We are excited to announce the fiction winner of Chattanooga Writers’ Guild’s May Fiction Contest is Erica Corbitt with the submission “Strawberry Roots,” and second place is Sue Carol Elvin with the submission “Scout Lessons.” This month’s theme was “Knots.” Thanks to all who particpated. And thank you to our fiction judge, Alexandria Kelly!
First Place: Erica Corbitt
Strawberry Roots
The gurgle of water grated on Jacob’s nerves. That and the smell of the catfish.
Before the bomb, he’d volunteered on an aquaponic farm in his neighborhood. Then, he’d been amazed by the tight, efficient cycle of life. The fish thrived in a huge tank, breeding at just the right rate for a stable colony plus fish to eat. Their excrement fertilized the water, making it rich enough to quickly grow plants whose roots were submerged in the flowing stream. He’d plucked a strawberry, the sweetest he’d ever tasted, and laughed under the hot Georgia sun with juice dripping from his lips.
Now, all he could smell was the catfish shit.
He hated catfish.
For the last ten years, it was the only meat he’d had to eat. Under the mountain, in the blue light of ultraviolet lamps, there was no other food besides what the aquaponic farm provided.
He worried the cut of rope in his hands– a habit formed in his long hours guarding the farm. The spinach and cucumbers never moved. There was no wind here to rustle their leaves. But he knew they were growing. He stood, groaning as he stretched his back and glanced idly into the plant trough. The roots of the spinach were reaching for each other.
Jacob began plucking and tearing the roots apart. When they knotted together, it made harvesting the whole plant difficult. If left alone, the knots could grow so dense they blocked the filtration system.
“See anything new?”
Jebediah had approached so silently that Jacob jumped at the sudden voice. They’d spent so much time together over the last decade that Jacob grew his life around Jebediah’s, like plants had used to orient towards the sun. He was the only bright part of each day. Jacob flicked water off his fingertips. “Same old, same old.”
Jeb nodded, his soft smile un-changing. There was nothing to say to that. After so long under the mountain, in the dark, there wasn’t much to say at all. He just hooked a finger into Jacob’s pant loop, tugged him close, and they stood there, hip-to-hip, as connected as two beings could be. Now was as good a time as any to say it.
Jacob licked his lips and glanced over Jeb’s shoulder. He squinted into the subterranean dark beyond the glow of the ultraviolet lights. Nothing.
Jeb looked too and his brows furrowed over his smile, like he was getting ready for some silly joke. “What is it?” he whispered.
Jacob didn’t smile. He kept his voice low. “Jeb, listen. Margie told me there’s a way out.”
Comprehension appeared on Jeb’s face in stages. First, the unmoving gaze. Then, the slow loosening of his smile. Finally, the deep pinch of his brow. He looked back into the dark. Now, it did not appear to be a silly joke. His fingers loosened from Jacob’s belt loop. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Margie told me– well, Alex told me that Margie told her that there’s a group of us that’s getting out.”
“What do you mean getting out?” Jeb’s voice pitched higher. Jacob felt the brush of Jeb’s breath over his cheek. He stayed close, voice pitched low.
“Tony’s going to open the door. And people are going to leave.”
“What do you mean ‘leave’?” Jeb wasn’t asking about how to leave. He was asking about the impossibility of it.
Jacob’s hand found Jeb’s waist and he pulled him closer. “Keep your voice down. Bill doesn’t know.”
“Oh, for chrissakes. Jake, what are you…?” Jeb took Jacob’s length of rope. He looped it around Jacob’s wrist with the familiarity of intimacy. Jeb used to joke it was so Jacob couldn’t run away from hard conversations. “We can’t leave, you idiot. We’ll die out there. That’s if Bill doesn’t kill us first. What the fuck are you doing listening to Margie of all people?”
Jeb was scared, hissing his whispers in the artificial light, but still using ‘us’ and ‘we.’
Jacob glanced over Jeb’s shoulder again. “It’s happening tomorrow. Tony’s opening the gate and we’re leaving. That bomb dropped in China, Jeb. It’s been ten years. The Shepherds are definitely gone.”
“Shut up. Shut. Up. Let me think.”
