WRITERS GUILD OF TEXAS NEWS
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Third Place Winner: 2026 Kathryn McClatchy Flash Fiction Contest
Tanner by Jesse Owens, Jr.
TANNER
Memories were a terrible annoyance. Tanner had to fight feelings of guilt,
especially of damnation he felt for the daughter he abandoned. He never came
through for anybody. When he thought about it, panic overwhelmed him, and he
fled into a bottle. He thought "abandoned" was inadequate. Deserted under hostile
fire! Tanner felt he was a soulless bastard with no chance of salvation. He had lost
his job, his family, even his identity. He had long since quit feeling sorry for
himself. The only emotion Tanner could muster was disgust.
Stretching his lanky frame, Tanner wrinkled his nose at the putrid odor
emanating from his clothing. Shit! How long had it been since he'd bathed? He
didn't mind the packing crate he slept in; at least it kept the rain off his head. It was
the rats that pissed him off. Gnawing at the wood all night. It was bad enough that
there was always some asshole trying to take his box, but those damn rats didn't
have any respect! What the hell did they want to eat wood for anyway? Stupid
things. Almost as stupid as that dumbass he had kicked in the head for getting in
his box. Said he didn't know it belonged to anybody, but he knew. They all know it
now; leave Tanner alone!
It doesn't have to be like this. Sometimes the voices were so loud that Tanner
would press his hands over his ears and shut his eyes tight, singing loudly to drown
them out. His little girl crying, calling. It was no use. The voices just got louder
and after a while his head would start hurting. It was only when he got a good buzz
that the voices left him alone. After a while, his daughter would leave him alone,
too. Damn memories.
"Hey, Tanner! Want some beans? Got 'em from outback the grocery store.
Whole box of 'em."
Tanner caught the can that Weird Willie tossed, nodding his head. Willie
was okay, but Tanner didn't have much use for him. Sometimes Willie would bark
like a dog and run around pissing on all the fire hydrants. One night they caught
him chasing a cat but didn't think anything about it until they saw the steak knife in
his hand. Just weird shit. Everybody left Willie alone, too.
Eating the beans, Tanner thought about the dream he'd had. He could see his
daughter walking towards him, moving through a mist. Then the fog swallowed
her, and he couldn't see her anymore. She never came out of the fog. How long had
it been? Ten years? Tanner fumbled in his pocket for the bottle he had stuck
there, then took a long pull. Man, why couldn't his head quit hurting?
A cold breeze whipped through the alley. He hated the cold. It got under his
skin and made his bones ache. Punishment from God for having a frozen soul.
Maybe he could get a coat from Goodwill, but they wouldn't open until tomorrow.
His old jacket just didn't cut it anymore. Tanner could hear the chimes playing at
the church around the corner, Oh Come, All Ye Faithful! The music just made him
feel colder.
As it started to drizzle, Tanner crawled back into his box. Damn box smells.
At least it's real wood. That piece of crap Willie has is just cardboard. Tanner
watched the rain fall, counting the drops disturbing the water standing in a pothole.
Two old men shuffled down the sidewalk across the street, passing a young woman
huddled in a doorway. Tanner could tell she was getting wet, as her red hose
started to speckle from the raindrops, and her hair began to droop. Who's that
woman over there? Tanner rubbed his eyes, squinting, and studied her for several
minutes. Woman, hell. She's just a kid. He had seen her before, usually with some
greasy looking shit with a ponytail. One time Tanner saw him slap her, but he
stayed out of it. Who the hell needs it?
The rain started coming down harder, tapping out rhythm to the chimes. The
First Noel! The girl pressed herself into the doorway, but it was obvious she was
getting drenched. Why the hell doesn't she go inside? Nothing's open. Even the bar
won't be open today. So, what the hell is she doing here? Tanner crunched further
back into the crate. At least it isn't raining in here.
