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We would like to thank all those who entered this year's Creative Minds Fiction Contest. 

First Place: "The Washtub" by Ariel Pollak

"Violet--" More soapy water sloshes over the metal rim of the washtub, soaking the floorboards of the porch. The dishes clatter against the sides of the tub, ringing like bells. "Violet--listen--"

"I'm busy!" The girls shouts to the field, not looking up from her work. Her dress--her favorite, with the best feed-sack flowers of any other--is wet, but she seems not to care. Curls of dust lick at her feet, as if they want to claim this farm as they have so many others. But here, it is safe from the wave of choking dust, and whorls of water drown the rebellious swirls as suds spread across the ground.

Read the rest of Ariel's winning story in the May/June issue of Imagine.

Ariel is a homeschooled sophomore whose hobbies include reading, writing, and photography. She also enjoys studying foreign languages and spending time with friends and family.

Second Place: "The Factory" by Mike Chen

The factory was the nexus of the village. Three thousand villagers were employed at the mammoth industrial complex, which produced nearly all of the village’s consumer goods. The factory answered all of its village’s desires; the only thing that it couldn’t provide was food. But the river that ran through the center of the village made the surrounding land fertile, so the villagers would never know hunger.

Without the factory, the village would not be able to subsist. Accordingly, the factory was the most important building in the village: the most ornate, the best maintained, the largest–it even dwarfed the church in size and scale. It superseded everything else, so it was natural that young boys and girls started preparing for a future at the factory at a very young age. Education immediately followed infancy: children were taught rote memorization–learning by repetition–and became adept at repeating patterns with their hands and fingers; for instance, a child could tie a complex knot in a few seconds or sew an article of clothing very quickly. These skills were crucial to working at the factory.

Every child was eventually integrated into the factory system, for everybody had to contribute to society. But Mrs. Lloyd’s son, George, dared to resist; his behavior was unprecedented in the history of the village.

From a very early age on, George showed a disinterest in memorization. When he turned fifteen, which was the normal age for employment, he refused to work at the factory. What he was interested in–singing and music–had no place there. By refusing to work at the factory, George essentially refuted all that his village stood for.

And thus, he was denied rations, which his mother compensated for by splitting her rations in half and sharing with him. For a while, it was enough to sustain both of them.

But then one day Mrs. Lloyd was afflicted with a debilitating disease. Deprived of three complete meals a day, she withered away until she finally died.

The neighbors attended the funeral and had great things to say about Mrs. Lloyd–especially about her skill as a garment worker in the factory. They regarded George with subtle criticism and assumed that Mrs. Lloyd’s death would finally motivate George to seek a job at the factory. At the very least, he needed to eat in order to survive.

Alas, the neighbors were wrong. George began to live off of Mrs. Lloyd’s pension–ten years of guaranteed rations–that had been left to him in her will. The indignant neighbors saw how George squandered the resources of the village without making his fair share of contributions. He sang all day and never stepped foot into the factory.

The neighbors petitioned for the Committee to force him into labor. The Committee visited him one night and outlined the importance of each citizen doing his part for the village. But the villagers on the Committee were too kind, and they didn’t have it in them to intimidate George into doing anything.

The neighbors then petitioned for the Committee to deny him rations. But that would be disrespecting Mrs. Lloyd, the Committee responded. The neighbors tried to think of other punishments for George, but they couldn’t come up with any. Their society wasn’t a creative one.

Finally, the neighbors threatened George with ostracism. Ostracism was the worst punishment of all. For weeks and weeks, nobody greeted him. Nobody talked to him. Nobody even looked at him. At first, George didn’t mind–he didn’t enjoy the company of his neighbors anyhow.

But the loneliness soon bit him, and he decided to leave the village. He would rather be alone than a stranger among thousands. Near so many people who refused to recognize him, he was constantly reminded of his loneliness.

Since he was leaving and would likely never come back, he decided to do the one thing he had always dreamed of doing. On the eve of his departure, George stood at the door of the factory and started to sing. The workers who were just arriving for their shift paused in their tracks, awestruck by the beauty of his voice. The workers inside the factory heard him too and all work stalled as many minutes went by.

When his throat was exhausted and he was finally out of breath, he stopped. And then he walked towards the edge of the village, prepared to leave the place he had called his home for all his life.

The villagers didn’t know what to say or how to react. But the music had touched them. For the first time in their lives, they were inspired. And yet, they couldn’t muster the words to thank him or even apologize for their previous behavior.

A stout man on the Committee ran to catch up with him. The village needs you, he told George. You’ll be the village’s entertainment, he asserted.

George shook his head.

Stay, the other villager implored. How will you survive out there? Please stay.

George shook his head adamantly. But he did have one last suggestion for the Committee. It was a suggestion for the entire village, actually.

In a loud, speaking voice, he articulated that if anyone wanted to join him, they should feel free to do so. If anyone wanted to live free of the factory’s shackles and the shackles of society, they ought to do so. They ought to join him.

He stood waiting at the edge of the village, and nobody approached. In his heart, he had truly wished for some company. He had truly wished that somebody would join him.

But these people didn’t know a life other than the factory. They couldn’t imagine a life without incessant work and repetition; it was what they were accustomed to.

