For a second year, Does It Have Pockets has proudly partnered with Write on the Sound, an Edmonds, Washington-based literary conference. Once again we are delighted to present the first place winners in fiction, poetry, and creative nonfiction on the theme of “Seasons.” These pieces were judged by an anonymous panel of judges organized by the conference.
— Camille Griep, DIHP EIC
Fiction | First Prize - R. K. DeBoer
The Family Recipe
"Great thinking Beth, let's promise everyone Gran's Famous Family Soup for dinner. What could go wrong?" I muttered to myself as I turned on the stove.
That was putting it lightly. This recipe was not only new to me, but a family staple. Every guest arriving tonight had pleasant memories associated with this soup. A night indoors during a snowstorm, the children taking turns stirring the soup, and the small scraping sounds of fancy metal spoons dragging against empty bowls as everyone fought for every last drop.
At least, that's what my husband told me he remembers. James did his best to reassure me. He'd promised the recipe was easier than it sounds and even gathered the ingredients beforehand.
"It's going to be great, Beth. All you have to do is throw everything in that bag into the pot and let it simmer for a while. You'll know when it’s done."
"What does that mean?" I said with a nervous chuckle.
"Trust me, you'll know." He placed a small kiss on my forehead and grabbed his keys.
"I'll be back with the family!" He said cheerily as the door shut behind him.
Within the next hour, the quiet house would be filled with family and a flurry of expectations. They brought their expectations with them everywhere they went, like a designer accessory that went with every one of their outfits. I'd grown used to the upturned noses and sharp tones hidden behind their backhanded compliments.
The pot had built to a soft simmer, brimming with small bubbles at the surface of the water.
I looked down at the recipe card. It had apparently been in the family for generations; the number of years was always unclear. The edges of the paper were ragged, bent, and torn from age. Small rings of water damage stained the card, yet the instructions were clear and crisp, as if it had been written with fresh ink. It was in incredible condition if the reported age was even close to accurate.
James warned me that the ingredients were a bit unconventional. As someone who rarely dared to step into a kitchen, let alone cook something from a recipe, how should I know? The last time I'd try to cook for his family, the casserole came out a strange and inedible consistency.
That could not happen this time.
"Two chopped potatoes, with eyes and skin left on." I said, gently dumping the chopped pieces into the pot.
"Next, the carrots, leafy tops left on…" I scraped them from the cutting board, watching each slice disrupt the bubbles with a small splash.
I should have known better than to volunteer for this. To this day, I can't explain what came over me. It was a quiet evening; the entire family began reminiscing over a recipe their grandmother had made years and years ago.
"No one made it like she did." My mother-in-law said.
"What I wouldn't give for a bowl of that soup right now." James added.
"Actually, I just found the recipe the other day! Was tucked in the last few pages of an old cookbook Gran had set aside."
"I'll make it." Nothing but impulse formed the words on my tongue. They'd left my lips before I realized what I'd agreed to.
The room went quiet.
"I- I can make it the next time everyone is over." I felt the words catch in my throat, but it was too late. There was no taking them back.
"That sounds like a wonderful idea, dear!" James said, no hint of judgment or irony in his tone. He was always so positive.
I wondered what the complaints would be this time. The soup was too hot? Too salty? Nothing like how Gran used to make it?
"Celery leaves, no stalks." I scooped them from the cutting board and held them over the pot, letting the small slices drop through the small opening between my cupped hands.
"Fresh oregano." I said as the seasoning made its way into the pot.
"The juice from a fresh lemon."
I split the fruit and squeezed the juice from it. The recipe was not specific about how much, but after a little while, it seemed like just the right amount.
"The flower from a dandelion."
My eyebrows furrowed. I'd always heard about dandelions being edible. Maybe it even held some medicinal value?
Sure enough, in the bag was a dandelion flower, already wilting and soft from being freshly picked. I shrugged, ripped the head from the plant, and threw it into the pot.
"Fresh toadstool mushrooms."
I'd thought these were toxic?
Maybe if eaten raw. Perhaps if they were cooked, they'd be perfectly safe. They were on the card, so they were going into the pot. I tossed the two toadstool mushrooms into soup.
"The bark from a weeping willow."
I paused, tilting my head in confusion.
I suppose cinnamon is nothing more than a different kind of tree bark. People use that all the time.
I tossed the small shreds into the pot and stirred the contents.
"Moss from the nearest tree."
Moss? Why would it have to be the nearest tree? How could the recipe ask something so specific?
This had to be a prank. This could be a fake recipe, meant to trick me into making something horrid and toxic.