“What’s there to think about?” Jacob asked. He crouched to catch Jeb’s gaze. “How about you think about dying underground without ever seeing the sun again?”
Jeb stared at him. The water gurgled behind them. Jacob’s heart pounded in his chest, anticipatory in the silence.
“All right.” Jeb nodded slowly. “Okay.”
___
“You’re sure Tony said-” Jeb started.
“Yes, I’m sure Tony said he’ll open the damn gate.” Margie bit the words out through clenched teeth. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back into a low ponytail.
Jeb raised his hands. “It’s just, ya’ll break up every other month so…”
“Don’t be a dick, Jeb.” Jacob muttered. He stared into the shadows, watching for any movement. The rope became a figure eight knot in his hands. He pulled both ends apart, tightening, then pushed together, unbinding the rope again. Over and over, he knotted and unknotted his rope. Last month, Bill had asked him to make a noose. Who would make the noose if Bill found out he was trying to leave?
He looked around. They all played integral roles. What would those left behind do? Who would take over his work at the farm? Or Jeb’s clothing mending? Or the tech repairs Margie was responsible for?
Alex scurried out of the shadows, clutching her young daughter’s hand. “Sorry, sorry. I had to wait for Paul to fall asleep.”
No one responded to that. The bruise on Alex’s cheek said enough.
“Well,” Alex whispered tightly, “Let’s go.”
They made their way up the tunnel towards the gate. Jacob tangled his fingers with Jebediah’s, opposite hand skating down the cave wall. Floodlights glowed softly from the ground every six feet.
The door came into view and Tony straightened at the group’s approach. He was a skinny man with a patchy beard. “Is this everyone?” He asked. Margie nodded grimly.
“Okay, we’ll have to be quick. When the door opens, the alarm will go off. When I open it, you run and you don’t stop.” He slid a panel in the cave wall aside and a keypad glowed, alien in the dark.
A gun cocked.
Bill was an imposing man under the best of circumstances. Now, he was terrifying. His bulk seemed to take up most of the tunnel. He leveled his shotgun at Margie, dark eyes glittering over his bushy beard.
Jeb stepped forward, long-fingered hand out in a conciliatory gesture. “Take it easy, Bill.”
Margie grabbed Jeb’s arm. “Bill,” she spoke firmly, “we’re leaving. We can’t stay here forever.” She tugged Jeb back behind her.
Bill didn’t waver. He didn’t even look surprised. “I saved your life.” Stated simply, like the fact it was. He made eye contact with each of them. “I saved all of you. From the bombs. From the Shepherds. From the storms.”
Margie softened her shoulders and nodded. She moved even closer, her forehead inches from the gun.
“Yes. You did.” She gently pushed the barrel of the shotgun aside. “And now,” her fingers trembled, “we’re leaving.”
Jacob could feel his pulse in his throat. He had no idea what the world looked like beyond that door, but he knew what it looked like inside. And he couldn’t bear it. He’d rather Bill kill them right here and now than live the rest of his life underground. He looked at Alex’s little girl, gripping her mama’s hand. She’d never even seen the sun. She believed in it the same way he believed in God.
Moments became an eternity as twenty-three years of friendship between Bill and Margie stretched taut and shattered.
Bill lowered the gun. “You will never return.” Prophecy or pronouncement? It was impossible to tell. He lumbered past and keyed the code into the gate. There was a hydraulic hiss as the seal between the world and the survivors was released for the first time in ten years.
The light was blinding. The little girl started to cry. Jacob felt Bill’s huge hand at the nape of his neck and, startled, he dropped the figure eight knot. One by one, Bill shoved them out into an unfamiliar world, like pups rejected by their bitch.
The door closed though no one could see it, eyes squeezed shut in pain.
Jacob patted the soft grass beneath him. The sun was hot on his face and he squinted to see the lush, green world around him. The sun appeared to refract through the leaves the way he remembered church windows making magic on Sundays. God was close here. Did the little girl know how lucky she was to meet Him? He began to laugh, and found Jebediah’s hand. He was going to grow Jeb strawberries, more than he could ever eat. The Shepherds came. They were all dead within a week.