Mike Chen is a junior at Amador Valley High School in California, where he is involved in his school's DECA business club and a member of the soccer and cross country teams. Mike enjoys writing, reading, playing violin, and spending time with his friends.

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Third Place:  "Brevity" by Kalliope Dalto

Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, and tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. --William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Truer words were never penned. Please, let me explain.

I used to be a professor of English Literature at an archaic little institution in Massachusetts known to the few who actually cared as Miskatonic University. I have since retired.

I mention this fascinating bit of trivia since it is in the hallowed halls of good old M.U. that my story begins. In the library, of course. Where else does anything happen?

I had been sitting at one of M.U.’s ornately carved oak tables for who knows how long, grading term papers and drinking Johnny Walker (a habit I have since been forced to abandon). At some point, which I am unable to remember, the muffled bonging of the Arkham church clock simply bonged my awareness out of existence, and my glasses began their long, steady trek down the bridge of my nose. I came to the ineffable conclusion that it would be futile to attempt any further toil, and began to sweep my students’ hastily constructed works of mediocrity into my duffel bag, a trusted friend who had seen countless loads of similar content. However, at that very moment, a loud, consistent rapping emitted from just outside the closed doors of the library…doors through which I had been planning to exit…but alas, fate had other plans.

Whoever was knocking had a fist as consistent as a jackhammer. I dragged my duffel bag over toward the exit, and hauled the massive, cathedral style doors open, hoping my guest would be brief.

And there he stood. Imposing as a meat locker, his face enshadowed by an overlarge top hat and hidden within the folds of his dragging grey coat. His outfit seemed custom tailored for concealment. He carried an air of antiquity about him, and also a leather umbrella.

“Well?” I asked him, and tried to push past. It was 3:00 in the morning; I had no time for such things!

He emitted a low moan, then coughed, and spoke normally.

“Are you…the one in charge?”

“Of this library? No. It’s closed now. Go away. The librarian will be back tomorrow.”

“Explain.”

At this point I made some ridiculous gesture, repeated myself slowly and loudly, and (rather rudely, I suppose) tried to shove the stranger out of the way.

He didn’t budge. It was like trying to move a bulldozer with your bare hands. He was not at all offended, however…at least, he seemed not to be. It was hard to tell with his face concealed as it was.

He picked me up and dropped me into a chair.

“I am…from…else…where.” Heavy breathing. “Can you…explain…earth?” More heavy breathing.

Then, with an air of sudden assurance and unquestionable decision, the stranger reached up. In one swift motion, he flung coat and hat to the floor, and, looming like a Doric column, he glared at me from deeply set black eyes. Patches of his lightly green body were covered with fine, hair-like cilia, which vibrated at any movement or sound. His face was that of a Grecian god, though startlingly marred by the absence of a nose. His body seemed to generate moisture, and I saw that his coat was completely soaked with water. A clump of tentacles adorned his head, like a parody of hair.

I was terrified. But I was also extremely curious. This was a chance to speak on behalf of the whole human race, an opportunity that should have been reserved for a great leader or brilliant scientist…but by some twist of fate, had been given to me. My visitor seemed impatient, but genuinely interested, and I managed to squeal out,

“I guess so!”

He settled into a chair, expectant. I started with primordial organisms and worked my way up through both history and biology. I told him what I knew of physics, what I knew of theater, and everything there is to know about literature. I recounted current events in vivid detail, I told him about wars and scandals and blue jeans. All this he observed with a purely fascinated look, the very picture of scientific curiosity. I told him absolutely everything about earth, leaving out not a single detail, describing it all as if I were the world’s foremost expert on, well…everything. Finally, when there was nothing left to say, I slouched backward in my chair and asked…

“Well?”

“Fascinating.” Said the visitor. “A truly remarkable culture.”

I assumed he was done, so I sped to the door, eager to phone every newspaper in America and alert the world about our uninvited guest.

“I don’t think you should do that.”

“What? Why not? I mean…I have to leave!”

“You can’t.”

“I can’t leave?”

The alien sighed deeply and began to explain. He obviously had picked up a great deal of English from my endless ranting, and now spoke in more measured tones.

“This…Stephen Hawking…that you have described to me had a theory about the existence of ‘personal time’. He believed that every organism lived at a slightly different speed, that time was perceived differently by everyone in it. He was…very correct. My planet is proof of that.”

“Yes? So?”

“Well…see…all the while you were…talking…you were in my time. I adjusted what you might call the ‘space/time continuum’ inside this building so that we could speak. It is much…much…slower than yours.”

I could see where this was headed.

“How much slower, exactly?” (I admit, I may have had a touch of hysteria in my voice.)

“In our time…you talked so long…that several hours have gone by.”

“YES?!”

“Look out the window.”

I looked. And where I had once looked out upon the Arkham clock tower and the rows of houses and stores beneath it, I now saw nothing but darkness. Nothing but darkness, and the endless, timeless, stars.

Brevity isn’t just wit. Brevity is everything.

Kalliope Dalto, 13, lives in Rockland County, NY. The boundary between reality and fiction grows more blurred for her every day, probably due to her chronic bibliophilic tendencies and the occasional sacrifice to the Elder Gods in the backyard. She is a fan of Star Trek, H.P. Lovecraft, Stephen King, Aldous Huxley, Grant Morrison, and the poet Shelley. She aspires to become a Baker Street Irregular.

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