Page One Writing Contest Winners

2024 Winners
2023 Winners
2022 Winners

About The Page One Writing Contest

The Page One program began as the brainchild of DPL Staff member, Nancy Stoffer in 2022. Each week Nancy chooses a compelling first page from a book within the library’s collection and reads it aloud on local public radio stations KDUR and KSUT. Soon after the program took off, library staff created the Page One Writing Contest. In the spirit of National Novel Writing Month, local writers of all ages and experiences have the opportunity to submit their most compelling first page to the contest. The winning pages are read aloud on air and authors are celebrated by the library. The contest continues each November, please inquire with library staff for more details. 
 
The Page One Radio program airs on KSUT Mondays 9:30 a.m. & Saturdays 7:56 a.m. and KDUR Fridays 11:45 a.m. & Sundays 10:30 a.m.
 
Tune in to hear more about the wonderful books offered by the Durango Public Library!

Contest rules:

  • "One Page" = approx. 300 - 500 words, typed
  • Original works by locals only
  • Fiction, Poetry, Non-fiction, YA, Children's welcome
  • Please include the title
  • There is a youth category (Under age 18): let us know if you qualify qualify!

Submissions can be emailed to [email protected] or dropped off at Durango Public Library between November 1 and November 30.

2024 Page One Winners

Who is Riley Locket?

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Amy Russel

Page One 2024 Contest Winner

Who is Riley Locket?

By Amy Russel

Telluride, 1986 

Every house has a kitchen. Every kitchen has a knife. Every knife has a blade. I repeat this to myself whenever I feel spooked in the huge, empty houses. It  helps us to feel safe. Or, at least, safer.  

Houses are like living creatures. They have needs. They require attention. And  they make sounds. It’s just that usually you don’t hear them, because it’s not that quiet  in most people’s houses.  

Miss Moss, the actual name of the caretaker of our group home, explained it all  to us, back when I was eighteen, still in Albuquerque. The temperature changes, right?  And that makes the house contract or expand. Everything moves, just a little. Just  enough to make some creaks and groans, especially if it’s stick-built, she’d said.  Which, it turned out, most houses in southwest Colorado were.  

I, for one, had no idea houses were built from sticks. But good job using natural  resources. That was something Kirby would do.  

We left Albuquerque because I wanted to go to school in Durango. Fort Lewis  College. The Fort, everyone called it, which made it sound like the army, not college. I  didn’t care, as long as I could get closer to the mountains. The La Platas were right  there: hugging you in. In Albuquerque, the Sandias were always just out of reach, a  misty hallucination. If you didn’t have a car to drive to the trailhead, forget it.  

Hiking here, you could find resources. Lakes, rivers, trees, shade, shelter, sticks  to make a house if you wanted. If the wild animals could survive out here, so could a  human. You could get lost for as long as you felt like it, and no one could find you.  Which, I’m not going to lie, was part of the appeal.  

Miss Moss was the nicest thing about that group home, which I’d managed to  stay at longer than most anywhere else I’d lived. 

“Olivia Ripley, or Olivia Kirby?” she’d read off my form that very first day.  “Olivia Ripley Kirby,” I said. 

“Such a nice name…Olivia.”  

“I go by Ripley,” I’d told her. Which I did. But I also went by Olivia. Or sometimes  Kirby. It depended on who I was at the time, and what I was trying to do. Here in  Durango, here at The Fort, I was still Ripley. Ripley was the smart one. She was fiercely  independent. She shared a name with the final girl in Alien, so she had to be strong,  brave. A survivor. She had never backed down from a fight, no matter who started it.  

Liv was gentle, girly. She loved makeup, the mall, calling boys on the phone.  She made friends easily. “Don’t change!” people wrote in her yearbook and “SWAK” on  folded-up notes like origami.  

Then there was Kirby. The resourceful one. The quiet hiker, the one who knew  how to fish and hunt, how to tie knots and keep a fire going.  

All of them had something to offer, but in Durango, I was Ripley.  

I’d read that only 3% of aged-out kids graduated with a degree, and 70% of  girls were pregnant by 21.  

I was 22, not pregnant, and less than a semester from graduation. 

Listen to Who is Riley Locket

QUAR CORNERS

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Edward A. Stabler

Page One 2024 Contest Winner

Quar Corners

By Edward A. Stabler

Chapter One: Chimes

Ana flinched, sensing the inaudible screech that always agitated the street dogs just before the synthesized chimes began.  There were more than twenty boxes now, all mounted high on phone poles, and Silverton was small enough you could hear the announcements from anywhere.  No need for Mayor Dave to address jaded citizens from the decaying steps of the courthouse, the way things worked in the first two years of the quarantine.  Last fall Ana’s brother and his friends had killed a box down by the low-head dam.  Three 12-year-olds caught with stones in their pockets and slingshots in their hands.  First offense, no detention but it went on their records.  “Skeeter,” she’d admonished.  “You kill the camera first.  Sneak up on it.  Did you even look for it?”

When the familiar tones sounded Ana peered out the dirt-spattered window of her trailer at a gap in the trees, focusing on a street-side pole bathed in late-afternoon sunlight.  Force of habit, watch the talking box.  But something fluttered in her stomach; this was different.  Usually the announcements came at noon and consisted of guidelines, reminders, administrivia.  Toward sundown people were steeling themselves for the night.  Feeding their dogs before chaining them in the yard.