I pressed my fingers to my head, trying to ward off a headache by rubbing my temples. I could skip the ingredient, leave it out and see how the rest turns out? Could it be that important?
Suddenly I heard his mother’s voice in my head. "I can't believe you left out the moss from the nearest tree! Its vital to the recipe."
I couldn't stand another lecture. I would follow the directions, use Jame's ingredients, and make the soup as intended. I was in too deep to be altering this recipe.
"Into the pot you go." I said as I tossed the dried moss bundle into the pot. What did I have to lose?
The next few items I put in without question.
"Skipping stones smoothed by running water."
"A few threads of spider silk."
"The thorns from a red rose."
"The wings of a dragonfly."
I find it difficult to explain what followed. My hands naturally drifted toward each item in the bag, as if pulled by a magnet or guided by an invisible hand. I hardly needed to look at the recipe. I knew what to grab next. I knew how much to put in. I knew exactly how to make the soup.
"An eggshell shard from the small end of the egg."
"A pebble that was stuck inside a shoe."
"A flake of paper from the recipe card."
I moved in a rhythm that felt familiar, as if it was something I'd done for years. It came as naturally as breathing. My arms and legs moved in perfect unison. It was a flow state unlike anything I'd experienced before. I wasn't alone. It was as if someone was cooking beside me.
"And lastly, a strand of your hair."
My hand brushed my shoulder. A loose hair had landed there, tickling the skin on my arm. I grabbed it gently, setting it carefully on the surface of the water.
Suddenly the pot thundered to a boil. The liquid began to spin, glow, and hiss. I grabbed the spoon and began frantically stirring, hoping to calm the storm that had overtaken the soup.
The contents whirled violently, sending small droplets from the pot and onto the counter. The liquid had grown thicker, making it more difficult to stir. Eventually the pot absorbed the spoon altogether, sucking it straight from my hands into the small whirlpool at the center.
The steam rising to the ceiling began wrapping around itself, suddenly becoming more than simple wisps of vapor. A ghostly face formed in the air, hovering just above the surface.
She was an older woman with a warm expression. She looked down at the boiling spinning liquid with a proud smirk.
Gran.
She reached into the pot, taking the stirring spoon from the center and bringing a small spoonful to her lips.
She looked toward me and gave me a crafty wink.
Without warning, Gran disappeared. The soup settled into a soft simmer once more, and the glowing green faded into a soft warm orange.
Not even a moment later, the front door opened. Footsteps sounded in the dining room as my in-laws strolled into the house. I heard my husband's voice, leading them into the room and inviting them to sit.
I took a deep breath as a nervous chill shot through my spine.
Whether they loved it or hated it, I had made it. Gran and I had made it together. We had made the family recipe.
I put on my oven mitts, grabbing the hot handles of the cast iron pot and made my way toward the dining room.
No turning back now.
~
R. K. DeBoer is an emerging writer based in Washington State. She writes speculative fiction, particularly science fiction, fantasy, and horror. She loves creating stories featuring the strange, frightening, and fantastical.
Creative Nonfiction | First Prize - Joy Archer
Season of the Witch: That One Time I Attended an Exorcism
It was during the Season of the Witch that I learned the true power of Satan’s most prolific instrument.
While I was bargaining to stay up later due to my advanced age, the phone rang. I was almost a teenager. Twelve and a quarter. Basically there.
“Wait, wait, slow down,” Mom said to the caller. “You found what?”
Shag carpet weaved through my toes as I curled and uncurled them, waiting, expecting her to settle into the chair and wave me off like she always does when someone calls.
But a flurry of shrill chatter scuttled my way. Mom stilled, gasping, hand on her heart. This wasn’t the familiar cadence of Sunday gossip. Why was someone calling this late?
“I’m on my way,” she said. The phone clattered against its cradle.
She was going somewhere. Even better.
“Mom?” She stopped digging in her closet and looked at me, raising a brow. Fidgeting with my new mood ring, I asked, “Where are you going?”
“It’s Trista, Leah’s daughter. She…” Shaking her head at the closet, she continued with the excavation.
With an “Aha!” she pulled the Good Bible free. I stepped back. Why is she holding that?
The Good Bible wasn’t her daily beater: the paperback with its underlined words, highlighted passages, and dog-eared pages. This King James Version was for special occasions. It was leather-bound with gold foiling and heavy with the word of the Lord.
Purse on one shoulder, the Good Bible tucked under an arm, she set off.
Using my best impression of my neighbor’s dog that time he wanted my hot dog, I asked, “Can I come?”
Looking between me and the door, she said, “Fine. But let it be a lesson.”