A black Corvette came speeding down the street, splashing the girl with
dirty water. Shithead! Jerking around in a U-Turn, the driver stopped the machine
inches from the doorway. Tanner couldn't hear, but he could tell that the girl wasn't
happy, and she kept shaking her head. After a while the Corvette squealed away,
fish-tailing and spewing water. Tanner heard the girl scream, "Bastard!", and
watched as she sat down on the curb and bury her face in her knees. Hark, the
Herald Angels Sing! The music was getting on his nerves, and the rain was pissing
him off.
So, what happens now? For several long minutes the girl sat perfectly still,
Tanner matching the stillness, even with his breathing, which came in short
shallow pulses. Maybe she'll go away. She can't just sit in the rain. Stupid thing to
do. Tanner's left leg was being to cramp from tension, but he didn't want to stretch
out or rub it. Can't move. She might see. He sat there, the pain in his leg growing
proportionally with the throbbing in his head. The girl finally stood and looked up
into the sky, bringing her hand across her face. Stepping off the curb, she crossed
the street, moving directly toward Tanner, who slid back even further into his box.
Stopping at the alley, she looked at Tanner, her face a portrait of disappointment.
Without a word, she turned and walked away, Tanner watching until she
disappeared. She sure looks like her mother, doesn't she?
Second Place Winner: 2026 Kathryn McClatchy Flash Fiction Contest
Playing with Plagues by D Kay Valentine
PLAYING WITH PLAGUES
Saint Maria Goretti, martyred virgin, was rummaging through Heaven’s basement, not to
be confused with Hell. It was a typical basement with shelves of sacred antiquities and
miscellaneous screwdrivers. She found the billiard balls nestled between a hunk of the True
Cross and some cans of WD-40.
Maria enjoyed billiards, like most virgins of a certain age. When not reflecting on the
holy texts, she could be found in assorted Texas dive bars playing eight-ball.
Today, she had other plans. Today she would assert dominance over Prince Nanda
Shakya, aka Handsome Nanda, the Buddha’s younger half-brother, who only found beauty in the
bliss of Nirvana. She wanted Nanda to take her on a date.
“Stupid hot monk,” she muttered while unboxing the Plague Pro Billiard Balls. The box
was unsealed and sans instructions.
In the parlor, not to be confused with Purgatory, she aligned the balls in the triangle rack.
Her cue, a McDermott Heartbreaker, leaned nearby in the Q-claw on the edge of the bar.
Behind the bar was Amand, patron saint of brewers, bartenders, and Boy Scouts. While
itwasn’t a proper bar, he’d said he felt comfortable back there cleaning glasses and slicing fruit.
A Jinn named Sila sat at the bar watching Maria curiously.
“You’re challenging him again, aren’t you?” she asked.
Maria nodded.
“Good luck. Nanda thinks pool is akin to meditation.”
“I know. He’s already reached enlightenment and the equivalence of a level six in
American Pool Association league play. But I don’t plan to stay a virgin forever. Besides, these
balls have only been used once. I’ll play better with them.”
“He’s awfully pretty,” mused Sila swirling the swizzle in her drink wistfully. “What are
the stakes?”
“I plan to go on a proper date,” smiled Maria.
“All of this for a date?”
“I have been a teen virgin for over one-hundred years. I deserve a date.”
“Where did you get the balls?”
“I’ve always been brave. I’m a martyr—stabbed fourteen times and still refused to give it
up.”
“No, silly, the new billiard balls,” laughed Sila.
“Oh, these plague balls. They were in the basement. Only used once, long time ago for
the Egypt thing.”
“Oh yeah, ten plagues of Egypt. I remember something about that,” said Sila. “Does that
mean you’ll haphazardly unleash plagues on the human realm?”
“Just Texas,” replied Maria.
“Why Texas?”
“That’s not important. Where’s Handsome Nanda?”
As if on cue, Nanda and Buddha rounded the corner into the parlor. Nanda tried to
backpedal, but Maria saw him before he could escape.
“Aha!” Maria exclaimed. “I challenge you to a game of bank the eight! Loser takes the
winner to Six Flags Amusement Park.”
Nanda looked at his half-brother for a way out.
“Attachment leads to jealousy,” said Buddha.
