have any idea how rapid the decline in bee populations has been—what it would mean if they weren’t around to pollinate?” Did she know that? Melissa opened her mouth to speak but couldn’t shoe-horn anything into his tirade. “You can’t open the hive in winter. You’re lucky you didn’t get stung!” His eyes landed on her injured hand and he groaned. “It’s fine. I’m okay. I just need to pull out the—” “Stop!” He thrust his hands out. “If you squeeze the venom sac, it will release into the wound.” He pulled a Swiss army knife from his pocket, flicked out the blade and took her hand in his. For one terrifying moment, before logic returned, Melissa imagined this Bear Grylls wannabe carving out the stinger like a potato eye. His hand was warm and strong as it cupped her smaller, freezing one, and for the first time, she allowed herself to take in his appearance. He was tall and broad-shouldered while still possessing the last vestiges of boyish lankiness. Hornrimmed glasses framed soulful eyes, and dark hair curled around his plaid collar. Running the back of his knife along her skin, he evicted the stinger in one fluid movement. She smiled gratefully, poised to thank him, but he dropped her hand like an ember and scowled. “Didn’t you read the sign?” he demanded, stabbing a hand towards a hand-painted plaque that read, Warning Bee Hives Do Not Approach! Melissa blinked rapidly, taking in the yellow sign in the low light. “I didn’t, I’m sorry. I just moved into 604—today, in fact— and I was just ...” “You were just messing with things you don’t understand.” Melissa’s hand pulsed with pain, and she wondered why she was apologizing. Rage filled her chest. “Look! I’m sorry I knocked the lid off the hive, but some maniac burst onto the roof 13
and startled me as I was trying to figure out what the hell it was. Maybe if you want people to read your cute little sign, you should position it somewhere it can be seen.” He recoiled. “Bees aren’t the only pricks around here!” She stormed away. Still seething, Melissa pulled a fitted sheet across her mattress with her good hand. The base of her thumb had swelled hotly where the kamikaze bee had staged its last stand. It itched like crazy. She thought of the first aid kit that her father meticulously maintained and made a mental note to create one. She fell into bed to doom scroll. Knocking filled her apartment and sensation prickled her spine as she sat bolt upright. Surely axe murderers don’t knock. Creeping to the door, she peered through the peephole to discover him on her threshold. “Who is it?” “It’s, ah, Adrian. We met on the roof. I came to apologize.” Melissa eased her features into resting scorn and opened the door. “Oh, were you sleeping?” asked Adrian, taking in her floral pajamas. Melissa stood straighter. “Can I help you with something?” He held a paper bag, which he moved from hand to hand. “I wanted to check on you.” Melissa tucked her hand behind her back. “I’m fine.” Adrian pushed his glasses up his nose and nodded, but didn’t leave. He held her gaze and, after a few beats, said, “It’s just that if you don’t dress the sting properly, it can become infected.” Melissa’s hand throbbed harder as if trying to get Adrian’s attention, and she brought it forward to show him. ‘It’s quite red.” Adrian winced before squaring his shoulders and smoothing his brow. “What is your name?” “Melissa Martin.” 14
“Well, Melissa Martin, with your permission, I’d like to come in and bandage your hand.” Melissa blinked a few times at his formality and made way for him to enter. Her apartment was a series of small white cubes, all visible from the entryway. Regarding her cream boucle sofa, still wrapped in plastic, she turned towards the compact square of the kitchenette instead. She led him to the Formica table and chairs that she’d rescued from her father’s garage and sat. Placing his phone and keys on the table, he unpacked from the bag a Mason jar of honey, a roll of gauze, and two blister packs of caplets. He strode to the sink, washed his hands, and filled a glass with water. Sitting beside her, he handed her the glass and popped two white tablets and one pink from their packaging. “These are ibuprofen for the pain, and this is an antihistamine— it’ll help with the swelling and itching.” Melissa accepted the pills and swallowed them with a draft of water as Adrian unscrewed the lid of the Mason jar. A sweet, floral scent wafted around them as he pressed his ring finger onto a honey drop on the lid and swiped it gently across the sting. “What the?” “It’ll prevent infection and help with healing,” he said, unspooling a length of gauze and beginning to wrap her hand. “It will?” She looked at his bent head and imagined running her fingers through his glossy chocolate waves. “It’s Leptospermum honey,” he muttered. When she looked blankly, he elaborated. “It’s produced by bees that pollinate the Leptospermum flower—tea tree. It gives it antibacterial properties.” Melissa thought of the tea tree border around the rooftop garden. “This honey is from your bees?” He nodded and tied off the gauze. “So you’re, like, an urban farmer or something?” 15