Gospel mixtape fired up, car in gear, I barely had time to shut the door before we hot-rodded out of the driveway.
Attempting to thaw my hands, I stuffed my fingertips into the dusty car vents.
Rain tapped the window, collided, collected. A translucent vascular system. Colors moving through veins, morphing with traffic lights and street lamps. Graveyards, skeletons, ghosts hanging from trees. I wonder what it would be like to carve a pumpkin, to squish the guts.
The blasting lukewarm air swallowed Mom’s voice. She was talking to Jesus, eyes to the sky instead of the road.
The car barely came to a stop before she yanked out the key, snatched the Good Bible, and power-walked to Leah’s single-wide.
The door opened, and divine light enveloped her silhouette. She held up the Good Bible, an entry ticket. The screen door crashed behind her.
My thumb hovered over the buckle.
Had something happened to Leah’s daughter? Was she dead? Possessed? I was pretty sure I didn’t want to see a dead body. Maybe I should have stayed home. I glanced at the clock. 9:50 PM. Top 20 radio starts soon.
Did Trista use a Ouija board?
Just last weekend, Mom had reminded me not to watch scary movies. “They let the Enemy in.”
But it wasn’t my sleepover party, so I wasn’t in charge. Our sleeping bags were lined up in front of the theater-sized TV, and we wiggled in anticipation. The VCR sucked up the tape, and the title filled the screen.
The Exorcist.
I looked between my smiling, bright-eyed friends and wanted to warn them. I knew it was one of the worst. A cautionary tale. But also, how bad could it be?
Bad. Through sleeping bag peek-a-boo, I witnessed my first exorcism.
If I stepped out of this car and followed my mom, I might just see another. Was my mom the old priest or the young priest?
I didn’t think I could face it in real life.
But Mom always says we have guardian angels watching over us. That’s why every time we get in the car, she says, “Lord Jesus, protect us on this journey.” We never crash.
When the car keys are lost, she says, “Lord, please help me find my keys. In Jesus’ name, amen.” She finds her keys every time.
The Lord would protect me if I went into that house.
I clicked out of my seatbelt and uncurled my legs, ready to face anything the Enemy had waiting.
The house smelled like the burned flesh of a demon in demise. That, or they had fried chicken for dinner. But probably a demon.
This was it. Now or never.
Keening chants beckoned me to the warm glow of the Glamor Shots-lined hallway. Heart tenderizing my throat, I reached for the golden doorknob.
Mom and Leah knelt in supplication, eyes squeezed shut. Rapid, overlapping prayers filled the room. Auctioneers beseeching the Lord.
“Forgive this child’s sins, Heavenly Father. Jesus, we pray you save her soul and lead her back to the path of righteousness. Condemn this evil, Lord God.”
This was exactly what I was afraid of.
Leah’s fluffy, salt-and-pepper hair bounced as she rocked. Old priest.
Veins bulged in her splotchy neck. Her tongue waggled like a beheaded snake. A true messenger of God, just like Mom had talked about. Leah was praying the indecipherable language of the Lord.
She reached between them, flickering candlelight highlighting her sodden cheeks. Daring a step closer, I peered around Mom’s blond bob. I was ready. I could handle it now. I braced myself for a thrashing, lacerated, ashen child, her nightgown covered in pea soup.
But there was no girl.
A glossy square sat atop a crochet throw pillow.
With one last screech to the ceiling, the two fell silent.
“The Enemy put this in her way as a test,” Mom rasped. “A test for you. And me. All of us.” She gestured to the room. “Throw it in the dumpster.”
Leah took the CD case between her thumb and forefinger, pinching it like a poopy baby wipe, and left the room. Mom stood and brushed off her knees.
“Did you see that, Sarah?” she said. “Music? That isn’t music. That’s how Satan worms his way into your brain.”
I nodded, owl-eyed.
A door slammed; we both flinched.
“You did what?” a girl yelled.
Heavy stomping came far too quickly. Trista’s wild eyes locked on my mom.
“Where did you put my Manson album?” she spat.
My mouth popped open. Manson?
As in Marilyn Manson?
The Devil himself.
~
Sarah Bonwell is a memoirist and creative nonfiction writer. Through a darkly humorous lens, her work explores themes of complicated family dynamics, generational poverty, and class mobility. She earned first place in the Write on the Sound writing contest (nonfiction), and her memoir essay “Mountain Dew as Birth Control: An Essay From a Teen Mom” is forthcoming in the literary magazine Halfway Down the Stairs. Sarah holds a bachelor’s degree from Oregon State University, and her full-length memoir is currently in progress.