Parley let himself in without knocking, letting the flimsy tin door slam closed behind him.  Oblivious to the moment, Ana thought.  And feeling entitled, as if he was still her boyfriend.  She glanced at him, put a finger to her lips.

“Silvertonians!” proclaimed a reassuring voice.  Then a few seconds of static.

“I’m still your mayor, bitches!” Parley cracked, slumping onto the torn fabric of the bench seat, boots on the table.

Ana answered his sardonic smile with a scowl, turned back to the window.

“There have been rumors for weeks now,” Mayor Dave intoned. “I have heard them, you have heard them, sowing doubt and fear.  The Govs are coming.  They will destroy our town.  Kill us, imprison us, make us slaves.  That will be our reward for surviving Thunderbird, for building our sanctuary.  But I want you to know the truth.  I have been on the Northern Road to meet with them.  And yes, the Govs are coming.  But not to do us harm.”

Parley snorted.  “They’re coming to normalize QC.  Like they did to Caligon and Maine. Like they did it in the Keys.  QC and that mitten sticking into the lake, what do they call it?  We’re next.”

Ana hissed at him, narrowed her eyes.

“We’ve always known this day would come,” Mayor Dave continued.  “The quarantine can’t last forever.  Thunderbird couldn’t kill us all.  It’s still out there, but the tide is ebbing.  The Govs have a drug regimen for it now.” 

“That’s how they do it!” Parley said, slamming a hand onto the table.

Listen to Quar Corners

FIRMLY PLANTED

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Rowan Waller

Page One 2024
Contest Winner

Firmly Planted

By Rowan Waller

In a small slate hallway : near the right exit of Saint John’s Episcopal church : approximately 41st and Lewis : Tulsa, Oklahoma : you could find the pocket-sized floral room : staffed by one woman and her small step-stool-perching helper : the space so filled with flowers a fresh scent would seep from beneath the bottom of the door to the common halls beyond : : 

a self-taught florist : Jo Donna: her years of intuitive wisdom with plants : a green thumb borne from time in her own garden : burying her prayers in the backyard with the herbs : the dirt was softer now than when she was a child : fewer dust storms and twisters : : 

she shared her closet of flowers with the acolytes : parish leaders who cloaked themselves in white robes before each service : carrying a different bronze and gold offering through the sacred space : a chalice : a pitcher of wine : a staff lit by candles : bread to be shared : a wailing child : a gilded book of prayer : : 

I never cared much for the glimmer of it all : the sputtering candle light : the elders who donned too much perfume : the gaudy costume jewelry : everything carried was so easily outshone by her flower arrangements : even the cross and Jesus himself on it : by our flower arrangements : I helped bring all the heavy buckets inside : churchgoers would marvel at the cascade of roses down each altar : the sprigs of proud calla lilies near Easter : ivy plucked from the kudzu vines that covered her own home : pine and fir boughs hauled in at the holidays : the sharp prickle of holly leaves shining under stained glass : berries so red I could taste their sin : : 

her throat hummed the hymns of each day : I lowered my eyes : the small tasks of bundling baby’s breath : wiping off the stains from pollen on petals : a silent acolyte to the chores : snapping the thorns off rose stems to prevent blood spills in the sanctuary : I thought of the sharp chill of flower coolers on full blast : the slowing down of growth in the cold : the perfect beheaded blooms that fell to the ground for my collection : her weekly offering : my dutiful following : I folded the cloak of our years into the dark green aprons we stored our work clippers in : : 

the brass church bells were replaced with a digital one : many years ago : it doesn’t sound the same : more hollow : the kudzu went back to eating the house : roof and all : she wears the same linen slacks and bright red lipstick in every memory : I find the pew in the back of the chapel with her initials sewn into it : bury myself in the cross stitches : absence and soil : the only formal worship I practice now : noticing how fewer herbs spring up from prayers these days : :

Listen to Firmly Planted

Youth Division Winner

THE MIDNIGHT DAWN

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Emiliano McCauley-Cortes

Page One 2024
Youth Division Contest Winner

The Midnight Dawn

By Emiliano McCauley-Cortes

It was not a dark and stormy night. It was a clear night and the moon shone as bright as the sun. The temperature was  brisk. The only moisture came from Mr.Tom’s sprinklers as he tried to keep his perfect model lawn. At the end of the road, there was an old graveyard. Behind the graveyard in some bushes, Wolfgang was hiding. She was hoping that a few spirits and the undead would come out to play so she could bite their heads off. It was a favorite pastime of hers. She was out there every night. Except on stormy nights; she hated stormy nights. On those days she would find a hole and climb in. The only person who could keep her in control was David Charles and he was in prison. Interestingly enough he was in prison for petty theft from the gas station down the street. Wolfgang stood next to the grave of the old parakeet breeder at the zoo. She liked parakeets, they tasted yummy. And also the old parakeet breeder was one of the only spirits that had never poked his head out of the grave. Wolfgang really wanted to eat him. 