He smirked and a dimple popped in his cheek, beside his right eye. “A hobbyist. The bees—the garden—are my passion project.” She resisted the urge to fill the silence and waited for more. “I have a real job as a systems architect.” Melissa laughed before she could sensor herself and Adrian smirked again. “I did not see that coming,” she said. “My job involves designing, maintaining, and optimising complex systems.” He paused, “Just like bees.” She nodded, letting the concept seep in. “And you? I’m guessing you’re not an interior designer,” he said, thick eyebrows indicating her unkempt apartment mischievously. She resisted the urge to bat him playfully. “I’m a social media marketer.” “Is that when you take selfies and make people buy stuff they don’t need?” “That’s an influencer. I create online strategies for small businesses to help them connect with customers. Take your bees, for instance. You’re clearly committed to boosting the population. Do you have a social media presence to connect you with other enthusiasts? Recruit new people to the cause?” Adrian shook his head. “Social media isn’t all about posers and consumerism, you know. It can be a powerful tool for activism and social and environmental change.” His dark eyes sparkled at her before he took her hand again and tucked the loose edges of gauze beneath the wrapping. “I’m sorry about earlier—I overreacted—and, you’re right, the sign needs moving.” Melissa wasn’t sure she’d ever heard a man admit to being wrong—her father certainly hadn’t. “I wasn’t trying to mess with your bees. I honestly didn’t know ...” 16
Melissa had trouble finishing the thought with Adrian holding her hand, his dark eyes locked intently on her. He smelled like botanical body wash and the powder scent of freshly laundered clothes. She had an urge to sit on his lap. What was happening? His phone buzzed on the tabletop and Melissa spied the selfie on his screen—Adrian grinning, his golden cheek pressed against the pouting face of a blonde balayage beauty. Adrian pulled his hand away and stood. “Answer it if you want,” said Melissa. “It’s okay. I can call back. I should go.” His phone rang out and he pocketed it, making for the door. Melissa rolled her eyes at his retreating back. Just another player. His poor girlfriend was probably in their apartment wondering where he’d scurried to. Melissa stood and shoved everything into the bag. “Don’t forget your stuff.” He turned back. “That’s for you. Take another pink one in 24 hours and the white ones are up to every six hours if it’s hurting.” “And the honey?” she said, holding out the jar. He smirked, making his dimple pop. “It’s great on toast.” Melissa had avoided Adrian all week. Now, weighed down by the cumbersome spoils from her Saturday morning trip to IKEA, she waited for the elevator, half expecting to run into him and his girlfriend. In addition to the bursting blue carrier bag on her shoulder, Melissa held a ridiculously large monstera that she regretted purchasing. The glossy abundance of leaves blocked the view no matter how she held the pot. The lift arrived and she hiked the bag higher on her shoulder and rested the teetering pot on a raised knee to jab at the button for her floor. Exhaling hard, the leaves blew forward before slapping her in the face like a rebuke. Arriving on level six, Melissa stepped from the lift, caught her toe on the lip of the landing, and was propelled into the air. The 17
plastic pot flew from her grasp to crash into the apartment door opposite. She lay there a moment on the musty carpet, befuddled by the floor’s ability to rise up and meet her so swiftly. Her left knee bent before her while her right leg stretched behind her like the Nike swoosh. Pushing onto her elbows, she inwardly groaned when the door opened to reveal Adrian staring down at her. “Melissa? Are you okay?” Adrian scooped her up by the armpits as though she weighed nothing and her body swooned at his lithe strength. Still holding on, he surveyed her face and body as if looking for signs of injury. The blonde beauty of the phone selfie appeared over his shoulder, along with a sea of others shrieking and gesticulating wildly. They poured out the door to retrieve her scattered belongings as he pulled her inside. As Adrian led her to large twin sofas and sat opposite her, Melissa took in his expansive apartment and the large dining table bearing the detritus of an elaborate lunch. The half-dozen guests bustled back in, clutching her belongings, and set them by the front door while an older woman retrieved a hand-held vacuum and sucked up the spilled potting mix from the corridor. Adrian leaned in conspiratorially and said, “If you wanted to see me again, you could have just knocked.” The blonde woman sat beside him and Melissa’s cheeks flushed guiltily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb your celebration.” The blonde shooed away her apology, smiling. “Katerina, this is my new neighbour, Melissa. Melissa, my sister, Katerina.” Sister? “N-nice to meet you, Katerina. I’m sorry I burst in on your gathering. I’ll leave you to it.” Melissa made to stand, but she was halted by the stream of people coming to join them. The woman who’d vacuumed the mess placed a hand on her shoulder, guiding her back to sit, 18