Erica Corbitt (she/they) is a social worker and community advocate from Northwest Georgia. They spend their time reading low-brow literature, running very slowly, and researching hobbies they absolutely do not have time for. Their writing tends towards the speculative and dystopic, musings on the intersection between the southern gothic and the horror of the mundane. Erica is always looking for an opportunity to discuss anti-racism, feminism, and what Whiteness has to do with both of them. This is an invitation. Ask them about it! https://www.linkedin.com/in/erica-corbitt-lmsw/
Second Place: Sue Carol Elvin
SCOUT LESSONS
“You use the bowline to tie the bitter end of the anchor rode to the boat. With your left hand, thumb down form a loop,” Carly held the rope horizontally, looking like a b, “take the end of the rope—the rabbit—in your right hand. The rabbit comes up the hole, around the tree, and back down through the hole, forming an adjustable loop. Hold the rabbit’s ears and tree to form a knot. There’s your bowline.” Carly looked at the pathetic attempts. Exasperated, she announced to the boy scout troop (that now included two girls), “Enough for today. See you all next Tuesday.”
***
It was a cool morning in late May, just after sunrise. The tourists had started to trickle into the sleepy little village on the Forgotten Coast, as it was advertised by the motel owners. Carly, with her gnarled hand on the tiller, sat at the back behind the huge pile of seashells, guiding the Miss Scarlett’s tender skillfully along the shoreline as two fourteen-year-olds spread the bounty along the island and into the edge of the emerald-green water.
Among the assortment of shells were Conch, Thorny Oyster, Lions Paw, and Variegated Screw Shell—none of which are found on this coast but imported from the Bahamas. “Spread them out. And hurry up. It takes two runs just to pay for the fuel Miss Scarlett guzzles,” Carly hollered, to be heard over the noisy gulls hoping for crumbs.
Miss Scarlett, the tourist boat that would bring the throng of shell hunters, was a patched-up double-decker fishing boat left over from the days when one could catch red snapper that was the size of a small child. She was the last remnant of the success Carly had as owner of a fleet of fishing boats. Alcohol had seen to that. She managed, though barely, to salvage her health, reputation and this one boat. Thus it was named after the famous heroine of her favorite movie Gone with the Wind—and that was out of favor now. “Survival is what I should have named her,” Carly groused.
Their job done, Jan and Allen climbed back in the boat to marvel at the speed with which they were whisked across the flat bay to the mainland. School was out, so these two had time for a long nap and a good breakfast before helping passengers aboard the Miss Scarlett for the ten-a.m. excursion to the island. The eagerness of the kids to scavenge for shells to take back home as souvenirs of their beach vacation was offset by their bleary-eyed, hungover parents, eager only for the coffee that Carly had ready at the concession stand.
Carly had an affinity for these teens. If she had chosen to have kids of her own, she might have grandchildren about the same age. But her drive to succeed and growing dependence on the bottle, destroyed any hope of a marriage stable enough to warrant parenthood. Though her affairs were notorious, they were not as many as those passed on by the local gossips.
During this first run, Jan manned the concession stand, which took in more money than the admission tickets. Besides coffee, she sold candy, chips, and soft drinks. Jan would pretend not to understand if a child asked for “pop” or “soda” regardless of the word being preceded by grape or orange or whatever. She would always ask, “you mean coke?” which was the local way of saying “soft drink” in the South.
During the two o’clock discovery cruise, neither teen could work the snack bar since beer was available for purchase. Jan helped customers find the head (toilet in nautical language), identify seashells, and other questions from the novice sailors, while Allen made sure all fenders were securely aboard and all lines neatly coiled.
The teens had changed into matching white deck shorts with white tees emblazoned with Miss Scarlett in royal blue. Carly, also in white, wore her epaulets with four bars that indicated her rank. Her shirt logo matched the teens’ but had “Captain” in slightly larger letters above the name, Miss Scarlett. Beside her, as always, was her engineer, called Chief, a draw to the ladies for his Hollywood good looks that defied his age, no matter the graying hair above his temples.
Chief had been a mariner for many years before coming home to retire with his bride, Stella, only to find his best childhood friend mired in debt as well as addiction. He and Stella guided Carly to AA and through recovery.