Poetry | First Prize - Sarah Ferris
A Time for All Seasons
A time for all seasons
Give me a reason
To Just Be Me.
A home for a heart
I knew from the start
Just where I am supposed to
Be.
A tree as my guide
I no longer hide
Standing on my own
Land
of what it means
To Be Free.
Let me explain:
My favorite starts
with the August wind
that blows in my season of
heartbreak
yet also joy
For a fresh start
A new beginning
with smiling faces
Eager to make their mark
on another school year
Pencils sharpened
with leads
That I have the power,
the gentle influence,
to shape for their own futures
To guide a child’s story
but not for them,
just teaching with
Sharp words
in sincere hopes
they can figure it out.
As I look out our window
the leaves grow weaker
on That Tree
And before we know it
Layers of color fall to the ground
Golds, Reds,
dotted with even some
leftover green,
Crunching brown
As we walk into winter.
My Dad always used to say
“But pray ye that your flight
be not in the winter
neither on the Sabbath Day”
And He listened
By flying away on a Friday
in an October Sky
Blazing with the noble Sun,
Not a single cloud,
Only pure blue,
after a snowstorm in September
and a windstorm the week before
He met his final destination.
My dad beckoned in ALL seasons
for his departure
From the Earth.
Oh winter!
How my feelings compete
over your hopeful peace
Yet enduring darkness
that can follow like a shadow
if I let it.
That Tree
Now a skeleton
of what it used to be
Bare
Its starkness
no longer growing
and blossoming
Yet still there
To remind us to pause
Reflect
And trudge onward
toward the promise that lies ahead.
So I find some comfort
in our long winters
And when it seems as though
That Tree will never recover
its soft leaves
on those delicate branches
Alas!
The clean breeze of spring
Reminds me every time
That there is hope on the other side
Of the mountains we must climb.
So welcome spring!
My long lost friend,
Quiet stranger, gone too long,
Now back again.
My students have been working hard
Heads buried in lessons
And books
That don’t always give every answer
I sigh deeply
Because this is the final push
when energy sparks
through bodies and minds
Beautiful, yet exhausting,
as we roll with the fickle teases
of the sun,
in between the wet sprinkles
of misty rain
A necessity
in the process
of life,
a renewed tiny bud
on That Tree
I see out our window.
Watching each branch
populate slowly, then strongly,
with those luscious shapes
of growing leaves
Large enough now
To protect us
From the rain
we still sometimes taste.
I know not to waste our time together
The hourglass whispers to us
Through grains of sinking sand
This group
Like the leaves I see forming
on That Tree
Will grow
Then fall
in their next cycle
Away from me
Maybe I am their tree
Because I can grow them
Yet have no control
where they land
Floating across the ground.
But the cycle is not complete
without the certain warmth
of the bright summer
And though rains and clouds
can still knock to remind us
to be grateful
for the nourishment
Most all of us crave the light,
the release,
That these lazier days
can bring.
Like spring,
the happy clouds
Drift
and also part,
To bronze my skin
reminding me
how the glow
makes a radiant return
And That Tree
is Full again
Filled with hope
That I have done my job
for another year.
“Goodbye class”
I will miss all the laughter,
comfort, and memories
of our journey
That comes to a bittersweet end
Joy and Hope
But also tears
That trickle down
some cheeks
with words scribbled in yearbooks
or homemade cards
etched in hard-pressed crayon
Or maybe just a tiny hug
“I’ll miss you”
My teacher name,
My given name,
will not echo from
That child, in our space,
Anymore.
Like That Tree
will not feel attached
to those leaves that float away,
Again.
And like that child,
my father has drifted away,
Another leaf
In the strong winds
He once blew in
Now that same wind
Has blown him out
to a place unknown to some,
but not to me
His dreams now mine
I find him
perched a top
That Tree
My tree
Nestled on the cove
The Eagle he always wanted to be
Is now watching over me.
So that’s the cycle
of my seasons
And I wouldn’t want it any other way
For how can I know beauty
without pain
that rains
Yet always makes way
for the golden sun
To touch my branches
and make me grow
into That Strong and Humble Tree
I know I am meant to be.
~
Sarah Ferris has loved words for as long as she can remember, penning stories in hard-pressed cursive and sitting on Dad’s lap reciting funny rhymes. Her published work on effective classroom discourse can be found in The Reading Teacher and Science and Children. She has dedicated 20+ years to teaching students and mentoring educators across all grades, including Western Washington University. Sarah currently lives on Whidbey Island as a wife and proud dog-mom. Catch her on Instagram @blueonwaves