and squeezed in beside her. “I’m Soula, Adrianos’ mother.” She offered a prim hand, which Melissa shook. Adrian indicated the rest of the group with an outstretched palm. “These are my cousins, Nick, Sophie and Vicky, my dad, Denis, and my aunt, Vaso.” Melissa smiled. “Everyone, this is Melissa Martin, my new neighbour. She’s the one who got into a fight with a bee the other night.” Melissa’s cheeks heated. He’d talked about her? Vaso said, “I’ll make coffee,” and rose. “It’s lovely to meet you all, but I must be going. I don’t want to interrupt.” Adrian’s mother, Soula, touched a hand to her knee. “It’s Adrianos’ name day.” Melissa scanned her knowledge for what that meant. She had a vague idea that Greeks celebrated not birthdays but the feast day of the saints they were named after. Soula leaned towards her, squinting. “You look Greek.” “Mum! Not everyone is Greek,” Adrian complained. Vaso returned carrying a tray of tiny coffee cups and a plate piled high with golden, oval biscuits covered in chopped walnuts. She set it down and nodded. “She looks Greek.” “Her name is Melissa Martin, Mum,” said Katerina. “Actually, my mother was Greek, but I suppose my father named me because Melissa is the most Aussie name you can think of,” she said and laughed apologetically and accepted a cup from Vaso. Adrian’s father, Denis, cleared his throat and everyone fell silent. “No. Melissa comes from the Greek word meli—honey— it’s mean honeybee.” Her mother had named her honeybee? Amidst the frenetic bustle of Adrian’s family diving for coffee and biscuits, Melissa discovered Adrian’s dark eyes magnetized to her. She pressed her lips to the cup to disguise the emotion 19
humming through her body and was surprised by the velvety richness of the thick coffee. Adrian leaned forward, handing her a biscuit on a small plate. “Melomakarona. I used the honey from our bees.” Melissa’s skin hummed pleasantly. “You made these?” Adrian nodded. Denis grunted at his wife. “You made him soft.” “Shush,” said Soula, swatting at him. The word came out as soos within the folds of her accent and Melissa smiled. She wondered if, like many Greeks, her own mother was unable to make the sh sound. The thought made Melissa feel closer to her. Melissa picked up the plump biscuit, surprised by its cakey softness and bit. The aromatic flavour of cloves, cinnamon, and nutmeg flooded her palate along with the liquid sunshine of honey. She closed her eyes and exhaled pleasurably. She’d tasted these before. Had her mother made them? Dormant memory flickered to life like string lights in her brain. She opened her eyes to find everyone’s attention on her. “I think my mother used to make these for me,” she said, her voice thick. Adrian leaned towards her. Soula looked between them and then glared meaningfully at Vaso. “Okay! Time to clean up.” Everyone sprang to action, gathering crockery and heading for the kitchen. Denis remained seated, fists resting on his splayed knees like a king. Soula moved towards him and slapped the back of his head. “You too.” Adrian moved to sit beside Melissa, his eyes never leaving her and she squared her body towards him. “You have a little...” He lifted his hand, tentatively, indicating her face and Melissa raised her chin towards him. He swiped gently at crumbs on her lower lip and the intimacy of the gesture flooded her belly with warmth. 20
“Honeybee?” Adrian began. Melissa grinned at the nickname and his dimple popped. “Can I cook you dinner later?” Melissa placed a hand on his muscular thigh. “I’d love that.” They gazed at each other, their faces inching closer. Before their lips met, they looked towards the kitchen, which had fallen suspiciously silent. Adrian’s family sprang into action, resuming their hive of activity. “Tonight,” he whispered. About the Author Anne Freeman writes contemporary fiction about women who are stuck in life and the extraordinary ways they shake themselves loose. Her stories are always engaging and sometimes funny with reluctant adventures, sexy escapades, and friendships that uplift. Anne’s novels and short stories have been recognised in many literary competitions, including the prestigious Romance Writers of Australia Valerie Parv Award, the Hawkeye Publishing Manuscript Development Prize, the Grindstone Literary International Novel Prize, and the Queensland Writers’ Centre Adaptable Program. You can learn more about Anne and her work here: www.annefreeman.com.au Romance Finalists My first love by Sibora Huda Mr. Macaron by Merrell Palmer, Love law by Andrew Snook
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African American
