Septolet in Motion Contest Results
Thank you to all who ‘Spelled’ a bit of magic by entering Septolet in Motion either in the Contest or Challenge arenas. The short Selptolet verse of fourteen words in two parts totaling fourteen lines intertwined in a short fiction piece cast magic for Susan Z, Susan B and Jules. We used a point system through blind judging. Then Jules averaged the scores. Our winner is Deborah Lee.
Practical Magic, Or Even Best Efforts Need a Push Sometimes
By Deborah Lee
She pauses in the vestibule by the elevator outside the law firm doors. Beyond the window the sky looms gray over twenty-five stories of air filled with drizzle.
Another interview over. For better or worse.
No. For better, this time.
She examines the cuffs of her blouse, new-to-her from the thrift store, not frayed, nicely white. Her slacks bag a bit; she’s lost weight. She hopes nobody looked closely at her shoes. She showered right before coming here, in the college locker room after her fitness class, the shower being the only thing a college fitness class could possibly be useful for. Her core aches pleasantly. Her hair is clean and tidy; her makeup easily understated. Leftover Pell grant money and ten hours a week work-study don’t exactly take a girl to Sephora.
Her good-luck portfolio, holding paper copies of her résumé and her passport – a nice touch, along with her slender purse. This is not the look of a woman living in a tent. She hopes.
Homeless for not much longer, if she pulled this off. It felt like it went well, but then, it always feels like it went well. Every time for the last five years, it’s felt like it went well.
She composes her mind, focusing as she pulls a small cloth bag from her purse, and from that a generous pinch of chamomile buds. “I attract you, prosperity,” she whispers, sprinkling it in the soil of the potted polyscias outside the firm’s door. Into the dirt she tucks an aventurine crystal: “For good luck.” She closes her eyes and chants quietly, with force:
You need me.
“So mote it be,” she whispers, and calls the elevator.
When the scores were averaged out our second and third place winners became:
Why I Tossed My Clothing
By Joelle LeGendre
Never believe a sign that says, “Historic monument 300 feet.”
My leggings and mid-calf sweater dress were magnets for Spanish needles. Subtropics USA? Strange.
From a well-worn trail, I’d walked through a hole in the rocks, and stepped onto a narrow path. I did what any sane person wearing $500 worth of clothing would do. I made a U-turn to the other side. There, I found the same 6-inch path I’d just vacated.
Had I known the truth, I would’ve dressed in my jungle wear. At present, I had a 6 foot tall, 200 pound problem blocking my way to civilization.
“You say your name is Maddie Smith?” The man with Ben Franklin spectacles asked. “By what means have you appeared in our village?”
His top hat, well-trimmed beard and long coat were circa 1850’s. Women in hooped skirts skittered around me, trying to avoid contagion? If this was the outskirts, I didn’t want to experience the stench at the center of town.
“I was walking through the woods and found a stone with etching in Latin,” I replied.
He motioned me into an office smelling of unwashed bodies, directing my eyes to a portrait of said stone. “Is this the one?”
I remembered the words, and thought about their meaning
Wisely – Words
speak your mind
“Yes,” I replied.
“Most who see it become blithering idiots, babbling about other centuries. They are taken forthwith to the asylum!”
“May I continue on my journey?” I asked.
“I do not have reason to detain you.”
I returned to the hole, rereading the warning, words and numbers count. “Pennsylvania year 2017.”
A well-worn path! I ran to the parking lot finding my car waiting.
Some days it pays to listen to the rocks.
By Liz Husebye Hartmann
Nora crouched at the edge of Fischer’s Gorge and pulled a braid of human hair from inside her jacket. Each strand in this braid had been woven together from the remainders of uncounted childhood games, battles fought and forgiven, and secrets shared among four friends, over nearly two decades. She pressed it to her face and breathed in their memories, then began the unraveling.
Rickard’s sleek brown hair had bound their different shades tightly together, even as Kara’s sooty curls poked and twisted for release. Peter—Oh Peter!–his hair had darkened from a toddler’s brittle carrot to the rich auburn that easily warmed her own white-blonde locks. She’d strengthened their bond over the years, collecting and braiding these colors together in word and song, but now it was time to break the spell. Things had become unbalanced. Kara was meant to be with Rickard, but Peter belonged to her.
She stood in the bitter night wind and raised the braid to the moon.
Colors break free
Will rebind them
The breeze softened and swirled around her thin body, questioning. Was she sure? So much time and love in the spelling, why loosen the weave?
Nora visualized Peter and Kara bursting from the barn, bareback on a single horse under the Midsummer Moon. Thundering up the twilight road to the far meadow, the two had returned just before sunrise. Rickard’s face, twisted in jealous shadow, had mirrored her own unspoken fear.
Kara had to go.
She straightened her back, ignored her tears, and shouted.
As we do
So mote it be
The wind moaned, but obeyed. The braid reformed in brown, blonde, and red, and Kara’s dark knots lifted and dropped into the Gorge.