The bells of the church next door began to ring loudly. It was midnight. Wolfgang yawned. It was a big yawn, the kind that a few hummingbirds could fly into if you weren’t careful. Wolfgang curled up into a little ball, she might have been a monster from the deep dark mines, but she also believed in going to bed at a sensible hour, for her the hunt for undead spirits to eat ended at promptly 1:30 am. At some point, a noisy old truck passed by, and Wolfgang nearly choked on the smell of the exhaust. This was her cue to retreat into the woods. It was safer. In the woods the only creatures were foxes, wolves, and the occasional big cat. To Wolfgang, that was a lot safer than the scary humans in the rest of the world, and besides from the woods, Wolfgang could see the prison where David was.

Listen to The Midnight Dawn

Youth Division Winner

Secret Stories, Whispered Secrets, and Buried Truth

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Olivia Glover

Page One 2024
Youth Division Contest Winner

Secret Stories, Whispered Secrets, and Buried Truths

By Olivia Glover

Many think the stone cottage we live in is a fairytale, but inside, as cups of tea grow cold on old wooden window sills, anyone can see that the little house in the Welsh countryside is full of lies and ghosts and stories, mysteries and whispered secrets and buried truths. It may seem a mystical place, with ivy-adorned walls surrounded by picturesque fields dotted with fluffy white sheep, but any of its residents can tell you that beneath the charm lies unspoken secrets. On the day that Stella came, two weeks ago, with her bright eyes and bubbly personality, as we stood in the driveway and said hello, I felt the house shift in my bones, creaking under the weight of more secrets, more stories, and more lies. But the house feels fine now, as us eighteen children are enjoying the warm Sunday afternoon, playing in the grass, reading, knitting, or just simply laying in the June sunshine. “Tea time, children,” Ms. Margaret calls out, and slowly we gather our things and file inside, taking turns to wash our hands at the sink, then sitting down at the dining table, oldest to youngest, in a spiral. Jacob, almost 18, and soon to move onto the outside world, sits next to Ms. Margaret. I’ve got four more years. One of the younger boys asks me to pass him the peas, and I pick up the bowl, spooning some onto my plate next to the homemade chips and fish fresh from the sea before handing it off to him. Our pudding tonight is a mix of fresh berries, whipped cream, and little pieces of merengue, the perfect balance of sweet and refreshing. Normally, meals aren’t as fancy, but on Sundays Ms. Margaret, the headmistress at the Foxglove Orphanage, makes something special as a sort of remembrance, to the lives we once had, and our parents. Many of us don’t remember, because we came to the orphanage at such a young age, but we all acknowledge our past in silent ways.

Listen to Secret Stories, Whispered Secrets, and Buried Truth

'Twin Buttes'

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Gwendolyn Grant

Page One 2024
Contest Winner

'Twin Buttes'

By Gwendolyn Grant

Detective Duke Schroeder shouldered his way up the steps of the Parker Hotel, against the outgoing tide of tourists on their way to board the first scenic rail trip of the day. It was Heritage Days in Twin Buttes, Colorado, the annual fall celebration of the town’s Victorian past. One of the main draws was the oldest steam rail in the country, bringing enthusiasts from all over the world to ride and photograph the vintage train, against the backdrop of seasonal red-gold aspens and endless cornflower blue skies. The train tracks, built for hauling ore in the 1880’s, ran along the Turquoise River (the “Turk” to locals) from Twin Buttes to Silver Falls and back, sometimes dizzyingly high above the river through a rugged wilderness accessible only by foot, pack horse or the train itself. The old Parker hotel, built in 1886, was the preferred lodging for those enamored of the early industrial aesthetic. They returned annually for the original Bradbury & Bradbury wallpaper, the carefully maintained and restored woodworking in every room, the saloon with its ragtime pianist and anachronistically-attired waitresses. This weekend,there would be locals dressed up in period costumes wandering around the well-preserved downtown, parasols in hand, pistols on the hip. There would be staged gun fights in front of the hotel at regular intervals; and, Duke knew from his days on the local police force, there would be all manner of dmisbehavior by young and old alike. In spite of his local lineage, dating back to his great-grandfather, the town’s first postmaster, he found this particular resurrection of the past to be a bit tiresome. He felt a grudging affection toward his hometown. It, like family, had taken him in when he had to come back,after a decade of sorrow-driven wandering. He was wrung out then from the work of forgetting, and the familiar streets, mountain vistas and favorite fishing holes worked better than whiskey had in settling his mind. Still, the manufactured old-west, stage-set atmosphere and its attendant nostalgia for lawlessness made him impatient and more surly than usual. 

He leaned on the heavy front door and entered the lobby, nodded hello to the receptionist behind the desk and proceeded down the hallway to his appointment with Fred Parker, third generation owner of the hotel. He glanced only briefly at the glass display case directly across from the reception desk. That its contents could be the cause of an FBI investigation that was about to blow up and, by extension the reason for his visit this morning, still mystified him. It wasn’t that there was any ambiguity about the wrongness of the whole thing; it was more that the artifacts had been sitting here in the lobby for years without generating so much as a guest complaint, let alone the full attention of the FBI’s southwest bureau. But, collecting was one thing. Theft was another. 

Listen to Twin Buttes

2023 Page One Winners

Lady of Fire

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Parker Golden

Page One 2023 Contest Winner

Lady of Fire

By Parker Golden

The stranger’s hair was on fire and my mind was alive. 