Spare a Little Change by Kimberly E. Banks DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG! The clock strikes 5:00 p.m. and Atlanta’s downtown streets swell with traffic. Despite the frigid December air, none of the travelers seem to waver from their paths. A peculiar, yet soothing energy hovers in the atmosphere, counterbalanced by the ominous clouds gathering on the horizon. Nature’s gray hint at impending snowfall is palpable, but the cold does little to deter the crowd moving through the rush-hour ballet. At the heart of this chaos stands Rick Power, a six-foot-one man in middle age whose weary appearance reveals hardship. Yet, a faint shimmer of resilience envelops him, hinting at a story far beyond his visible struggle. Though his rugged exterior masks it, features once striking—thick eyebrows, a prominent nose, high cheekbones, and a chiseled jawline—imply a past marked by grace and strength. Strangely, Rick sticks out like a sore thumb, standing apart from the throng of hurried souls, their only intention to make it home for the evening. After a time, he blinks as if jolting himself back to reality, bracing against the sharp, 40-degree wind. Deliberately, he tightens the worn trench coat, its fabric weathered from years of use, secured by a frayed rope doubling as a belt. He reaches for a brand-new beanie, identical to the one his father wore, and pulls it over his ears. The wool stretches to fit his 22
head, while his fingers trace the embroidered Lakers logo above the fold. The beanie’s rough texture offers a familiar comfort, and a fleeting smile tugs at his lips— not from warmth, but again, from the memories stitched into the cherished emblem. His eyes remain fixed, indifferent to the relentless surge of traffic and the hurried footsteps of pedestrians flowing past. Instinctively, Rick replaces his snaggletooth grin for an urgent look, honed by necessity. The weary facade he wears, shaped by countless days on the street, hides his true self while skillfully drawing the sympathy he requires. When an eight-month stint of unemployment became unbearable, he turned to this path and these skills, finding a semblance of stability through a group of seasoned beggars who took him in. With each lesson learned, he perfected the art of appearing destitute, adjusting the slouch of his shoulders to complete the illusion. As Rick shifts from foot to foot, trying to stave off the cold, a quiet chuckle escapes him. He glances down at his tattered Adidas, caked with Atlanta’s red clay, peeking out from beneath his frayed, bell-bottomed pants. Shaking his head, he sinks into deep reflection and allows his thoughts to trace the contours of his journey, and what he’d neglected along the way. Coulda, woulda, shoulda... Mere regret couldn’t erase the damage inflicted on the many women who had been hurt by his actions. With a chilling indifference, he was even more likely to push away, dismiss, and discard those who resisted being treated like yesterday’s refuse. Women who were closest to him—his daughter, sister, and exwife—had borne the brunt of his frustrations throughout his recklessness. The self-loathing that arose when he recalled how he used to reduce women to mere objects of gratification now overwhelmed him with unbearable shame. It is only in hindsight that he realizes his abusive behavior stemmed from a deep resentment, unrelated to his sexual entanglements or the women he professed to love. The root of his actions lay in his failure to 23
attain the rewards he believed he deserved. His inflated sense of entitlement had blinded him to his own role in the unraveling of his life. For years, Rick repressed the shame he harbored consequent to his deplorable habit of taking the presence of his loved ones for granted. Haunted every day by the memory, it has been hard to release the guilt that led him to push away his daughter and his sister, Laiya—the two women he once saw as the most beautiful in the world. While they were both innocent casualties of his inner turmoil, he couldn’t escape the painful truth that his daughter, Karma, was the light of his life, his heart, his soul, his everything. And, for a while, he was hers. Yet, slowly her sentiments began to deteriorate as his womanizing and self-centered dream-chasing grew more intense as the years progressed. Too often she’d witnessed the hair-raising disputes and physical altercations he’d had with her mother, many from which her mother walked away bruised and swollen. After she came to her senses, his wife demanded a divorce, took their daughter, and walked out, leaving him clutching the shattered pieces of his heart and shutting the door on any chance of reconciliation. From that moment, Rick had carried the burden of losing the chance to watch his daughter blossom into the remarkable woman he always knew she would be. Lord, you know how much I miss her. Please grant me another chance to be a better father. Rick spent much of his life chasing a vision of success that always seemed just beyond his reach; one he hoped would allow him to reconnect with his daughter and love her the way she deserved. Reaching rock bottom was the catalyst that finally forced him to face the elusive forces that had kept his dreams just beyond his grasp, despite countless close calls. Before reaching his lowest point, the possibility that karma had been a factor in the way his life kept unfolding never crossed his mind. 24