Susan Zutautas’ favorite piece was “The Last Reflection” by Reena Saxena, She says, “Because I could envision the entire story. It was like I was right there watching the monitor in the Intensive Care Unit. I really liked how the writer not only used 1 septolet but used 3. The only reason that I didn’t give this story a 100 was because I thought that it was lacking a tad bit in the magic theme.”
The Last Reflection
By Reena Saxena
Reverend Marshall was in the terminal stage of his life. There was a small mirror on the wall opposite his bed in the Intensive Care Unit, which reflected the display screen of the monitor.
The lines moved in a zig-zag fashion, as he struggled for breath, despite the oxygen mask. The line can go straight any moment, but he will not see it. All other senses would have given away.
As of now, distant memory was functional. He remembered the lines that were etched on a wall in the church. People stopped by to ask what the answer was.
hold too hard
He knew the answer today. It was his life or soul, and the Giver was taking it back. He hoped the condition was good enough to please the Lord and Master.
in your conscience
deeper than that
Reverend Marshall was a preacher, because he had grown up in the church, and knew of no other means of earning a livelihood. In his heart of hearts, he knew that he was not a believer. The suffering that he saw around him, did not justify the existence or imposition of a religion. There had to be something bigger than that.
those who suffer
are the jury
Let the line go straight, and let there be justice in the world …. I will not preach ….. about turning the other cheek around. I will not be nailed ……. on the cross again.
His soul was finally at peace with the confession. The line was running straight on the monitor. Just that he could not see the last reflection.
“May his soul rest in peace!”
Susan Budig says of her favorite: “I wavered between ‘A Gift to the Weak’ by jackschuyler, and ‘Nora’s Mistake’ by Liz H. I finally chose ‘A Gift to the Weak.’ The language was vivid. I was especially swayed by the phrase, ‘such a cruel key to unlock eternal life.’ The author used such descriptive language, I could easily envision the scene. It pulled at my heart to think of this mother leaving her child via death. I didn’t fully understand it, but that made no difference to me. It was an enjoyable and memorable read.”
A Gift to the Weak
By Jack Schuyler
The door splintered inward under a tremendous blow and Lucille pressed closer to her mother’s bosom. Pale light streamed through the dark window, spilling over the tousled bed sheets and illuminating the female shapes intertwined among tossed pillows. Lady Chamberlain held her trembling daughter close and faced the door like a cornered she wolf. In the hall and down the stairs, a mob seethed and raged, brandishing whatever weapons could be found: old muskets, makeshift spears, fists. Over the roaring of the mob, a preacher recited scripture as if from a Grimoire, “For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous, but the way of the wicked shall perish!”
A tear fell from Lady Chamberlain’s cheek and splashed onto Lucille’s fair head.
“Hush my dove,” she said. She pressed her face into her daughter’s blonde hair and sang amidst the shouts of the mob:
is a gift
to the weak
The mother’s voice soothed Lucille and her sobbing ebbed. As Lady Chamberlain continued her soft tune, however, sorrow crept into the words, for she knew this was the last gift she would ever give her child. She stroked the cold sliver of a blade between her thumb and forefinger; such a cruel key to unlock eternal rest. “Forgive me,” she plunged it into soft flesh.
The door gave way and flickering torchlight burst into the room.
“The Witch is dead!”
The crowd cheered over the body of Lady Chamberlain, sprawled back on the bed, arms spread, and utterly alone. The knife stood erect, still buried in the mother’s chest and the burning light cast grotesque shadows as colonists danced around her blood soaked mattress. In the open window, a dove perched for a moment then flitted off into the moonlight.
Jules’ favorite: “The Magic in Living – A Septet of Septolets” by Norah Colvin. Mostly because it was something I think I would have done, thinking outside the box and using the Septolets to tell the majority of the story.
The Magic in Living – A Septet of Septolets
By Norah Colvin
When we take time to rest a spell, release worries, let peace in, magic happens.
After the chores are done, she sinks into the wicker chair on the back porch.
Slowly, tensions begin to creep softly from her pores and fade into the changing light.
A sense of wonder and joy in living gently seeps into her being, spreading peace.
As the pressures of the day release their hold, the mind clears and possibilities appear.
The transition to night completes, enveloping her with reassurance of her place among the stars.
Dreams play across the backdrop of her imagination, inspiring magical stories of heroism and courage.
Before chores plunder the treasure of her imaginings, she pauses to retell her night-time reverie.
NOTE FROM CARROT RANCH:
Congratulations to all the writers who entered! You dared to stretch your writing and braved the first Rodeo at Carrot Ranch. Each participant has earned the following badge, which you may copy and post on you blog, social media or print out and frame. It’s a badge of honor. And now you can say, you have had your first rodeo! You wrote well.
We want to share all the contest entries in a collection. We’ll be contacting each of our contestants and challengers to seek interest and permission to publish a digital collection in January. Writers retain all copyrights to their work.
We’d appreciate your feedback! We want to make this an annual event that is fun, engaging and supportive of literary art. Please take a a few minutes for a brief 5 question survey. Thank you!