Speakers blared Enya’s “Sail Away,” announcing that boarding for the Sunset Cruise—the most popular of the four trips advertised for the day—had begun. Carly was at the gangway, greeting the cruisers: mostly couples but a few mothers with teenage daughters and some singles. The Miss Scarlett, her engine rumbling smoothly, rocked slightly away from the dock, her lines pulled tight and knots tested, as if anxious to get away. Safety first—Carly always made it a point to go over the Coast Guard rules before shoving off.
The ship had left the bay and was passing the west side of the island into the Gulf when Jan, who was showing a passenger on the upper deck how to don his lifejacket, noticed the dark line of clouds on the horizon. “Better keep this handy,” she said in half-jest, “looks like a summer storm brewing,” nodded toward the threatening sky then quickly moved to the rail for privacy as she radioed below.
Carly was well aware of the impending weather. She had seen many of these lightning-fast storms—particular to this part of the Gulf of Mexico—and remained always alert to the possibility of discomfort or, even worse, harm to any of her guests. “We won’t go out so far, maybe only to that first buoy. I’ll keep Miss Scarlett into the wind and hope it passes quickly and we catch a beautiful sunset.”
As luck would have it, the storm stalled against the horizon, blotting out any remnant of sunlight. Carly decided to anchor and serve the wine and cheese and mushroom canapés that Stella had so lovingly prepared. “With food and drink in their bellies there’ll be less griping about missing the sunset,” she stated, with more confidence than she felt..
“I’ll pick out some soothing, romantic music,” Chief announced and started with “Red, Red Wine” at full volume as he began rifling through the recorded tapes.
Allen was charged with dropping the anchor as Carly eased the Miss Scarlett astern. The anchor line—or rode—payed out slowly at first, then faster as the vessel gained speed. “Merde,” she muttered, a cuss word she had learned from a French lover. The sometimes-wonky reverse gear had jammed and wouldn’t disengage.
Usually, in ten feet of water, only about sixty feet of rode was needed to anchor. Carly watched in horror as the last of the 240 feet of rode discharged uselessly. Jan peered down in the now-empty anchor well to witness the bitter end—unattached to boat—disappear over the side leaving them anchorless. Jan screamed the news to Carly who had to gun the engine full speed ahead to avoid backing aground on the island. Many of the standing passengers found themselves prone on the deck.
At that same time, the storm began to move. Carly dared not leave the bridge, so with the motor as slowest setting without stalling, she fought to keep the bow of Miss Scarlett into the wind. The passengers, blissfully unconcerned crowded on the lower deck in their life jackets, were being jostled into each other like bumper cars at the county fair. Those holding drinks with laps full of food were grew more concerned as their fare spilled onto the floor and under someone’s feet. Of the crew, only four—Captain, Chief and the two teens—had their sea legs. The entire wait staff was seasick, as were many of the passengers.
The storm passed but left in its wake a stinking mess.
Carly eased Miss Scarlett as close to the island as possible and encouraged those so inclined to swim. Chief took over the bridge while Allen and Jan were tasked with diving to search for the anchor. The wait staff, now somewhat recovered, began the cleanup while the Captain tended to her passengers.
“How are you feeling?” and other soothing words were offered with the washcloth and fresh water until Carly had personally seen to the comfort of each guest. Back aboard the clean boat with their shell treasures, under the beautiful sunset, all were reasonably happy. Carly offered refunds but they were declined. Many said the adventure had been worth it.
***
“We’re going to tie a bowline and we are going to stay here until each of you gets it right.” With that, Carly began: “Take the rope your left hand…”
Sue Carol Elvin has been writing and telling stories for years. She write short stories and political essays and has one book published. “Boogery Mungo and Umbriago are the Memory Keepers – The house on stone Street.” She lives in Chattanooga with her husband Peter, and their cat, Clawed. sc-writes.com, suecarol59@gmail.com
The Monthly Contests rotate through a pattern of Poetry, Fiction, and Creative Nonfiction throughout the year, with a new theme each month. Go to the 2025 Monthly Contest Series Info page to view the genre and theme for each month.
This contest is free to enter for members of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild. To become a member, click HERE
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