On the fateful night of October 30th, the ground beneath him gave way, as the promise of recording his first album was cruelly swept from his grasp. He’d been cruising unsuspectingly along the serpentine curves of Mulholland Drive, handling an errand as a favor for a music producer – a woman, his mind set on the gift of complimentary studio time. Enchanted by the promise of opportunity, he paid a heavy price for failing to heed the significance of both himself and the contents of the bag he carried inside the car he’d been driving—black skin, black rims, black tinted windows, and black guns, unregistered and unconcealed. Most prominent, a large black bag containing narcotics in the trunk of a black BMW with jet-black tinted windows. Though none of the possessions, including the vehicle, belonged to Rick, they wound up being random pieces of his jig-sawed journey that altered the trajectory of his Black reality, all in a matter of seven minutes. Stay focused. In hindsight, it was easier to see how the bars that confined him all those years were forged from the same iron that had once shackled his ancestors, and the labor he had given was just a tiny part of the vast restitution still owed. Because of this, Rick no longer sought validation from a system that had always relegated him to the margins. The job market, with its alluring promises of progress and its shackles of meager wages, provided no escape from the relentless boot pressing on his neck—and likely never would. He knew well that a polished resume or a tailored suit could never span the gulf between his present plight and the executive roles he was destined to claim. Even if he stepped into a corporate opportunity, he knew that executives—often lacking both skills and insight—would remain blind to his true worth, forever fixated on a past that obscured his potential. Shake it off. Keep a smile on your face. He steps back from the corner, retreating from the shadows, and pulls an empty, rusted tin can from his pocket. The tin’s 25
metallic clink whispers its emptiness as he lowers it beside a weathered sign –a plea for support, in the open guitar case resting on the bench. The deafening sound of a car alarm pierces the evening chaos in the distance, breaking the spell of his turbulent memories and bringing him back to the present moment. The storm of his rage dissipates, replaced by a quiet gratitude. The tumult of his internal struggle gives way to a newfound focus—his purpose. Despite his efforts to escape it, the dream dwelling deep within his heart and soul insists on emerging, its allure undeniable. The vision of stepping into the legacy of legendary artists—Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Aretha Franklin—whispers softly, drawing him toward a potential he once dreaded might remain forever out of reach. He smiles, a genuine and relieved expression. Somewhere in the cosmos, he feels his father’s—also a legendary performer— approving gaze. Tilting his face toward the sky, he offers a silent acknowledgement to the sun descending behind the clouds, feeling a connection that transcends time and space. “I hear you, Pops. Two dreams for the price of one. Let’s let our light shine,” Rick whispers with enthusiasm, placing his fingers to his lips, tapping his heart, and releasing the kiss toward the sky. Summoning the echoes of his father, his kinfolk, and ten thousand ancestors, Rick’s hand sweeps down, seizing the guitar that rests against a rugged ledge. His fingers graze the strings with deliberate grace, coaxing out a slow, contemplative melody that merges with the song unfurling in his mind. He draws in a deep, measured breath, savoring its cool embrace, then exhales with a gradual release, a ritual repeated thrice. Propped against a whitewashed wall, he pours his flawless pitch and melody into the vibrant pulse of the city. The moment I been waiting on, and my soul is over flowing With anxieties and expectations, I’m full of desires I just want it so bad, you know 26