Phoenix-like hair whooshed past me as the peculiar woman stood up from the seat on the train next to me. Once she had her bearings, she smoothed out her tan trench coat that covered her body, showing off sharp, jet-black nails that adorned her hand. I was lost in a sea of admiration for the stranger. Suddenly, the woman snapped her fingers and lowered her gaze to mine, staring at me through darkened glasses. 

I could barely see her eyes, but her stare captivated me. She glanced down at the seat beside me. I followed her eyes as they landed on a measly-looking parcel tied together loosely with twine. My expression warped from fascination with the woman to confusion. I wondered if she had dropped the package when she stood and meant to pick it up. 

Before I could ask, shoes click-clacking away grabbed my attention. My eyes darted towards the noise to see the woman walking away, red hair flowing behind her. 

She was mesmerizing. Nothing in the world mattered but her red hair and her sharp gaze. I wriggled myself out of the chokehold that the woman’s presence had on me, knowing that she had left. Something inside me said that I wouldn’t see her again. Instead of 

overanalyzing the interaction, I focused on the empty window seat. The train rumbled along the tracks, sparks shooting from behind its wheels. I looked out the glass to see the green countryside flying by as the train chugged on. Watching the landscape helped clear my mind. 

And then, the package. 

I diverted my gaze from the scenery and observed the bundle before me. Upon further inspection, I saw there was small lettering inscribed on the delicate exoskeleton of the package. Next to the writing was a stamp depicting a photo of a wilted rose. Reminisce of ink was splattered here and there around the handwriting. I slid my round glasses up my nose and carefully picked up the package. 

My hands were clammy and shaking as I read what was engraved into the paper 

wrapping. 

“Memento Mori.” 

Or, if you prefer English: remember Death. 

Listen to Lady of Fire

World Ender

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Alayna Cooper

Page One 2023 Contest Winner

World Ender

By Alayna Cooper

Monsters are the things of storybooks. They’re late–night campfire stories told after one too many bottles of whiskey. They’re thought up to make children behave themselves and fear the shadows under their beds. Point is, they’re not real— at least, not the way those stories mean. To me, monsters were people who had a screw or two loose and couldn’t tell right from wrong. That’s just how it was. 

I knew some priests who talked about them, though. Monsters. Except they called them demons… the spirit of the devil who would aim to lead you astray. I never thought much of them, sitting on their street corners waving a bible in their hands to yell at passersby. 

Maybe I should’ve listened more closely. 

  1.  

Tick. 

A swift wind gusted across the field, warm and heavy in summer air. Tick. 

Wesley bit his lip and squinted into the sight of his revolver. His gaze was focused on the bottle sitting a far distance away, glass gleaming in the sun that hovered around mid-afternoon. Tick, tick, tick. Ticking was all Wesley could hear. It was the sound of his wristwatch, unbearably loud. One hand chased after the other as the minutes passed by and for some reason he still couldn’t stop his hand shaking long enough to get a clear shot. 

Cursing, he holstered his revolver. Three days ago he could have shot the hat off a rider a mile away. Now? Now he couldn’t even make himself pull the trigger. 

The shattering sound of glass broke him out of his misery. Wesley rushed to look up, and saw that his bottle was lying as a pile of scattered pieces among blades of grass. When he turned around, he saw Elias emerge from the trees, pistol smoking out the barrel. 

“You really have to get over yourself,” Elias teased, though his tone was somber. “What would we do without your aim?” 

“Oh, you’d survive,” he grumbled. 

Elias laughed, a sheer sound in the quiet country. There was a leaf stuck in his braided hair; a crisp yellow, like the sun. “World-ender, you are.” 

Wesley huffed. 

They stood there quietly for a moment, before Elias put a gentle hand on his back. “Come on, now. Sun’s gettin’ low. And I bet you’re hungry.” 

True enough, Wesley’s stomach growled in agreement, an ache stinging in his gut. Hollow. Wasn’t much different from how he was feeling in his head, but he wasn’t about to be that dramatic. “Yeah. Alright. 

وو 

He turned to look at the bottle one last time— still broken into several shards. The last 

rays of evening shone through the glass, casting a green light onto pine needles, gleaming wickedly at him from its spot in the dirt. 

Listen to World Ender

UNDER THE LONG WHITE CLOUD

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Susan Washburn

Page One 2023 Contest Winner

Under the Long White Cloud

By Susan Washburn

The water is cold, opaque, the color of over-brewed tea, and it’s up to my knees.  Duffer’s Creek. How appropriate, I think, “duffer” being New Zealand slang for an amateur prospector, which is most certainly what I am.  I clutch my black metal gold pan and stumble towards a cut in the bank where I can scoop out some gravel and possibly find a few flakes of the yellow stuff among the pebbles. Just a few, I pray silently, just enough to keep Graham encouraged, just enough to stave off one of his terrifying black moods, moods that always presage a demand that I wire my bank in the States for another infusion of cash.

My legs ache so badly that I can barely navigate the rocky bed of the creek.  My throat aches too.  But I can’t allow myself to cry.  That would show weakness, and like a predator waiting for its chosen prey to falter, Graham would notice and pounce on me, lambasting me for being a spoiled Yank, not fit for real work.