“Stop quoting Yoda!” exclaimed Nanda.
Buddha shrugged. “Do or do not,” he said, still quoting Yoda while taking the seat nearest
the Jinn.
“Fine,” said Nanda. “One game, and this is the last time. I told you before that I am only
interested in Nirvana, and maybe waterparks.”
They flipped a coin. Nanda won the break and sank the striped ten-ball as he scattered the
rest with a loud crack.
“Stripes,” called Nanda while pointing at the side pocket where he planned to drop the
fourteen-ball. A glancing blow sent it ricocheting off the opposite rail, rolling towards the pocket
where it hung on the edge.
“Too bad. I wonder what that one does,” mused Sila.
“Does?” inquired Buddha.
“Plague balls. Egypt.”
“Oh, blood, frogs, boils, etcetera—I remember something about that,” said Buddha.
“What will they do?”
“Dunno. Amand, put on the news,” called Sila.
The sainted barkeep turned the parlor television to the 24-hour news channel.
The game progressed, both players evenly matched. Maria made a fantastic shot jumping
the cue ball over a striped ball to sink the solid three-ball into a corner pocket.
A moment later the newscaster broke in, “This just in. The small town of Egypt, Texas,
just outside of Houston, has been overrun by armadillos. We have video.”
The screen was filled with the town’s main drag, rampant with small, armored mammals.
Cars were stopped as the animals parted around them a la Red Sea. People were running and
screaming.
A news anchor continued, “No one knows where this many came from or what brought
them into town.”
“Ha! Their tiny little legs,” interrupted Buddha.
“Some speculate they may have encountered a predator interrupting their sleep, causing
them to evacuate their burrows en masse. We have a reporter en route and will follow-up once
we have more.”
“Any side bets on the next plague?” asked Sila.
Before anyone could respond, the anchor was back with more breaking news.
“We have another report from Egypt, Texas. In addition to armadillos, suddenly
bluebonnets have begun to grow from every surface. The flowers are not just sprouting from the
soil but from cement and metal. Bluebonnets, the state flower of Texas, are known to be hardy
but growing out of metal.… Well, this is unprecedented.”
The newscaster continued, “Pam Rogers, of affiliate KDRN, is on-site. Pam, can you tell
us what you are witnessing?”
“I sure can, Todd. There are armadillos running through the bluebonnet engulfed streets.
It’s amazing to see, but chaotic as well.”
“Are those sirens?” asked the anchor from the newsroom.
Behind the on-site reporter, the sky blackened.
“Yes, those appear to be tornado sirens….” She was cut off by the blaring and bustle as
she and her crew ran for cover.
“I was going to say tornados,” said Sila.
“So was I,” said Buddha. “It is Texas.”
“Oh no,” said Maria looking up. “My favorite poolhall is there.”
“You were playing with plagues,” commented Nanda. “Eight-ball in the side pocket.”
Nanda smoothly banked the ball off the opposite rail into the pocket for the win.
“AH!” exclaimed Maria, tossing her pool stick on the table. “But I deserve a date!”
“Karma,” retorted Handsome Nanda.
First Place Winner: 2026 Kathryn McClatchy Flash Fiction Contest
The Break-In by Jolea Broome
The Break-In
I should have called the police two days ago when I first noticed the men poking around
my property taking photos. At the time, I thought maybe they worked for the bank and were
taking photos of my house because it was in foreclosure. I can’t remember the last time I paid a
bill; my granddaughter, Rachel, takes care of my finances now. At any rate, I stayed hidden in
my living room and peeked through the sheer curtains framing the windows overlooking the
spacious front yard until they left.
This evening, I was just rousing from a nap when I heard male voices outside. I was
surprised to see the sun had already set, and it was now dark in the room, except for the dim light
from the window illuminating the Steinway piano. Since my wife’s death a decade ago, the piano
has sat, untouched, unplayed and gathering dust. It is probably terribly out of tune by now, but I
refuse to donate it. Playing the piano had been my wife’s favorite pastime. And so, the piano sits,
a great ghost in the room.
The voices outside now louder, I peek once again out the window beside the front door.