And it just seems so real, it’s right there I just want to reach out and touch it, before it all disappears Cone St. and Marietta, one of Atlanta’s most coveted corners for performers and panderers alike, didn’t fall into Rick’s hands easily. After months of tireless searching, he finally stumbled upon and claimed a space he now considered a refuge—a stage where his music could flow uninterrupted. Many sacrifices were made to acquire such prime real estate, and he would go to great lengths to protect it from encroachers. The city’s streets were a battleground where beggars fiercely contended for the most lucrative spots, each one vying for their share of prime real estate. Still deeply entranced inside his dream, Rick remains oblivious to the reverence expressed by those who pass him. Nor is he aware of the admirers who have gathered to relish in the heartfelt rendition, many of whom have pulled out their cell phones to capture video. Only the sound of applause at the end of his performance is powerful enough to pull Rick out of his dreamland. Smiling from ear to ear, he offers a bow of humility, equally grateful for both ration and ovation. “Thank you. Thank you!” he exclaims, a hand over his heart, offering his best expression of humility. “You are far too kind. God bless you.” Ching. Ting. Ping. “Spare a little change...” he harmonizes, more as a divine reminder than a dire solicitation. Rick glides over to a nearby bench and sinks into it with ease, his fingers still dancing over the guitar strings as his soul leads him effortlessly into another beautiful ballad. DONG. DONG. DONG... Rick lifts his gaze to the gray clouds, silently counting with the distant chimes of the bell. He waits for the final three dongs before quickly hopping to his feet. “Almost time to get out of this cold,” he whispers. “Just a few more minutes.” His performance had yielded more money than 27
Rick had ever gathered in the past. “...spaaaaaare a liiiiiiiittttle chaaaaange...” Rick’s savings over the past few months were nothing short of astounding. In recent weeks, his earnings had surged to nearly three hundred thousand dollars—a figure that shattered his earliest expectations. What had started as a humble street hustle had transformed into an unforeseen success, exceeding even his wildest dreams. After more than a year of working tirelessly whenever the weather permitted, earning between five and eight hundred dollars a day, his dedication had finally paid off in a way he hadn’t imagined. For the first time in years, the future didn’t seem like an endless maze of uncertainty, but a landscape of possibilities waiting to unfold. The first milestone was clear: Karma Records, a label dedicated to giving a platform to the unheard, the voices that traditional industries had long ignored. Yet, Rick’s dream reached further than just music. He envisioned a haven for creativity— a space where music, art, and mentorship could intersect, where his gifts could flourish while sowing seeds of hope and empowerment in the very community that shaped him. Naming the studio Hitsville 2.0 was more than a nod to the legendary Detroit hub that had launched so many Black artists into stardom. It was a dream long cherished by Rick, inspired by his admiration for pioneers like Barry Gordy and Quincy Jones. From the moment he first heard their stories, he envisioned a space where Atlanta’s diverse musical landscape could thrive. Hitsville 2.0 would honor Motown’s storied legacy by offering free, intensive music education to underserved youth, creating a vibrant sanctuary for emerging talent. The studio would be more than a business. Just imagining the reunion with old friends from LA to record new music ignited a fire in Rick’s soul, filling him with a greater sense of connection, purpose, and fulfillment. 28
One of the first projects he eagerly anticipated was “Heaven on Earth,” a piece that had occupied a sacred place in his heart for nearly twenty years. The song, composed by his father on the day Rick’s daughter entered the world, wove together a tribute to the past, a reflection on the present, and a promise of a brighter future. Rick envisioned a deeply moving collaboration with Babyface, where each chord struck and every lyric sung would resonate with his journey. The song would become a legendary anthem, echoing the hopes of men like him who strive to heal, make amends for past mistakes, and create positive change in their lives. A deep, resonant hum rises from his solar plexus, a profound vibration that affirms the vision is more than a mere figment of his imagination. With a smile spreading across his face, he feels a divine touch guiding him, and his body sways gently, lost in the embrace of this revelation. As he immerses himself in the moment, his mind drifts back to the tender memory of cradling his baby daughter against his chest, just after her birth. The unforgettable sensation of holding her fills him with warmth and hope, stirring a deep, primal connection. The weight of past struggles and the promise of redemption intertwine in his heart, fueling an overwhelming surge of emotion. Just as this tidal wave of feeling reaches its peak, he opens his mouth and bellows his father’s lyrics from memory, drawing them up from the very depths of his being, where they have rested, waiting for this moment to emerge. Heaven on Earth That’s what you’re worth It’s the twinkle in your eyes Where I find paradise Karma, such a beauty, spiritually Your hair, your fingers, and precious smile A joy, a treasure, you are to me... 29