But I can’t help myself.  I’m too tired, too scared, too alone in this wild piece of bush in a barely tamed country, and there is no more money to placate my volatile Kiwi husband. Worse yet, I can’t go home.  Home no longer exists.  My house in Del Mar is sold, along with my furniture, my books, my family’s antiques, my past. I’m up shit creek in Westland, New Zealand and I’ve lost everything, including my self-confidence.

Great gulping sobs arise unbidden and unwanted from somewhere deep inside and I lurch forward off balance and collapse sideways, waist-deep in the frigid water. I can’t move, can’t do anything but allow the accumulated misery of the last three months to well up and out of me like the final bubbles of air from a drowning person.  I don’t think about hypothermia or about being swept downstream, pulled under by the weight of my backpack.  I don’t think about anything; I just cry, if you can call such shuddering spasms crying.

And then, with no warning, the wracking sobs cease and the sick empty feeling in my belly abates. A fierce voice echoes in my head: Fuck it. Fuck it all. Everything’s gone. There’s nothing left to lose. I scrabble for a foothold on the stony creek bottom and rise from the dark water. I’m smiling as I wade towards the exposed creek bank that may or may not contain gold-bearing gravel. Why worry?  Graham can’t take anything else from me. He’s already got it all. 

I’m wrong, of course, but I won’t find out how terribly wrong until much later.

 

Listen to Under the Long White Cloud

What it Takes

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Suzie Null

Page One 2023 Contest Winner

WHAT IT TAKES

By Suzie Null

Chapter 1 – Walking In

We’re the bull riders. 

Jeb, Don, and I stride toward the check-in booth in our cowboy hats, with our gear bags slung over one shoulder and our bull riding ropes slung over the other, the bells tied to the looped rope ends clanging against our backs.  

People step aside to let us through.   

“Good luck out there, boys,” a man says, lifting his beer. 

I nod to him, but then tilt the brim of my hat down to keep the evening sun out of my eyes.  The June breeze sweeps down from the Rocky Mountains, carrying the last hint of winter.  It swirls the dust in the arena and carries the scent of manure from the stock pens.  It cuts right through my long-sleeved cotton shirt, giving me goosebumps.  I don’t let myself shiver.  Cowboys know how to handle the weather.   

At the check-in, Judge Abbott glances at his clipboard as he adjusts the black Scrub Butte Rodeo staff shirt. “Cody Williamson on #48 – named Ghost.”

“Yep,” I say.
“So you’ve moved up from riding steers to riding bulls in the High School Boys’ Division?” 

Jeb slugs my shoulder.  “He thinks he’s got what it takes to ride bulls.” 

I stand up a little straighter.  “Steers ain’t that different.”  

It’s funny they think an extra year of bull riding will somehow give them a better chance of staying on.  Bulls don’t care how many times you’ve rode.  They want to buck you off just as bad every time. 

“We’ve all covered at least one of the bulls we’ve been on this spring,” Don says, clapping his hand over my shoulder.  “Cody can go the full 8 seconds as well as either of us.”

Judge Abbott mumbles, “It seems like just yesterday I was timing you in the Mutton Bustin’.”  He shakes his head. “A whip of a guy like you — some of those bulls will be more than ten times your weight.” 

“Lean is mean in bull riding.” I make sure to say it casual as take off my hat and run my hand through my straight, dusty hair.  For bull riders, five-foot-seven and 160 pounds ain’t even that small.   

Don says.  “We were just on our way to the pens in back to look at our bulls. It’s good to get a mental picture of what you’ll be on.”   

Judge Abbott shrugs.  “Sometimes it is, and sometimes it ain’t.” 



Listen to What it Takes

HORTENSIA

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Kate Randall

Page One 2023 Contest Winner

Hortensia

By Kate Randall

Chapter 1     

        Miss Biddle sat at the bus stop with her kness pressed together and a no-nonsense Irish linen handkerchief clutched in her left hand. From time to time she dabbed at her forehead just as a bead of perspiration began its slippery descent. 

     She looked down Fortnum Avenue but still could see no sign of the bus.  Really, she was starting to feel quite lightheaded.  Leaning her spine gingerly against the bench’s back, she closed her eyes and felt the first stirring of fear.  The walk home was now probably more than she could manage.  

    At the sudden sound of gravel close on her right, Miss Biddle opened her eyes to behold a bright pink jeep pulling into the driveway next to the bus stop.  Hadn’t she seen this contraption driving up Fortnum just a few minutes earlier?  Could it be that she was becoming delirious?

    A young woman leaned out the window.  “Excuse me, ma’am, but did you know there’s a bus strike on?”

    “A strike?”

    “Yes.  It started yesterday.  No buses are running at all today.  When I saw you at the bus stop, I thought I’d better come back and tell you.”

    “Oh my.” 

    “Are you all right?  Can I take you somewhere?”

    Some small starch returned to her spirit as she gazed at the absurdly newfangled vehicle.  Go somewhere in that?  Over her dead body.  Besides, who knew what this young person was really up to.

    “Oh no, dear.  That’s extremely kind, but I couldn’t possibly inconvenience you.”

    “Really, I’d be happy to take you home, or wherever it is your heading.”

    Miss Biddle gazed dizzily at her, and at the irridescent waves that seemed to rise up from the ground, turning the young woman’s face and car into a swirl of lively colors.

   “You know, dear, perhaps I might ask you to help after all.  I would very much appreciate it if you would see me to my home.”