Three dark figures were making their way closer, crossing the lawn at a hurried pace. The largest
one had a bulky satchel over his right shoulder and the leader was carrying a flashlight in one
hand and a handheld monitor in the other. The shadows approached from the east of the house
and showed no signs of precaution. To a passerby, they looked like they belonged here at my
home, not that anyone ever passed by, being this far out in the country. I don’t even remember
the last time I saw a neighbor, let alone spoke to one.
At the sight of the satchel, the anger I initially felt at their trespass turns to concern.
Surely, they are not planning to harm me. I bang on the window and shout threateningly, “Get off
my lawn!”
The leader of the group looks up as the monitor in his hands begins beeping faintly. He
holds the light up for the others to see and they slow to a stop and begin staring towards the
house. I wave my arms as if to shoo them away but still they advance. BigBoy sets his satchel on
the ground and unzips it. I strain to see what he pulls out as it is much too dark to make anything
out from this distance.
I shuffle from the front door to the window above the couch to get a better look, but they
have already disappeared around the side of the house by the time I make my way across the
room. I hear them laughing and whispering as they approach the French doors along the dining
room behind me. My first thought is to call 911, then I remember the landline was disconnected
years ago by my granddaughter who thought it was a waste of money. I have long since forgotten
where the cell phone has disappeared to, so I move frenetically around the room, contemplating
my next move.
The sound of squeaking metal pierces the quiet and I instantly understand where they are.
A few years ago, one of the shutters on an upstairs window became dislodged from a bad
windstorm and I decided to take care of the issue myself. I dragged the metal ladder out of the
garage and propped it against the side of the house. Tucking a hammer in the loop of the overalls
I wear every day and filling the bib with nails, I climbed to the edge of the eave and began
hitching the wooden shutter to sit level.
As I lined up the nails to secure one side of the shutter in place, the hammer slipped from
my grip, and I lurched forward to catch it. In doing so, I lost my balance and down the ladder I
slipped, landing on the ground with a thud. The blow knocked me out for what must have been a
full day, perhaps even two, for when I came to the sun was just rising over the horizon. The
ladder remains in the yard, rusting.
I navigate my way upstairs as quickly as my popping joints allow and quietly pad down
the hallway, guided only by the sound of breaking glass. Cautiously, I peer through the slightly
ajar door and see that the men have made entry through a broken window and are exploring the
empty room. BigBoy sets something resembling a transistor radio in the middle of the room.
“Jere, check out the monitor,” the leader whispers. The three men watch the flickering red
light as it climbs across the screen.
“Whoa,” BigBoy breathes, “there’s definitely something here.” He takes the monitor
from the leader and Jere turns the radio on. The room turns eerily quiet as they strain to make
sense of the signal coming through from the radio.
The leader reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding
it, he holds it up to the empty room. I can tell right away it is an obituary. “My name is Glen,” he
says, “and we are here to speak with Ned Haut. Are you here, Ned?”
I stand, transfixed. How do these boys know me? Why are they here? I stride forward
into the room confidently and answer, “Yes.”
The radio echoes my response in a staticky, garbled voice and the monitor goes crazy,
chirping loudly, the red light pinging back and forth quickly. The group, obviously spooked,
abandon their gear and bolt out the window, the obituary floating to the ground. I bend over and
lift the paper, shocked to see my own face smiling up at me from the page. Still holding the
obituary, I lean out the window and holler. The only response is from the radio as it repeats my
words once again. “Come back.”
2025 Flash Fiction Winners!
Congratulations to the 2025 winners of the 11th Annual Kathryn McClatchy Flash Fiction Contest.
We announced them at the December Holiday party along with Kathryn McClatchy (attending virtually). We will be posting each entry on the website and newsletter each month, starting with first place.
2026 Flash Fiction Winners
First Prize – The Break-In by Jolea Broome
Second Prize – Playing with Plagues by D Kay Valentine
Third Prize – Tanner by Jesse Owens Jr
Honorable Mention - As Beautiful as Imagined by George Bowden
