We are excited to announce the winner of Chattanooga Writers’ Guild’s September Non-Fiction Contest is Patricia Ann Hope with the submission “The Concert,” and second place is John C. Mannone with the submission “A Bright Star.” This month’s theme was “Sweater.” Thanks to all who participated. And thank you to our non-fiction judge, Sherry Poff!
First Place: Patricia Ann Hope
The Concert
The man picked up his case and walked in the opposite direction from most travelers. He knew he was pushing his luck, but this could be the right morning. The bodies rushed past, almost faceless, taking little notice of his heavy sweater on such a sunny day. No one questioned the sunken eyes, the blankness of expression on the lost stranger.
He stopped finally, removing his sweater and dropping it to the ground. His body folded as if someone had dropped the strings on a puppet, first to his knees, then to a cross-legged position. The only looks he got were those of disappointment and disgust that he would stop the movement of morning and make the travelers weave their way around him.
He opened his case and pulled out the shiny stringed instrument, his last possession. As he touched the bow to the strings, he was transfixed to the great Carnegie Hall where he had stood on stage once, playing his music. Everyone listened.
He began playing the soft strains of a symphony he’d learned so many years ago. But people in a hurry are deaf, unable to let the light of music into their soul. He played on until the sound filled the subway platform like a soundtrack keeping time with the travelers’ movements.
Then one child let go of his mother’s hand and came to stand by the man. The mother tried to reclaim the lad but then she heard the music, and she too stopped to listen. Others joined them and soon the trains were coming and going without passengers as they stood listening to the man with the magical bow. He opened his eyes and stopped. Everyone applauded and praised his talent. Some left him money, tossed to his sweater on the ground.
He sat there a long time after the crowd left, wondering why this felt better than standing on the Hall’s great stage. But he knew why. There, they had known his name but here they had known
only his music.
Second Place: John C. Mannone
A Bright Star
Down by the river, the sun is in its repose and splays its final light through thick dark clouds. A cell tower reaches for the starless heavens, but carries my empty words from a government-issued phone.
They told me I had to find another place to stay; my clock had spun out. Maybe I’ll be lucky and find a place that’s bedbug-free. Maybe I’ll have a room to myself and go to sleep whenever I want. Maybe the food will be edible; I’ve forgotten what real food tastes like.
I pack up my stuff in a duffel bag, load the squeaky-wheeled shopping cart I borrowed from Kroger’s that I hid under a bunch of cardboard in a nearby alley. I have no idea where to go but to the river, mumbling to myself like a poor-me baby. There’s a piercing wind; I tuck the sweater inside my pants— a sweater that shelter gave me; an ugly Christmassy one with reindeer and a Santa with a wide fake smile stitched in, and a small jingling bell attached to a dyed star. My tattered boots climb over limestone chunks of rock at the river’s edge. Snow was troubling the stones, but the river hadn’t frozen over yet, just bits of ice clinging to the shore. I bend over to inspect the ancient fragments of shell swallowed by history. I ask them out loud what it was like to have endured the transition. I don’t take their silence as a disapproval of my question but rather as a declaration that it’s something I must discover for myself.
I am numb.
My thin-socked feet ache. Tears freeze in the brittle air. My face cracks in the callous cold, but it’s no worse than the warmth-less shelter chilled with artificial smiles.
Across the river, there’s no unholy wind, and the water looks December calm under the bridge spanning the banks. A lone scrub pine stands barren, except for the icicles. Its twinkles are not snuffed out by the clouds. I imagine a manger scene in Bethlehem— another silent night. I sense peace under that bypass, and desperately, I want to know that peace. Imprisoned, I never found it at the homeless shelter, only bleakness.
It would be so easy to leave this place— so dismal and dank. I grab my Army-green bag with cigarettes and a Bible and a pint of bourbon with just a swig left. I light up. Inhale the smoke of a Camel, down the last of the whiskey. Wiping my face, I look up, shaking my head, clenching the empty bottle, and cursing out loud, “Not today, nope, not today!”
I shuffle back to the streets, pushing the cart filled with renewed hope, thankful for that ugly sweater. A bright star opens the darkness.
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According to the U.S. National Library of Medicine, 61% of the homeless are subject to suicide ideation [https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/12501966/]
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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