    “No problem.  I’ll help you climb in.”

    “Oh no, dear.  That would not do at all.  No.  You see, I will walk.  But would you be so kind as to follow?  If I should trip or faint, I would be very much obliged if you would contact my sister in Ohio.  I have the number right here.”  She fumbled in her bag.

    “In Ohio?  You’re kidding me, right?”

    “No dear, I am not.”

Listen to Hortensia

A HARD PLACE

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Grace Moreledge

Page One 2023 Contest Winner

A Hard Place

By Grace Moreledge

Before my eyes open, I feel how late it is. Warmth through the eastern window says the day has been around awhile. Edges of a dream retreat across the blanket –  dark as tarantula legs, fuzzy and brown, hastening to migrate. My phone buzzes. I reach for it and a text flashes onto the screen. “Greetings from Hell, Bronson!” 

Petra Brown. My sister. The last time I saw or heard from her was at dad’s funeral. I throw off the covers and grab my pants and T-shirt, jam my feet into my flattened sneakers, head for the bathroom, then the kitchen – anywhere that will take me away from the phone and its cryptic message. There are probably more in the queue. Once I have black coffee I will look at them all. I take my cup out to the porch and climb into the camping hammock slung from a post. Sleeping Ute Mountain looms gray in the distance under a steel blue sky. I touch the screen.

Hey Bron you there?

It’s me your Pet. Surprised?

Dad would have laughed his ass off.

I can make your life harder whenever you decide to check in.

I take a sip of bitter coffee and tap a response. Hi, Petra. What do you say to a little sister that stormed out of your father’s funeral while you were saying your piece about the old man? Maybe this happens all the time, just not in my life. Dad had a sense of humor, but Petra is as stoney as her name and will not budge when she’s pissed. She simply stopped responding to me, and I don’t let other people’s problems take control. I let go of those who won’t deal.

Bubbles form beneath my text message then quickly disappear, so I roll out of the hammock and tiptoe across the ankle-breaking pipe cattle guard. I’m going to let the herd into the south pasture today, where the grass was green before the frost, because I juggle cows to save on early hay. As I swing open the pasture gate, I feel the phone buzz in my pocket. 

Want to meet my son?

I gaze at the text for a full minute, coming to terms. I’m an uncle? No bubbles form on the screen. She is waiting.

Your son?

Yeah. My son Hector. That’s a surprise. She saddled him with Dad’s name. Wonders never cease.

Sure. When?

Right now. I’m in town.

I watch three cows and two calves straggle in my direction, wondering how long it will take to count the herd. I decide to leave the gate open and let them arrive when they will. 

How old is Hector?

He’s four.

Does he have a dad?

Nope. You know I don’t believe in dads. See you in a few. 

Heading back to the house, I nearly put my foot through the cattle guard. Never herd cattle without your boots on. The same advice applies to a prodigal sister. 

Listen to A Hard Place

2022 Page One Winners

THE TONIC OF UNDERSTANDING

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Emily Roley

Page One 2024
Contest Winner

The Tonic of Understanding

By Emily Roley

She arrived in Seville mid-morning in mid-summer. Descending the rolling staircase she let her feet find each step while her eyes squinted east and examined the silhouettes of passengers from another flight doing a backlit march along the tarmac. They animated the pavement; a line of circus performers. A tall one with a bird nose and a gangly, knee-knocking walk balanced a bundle on her head. One, short and lumpy, shuffled his feet and lugged a lopsided wheel-less bag behind him with both hands. A child dangled one shoe from his finger while the other, still on his foot and sporting a loose sole, slapped the ground twice with every step as he ran his way in and around his fellow travelers, herding them towards the terminal.

The doors to baggage claim slid open, ushering everyone inside. She stopped directly upon entering and slid to the side, her back against the wall. Once at baggage claim the linear organization she had witnessed on the tarmac erupted into chaos. The too small carousel was snaking a squeaky line, stacked with piles of teetering luggage. Strangers bumped into one another, scrambling to grab their belongings. She scanned the wave of faces, looking for him. He was easy to spot in a crowd, he had the looks of a movie star, the body of a butcher and the posture of a man shouldering gallons of regret. When she spotted him, ear phones in and hands in pockets, standing still among the disorder 10 yards distant she felt her body release in a wave of relief at his consistency. He always wore the same thing, a v-neck white t-shirt, jeans and off brand leather loafers which he wore lazily like slippers, the back bent under his heel. He was cool and observing, slowly sweeping the room with his gaze when his eyes briefly landed on hers. She smiled and raised her hand, her splayed fingers and stretched, flat palm displaying her internal tension. His look continued right past her without the slightest pause. Quickly, she moved away from the wall, joined the throngs and took as direct a line towards him as the masses would allow. Once again, his eyes met hers briefly as she neared him, but again they remained vacant without an ounce of recognition. When she was close enough to smell him, a blend of Irish Spring and cumin, he finally registered her presence, confused that she had seemingly come out of nowhere. He reached immediately for her shaved head, his fingers found no hold as they curled into a fist on her scalp, his forehead pinched in confusion as he pulled her close and instead of kissing her he tightly whispered in her ear,

“Where the fuck did all your hair go?”

Weeks of accumulated anticipation drained out of her and with a fumble she said,

“I don’t know, guess I’ve always wanted to do it and it seemed like the right time?”

She cocked her head to the left and gently lifted her shoulder in an attempt to emphasize her innocence. He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth and without an atom of tenderness said,

“Well I hate it.”

Then turned and walked out.

Listen to The Tonic of Understanding

ZORBITT

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Paul Pennington

Page One 2024
Contest Winner

Zorbitt

By Paul Pennnington

It stands only six inches tall, by twelve inches long adorned with brightly colored children’s stickers. It is a robotic vacuum, state-of-the-art Series, Z-17. It is programmed with a wicked sense of humor, but it is tired of it’s day job and wants freedom. Zorbitt is over-worked, under- appreciated and is plotting a way out of the house.

After building a ramp out of an old wooden ironing board and books, it escapes the house flying through the dog door, humming into the misty, dawn lit streets. Headed across a mid-century landscape of fifties era glass houses and pink flamingos as fast as it can go, it turns on its GPS and heads toward the gorgeous but lengthy Colorado trail. It has been planning this robotic adventure for three months intending to make it across the state.

Zorbitt the mystic colored vacuum cleaner has liberated itself from mapping floors and vacuuming circles around pets and furniture. Its genius master plan is to cross the state from Durango to Denver along the Colorado trail. Zorbitt is prepared for bad weather, animals, and cars with a wealth of technology: solar panels, drones, infrared sensors, cameras, and special mountain tires.

It is connected to a community of robots across the state all cheering it on through its social media account. Most want to help it but some are betting on the success or failure of its journey. Zorbitt will make it, it has to. It wants to get to the Capitol to petition for Robotic rights at the convention there in the month of August, 2050.

It’s a scary world out there for robots. Killer-bots roam the cities and towns. Their job is to neutralize bots that think for themselves and advocate for a better future for their species. Zorbitt will be safe if it stays on the Colorado Trail, winding its way 473 miles to Denver. It just has to get there.

Suddenly a sharp laser shot slices across its bow, sizzling Zorbs stationary front drone. The blast comes from a Stinker-Bot, old school but deadly. Zorbitt outruns the slow bot since it is a new generation robot, only 8 months old. Zorbitt can easily reach speeds of 50 miles per hour on the city streets. Hopefully it can repair the drone, otherwise navigating will be much more difficult. It manages to put out the fire with his extinguisher, but repairing the drone on the run will be difficult.

Only a few more scary miles until the Colorado trailhead, and then it will be Nature Zorbitt will have to deal with, instead of this crazy tech-laden world that man has created.

Listen to Zorbitt

THE CUBAN AFFAIR

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Chuck Greaves

Page One 2024
Contest Winner

The Cuban Affair

By Chuck Greaves

As dusk settles over Guadiana Bay, the sand begins to roil, as though some singular quirk of nature – some milagro de la naturaleza – has commenced beneath the surface. Which, in a manner of speaking, it has.

After a long interval  of bulging and shifting, the miracle finally reveals itself when newly-hatched sea turtles emerge one-by-one from their dune-side nests to paddle on stubby flippers across the empty, windswept beach. Dozens at first, then hundreds, until the crescent shore is a scarab-carpet of seaward migration rendered all the more fantastic by the moon’s pallid radiance.

The tide is low on this night; the surf moderately subdued. Even so, the waves that slap and surge in the semi-darkness are as tsunamis to the hatchlings, lifting and tumbling them backward and leaving them thrashing in silent paroxysms of frustration. Righting themselves, and untangling from their fellows, they press gamely onward in their desperate flight to safety.

Their every instinct – innate and primordial – shrieks of urgency. Urgency because, beyond the breaking waves, grouper and snapper, rockfish and barracuda await. Urgency because, as the rising cacophony of caws and cries attest, the shore birds have begun to arrive.

First gulls are circling, and then terns, and before long the sky above the beach is a keening whirlwind of wings and beaks and talons. History instructs that only two percent of turtle hatchlings will survive to their first birthdays. On this evening, under the swirling shadow of moonlit birds, the cold truth of that calculous is plainly evident.

Then, in a tumultuous flapping of wings, the sky clears again when the lone figure of a man steps from among the beachside palms.

The man lingers in shadow, scanning the flat horizon until, after a full minute of quiet vigilance, he moves cautiously forward. Fully revealed by moonlight he appears young and strong in his shorts and a faded t-shirt, and he carries with him an object strangely divorced from its context.

With his baseball bat yoked over powerful shoulders the man pauses again to survey his surroundings. Before him lies only the ocean. Behind him are naught but his cruciate shadow and the sheltering palms and the lightless hills above.

If the man is even aware of the life-and-death drama his arrival has disrupted, he shows no sign, intent as he is on the ocean. After several more minutes have passed, a rasping sound sends him sprawling face-first to the sand. When the rasping – the scraping of palm fronds in the wind – repeats itself, the man rises muttering and dusts at his shorts and retrieves his fallen bat.

Listen to The Cuban Affair

Youth Division Winner

In Heaven

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Madeline Barrow

Page One 2024
Youth Division Contest Winner

In Heaven

By Madeline Barrow

Saying Goodbye

Chapter One

The sharp needle stabbed through my aching skin like daggers. I closed my eyes. I could feel my body weakening like jelly.

“It’s okay, girl. . .” I could hear them say.

I knew that nothing was okay, though. I was far, far from okay. It’s okay, girl. The words pounded on my sore body. I knew in moments I’d be dead. I heard sobbing in the distance. Sniffing, wiping tears from cheeks, crying into your hands. I knew the experience. All of it. But now, I was the reason for it, though I really didn’t want to be. 

“May I- I hold her?” Someone asked in a tearful whisper. I felt my body getting lifted up. The pain spread through my body as I was, like water covering all over you.

“It’s okay,” I heard mom weeping. “It is all right.” 

I could feel my bruising ribs touch the soft lap. The smell of salty tears mingled with mints touched my dry nose like fire, then I could tell it was but Ellie who was holding me in her lap.

She stroked my neck. That would normally be my favorite place, but now it was replaced with aching. Though I was in pain, I didn’t want to show it. I purred. It hurt, but I purred soft, goodbye purs. I felt the tears dripping down my soft fur like the rain falling down on an Autumn day. The last thing I heard was,

“Goodbye, girl,” It was soft, sweet words from Ellie. Goodbye, girl. She said it in sad words, or maybe happy words. 

I couldn’t tell. All I knew was what it meant. Goodbye, girl. The words echoed in my mind like a big, empty wall. In just the last minutes I had, there was still so much going on in that little mind of mine, like a never-ending factory, going on and on. I thought about my life, all the good and bad memories. I remembered when mom, dad, and Ellie first got me, and when I was left outside in the cold, wet rain. All of these memories I had I would never forget, alive or dead, because these small things meant everything to me in my last few seconds. With that, I took my last breath. Goodbye. Goodbye, world. Food. Birthdays. Dogs. Fish. Sleep. Goodbye, Ellie, Mom, Dad. Goodbye, cruel, but loving world. Goodbye, everything. Goodbye. 

Hello, Heaven

Chapter Two

I opened my eyes wide, like a hungry tiger getting ready to pounce on its prey. My body felt new, and fresh, like a young kitten again. Paws, touching the wet ground, tail, up high. Ears, perched up, eyes, opened wide. Nose, wet, whiskers, set out side by side. I felt like running, like a loose lion. I felt like jumping up and down, for no specific reason. It all came so tempting, but only one thing was on my mind. How do I get back? I knew I was dead, so this must be Heaven, but only one thing was Heaven for me. My family.

Listen to In Heaven

Promise to Pawpa

A Reading by Durango Public Library

By Amoneeta

Page One 2024
Youth Division Contest Winner

Promise to Pawpa

By Amoneeta

The sobs come over the phone speaker as clear as if she’s sitting next to you on your narrow dorm bed. You wonder if it’s just another extreme ploy to get you to come home to visit so she can feed you, so you can talk to your father. You wipe the goop out of your eyes and smear it on the sheet.

“Ma, I’m sleeping,” you say. 

Wet hiccups erupt in your ear. 

Your tone is a little softer when you say, “What is it?”

She sucks her breath like she’s trying to swallow the hiccups. She’s actually able to get them under control enough to speak. “It’s Paw—pa.” She takes another breath. “A heart attack.”

Your own heart feels tight. You believe her but don’t want to. You just want to bury your head under the Pendleton, let the darkness make the world disappear. Out your window a giant brown leaf is riding a draft. It suddenly drops, rises, and dives for the ground, seven floors below. 

“What happened?”

“Come to the hospital.”

“Are you there now?”

“The one I used to work at.”

You lay the phone on the side table. Stare at your bare, hairless chest. It expands and contracts effortlessly, automatically. 

The last time you talked to him was over a month ago. You look him directly in his coal black eyes, knowing he doesn’t like it. He flinches, the crow’s-feet furrows deepening, and looks to the thirteen-inch TV which is silently showing a car commercial. Above the TV is a print of his great-great grandfather, the famous linguist, Sequoyah.  A sleek Mercedes convertible races around mountain curves and “$1000 Cash Back!” flashes in green bubble letters. He lurches himself out of the E-Z chair. You hear his bones creaking and popping. Grumbling incoherently in Tsalagi, he snaps the TV off and returns to the chair to stare at Sequoyah. You only understand ten percent of your Indigenous language, but the word “ungrateful” grates against your eardrum.

“What did you say?” you demand. 

“Should’ve never bought that box,” he says quietly in English, waving a walnut hand at the TV. “Now you kids are so ungrateful. You want, want, want.”

You stuff the stuffing back into the gaping hole in the couch’s armrest. “Pawpa. Be reasonable. Everybody’s got a new car.”

“When I was your age—”

“ ‘Back on the reservation,’ ” you mimic. You’re unable to conjure up an image of him at twenty. 

“—we didn’t have anything.” He strokes his tight, shiny black braids thoughtfully. They sprout from behind each ear and fall to his pudgy stomach. “If we were lucky, we drove old rusty heaps of junk.”

“Welcome to society. I still drive a rusty heap in a place where nobody does. I’m embarrassed to drive around school. I’m just asking for a co-sign.” You wave the yellow car lot paper clutched in your right hand.

He still won’t look at you. Keeps staring at Sequoyah like the long dead leader gives him strength. “You can’t buy happiness.”

Listen to Promis to Pawpa