Flash Fiction Contest – Stories and Photographs

Students Turn Historical Photos into Gripping Yarns

Have you ever looked at an old photograph and imagined about the stories it holds?  This fall and winter, students at Jackson Hole Middle School, Jackson Hole High School, and Summit High School did just that.  Nearly 200 students wrote stories that brought historic photographs to life.

The Jackson Hole Historical Society and Museum’s is currently exhibiting student stories alongside the historic photographs that inspired them.  All stories on display are grade level winners in a contest awarding cash prizes to students. Funding for all student awards generously donated by the Jim & Becky Rooks Charitable Trust.

In their third year, the contest and exhibit are the culmination of a collaborative project to bring Jackson Hole Historical Society and Museum resources into local classrooms.  In Social Studies classes at Summit, JHHS and JHMS, students viewed images from the History Museum’s archives.  Faculty involved in the project include Stan Morgan (SHS U.S. and World History), Jim Rooks and Ryan Bell (JHHS World History), and David Wells and Greg Poduska (JHMS 8th Grade).

Students worked with pARTners artists and local writers Matt Daly and Clayton Caden who guided them in the process of gathering information from the photographs.  Students learned some of the skills that historians use while viewing primary visual source material and recording detail.  Based on their observations, Daly then guided students as they imagined stories and wrote one-page “flash” fiction pieces.

“This contest was truly a collaborative project,” says pARTners artist Matt Daly.  “The photos from the History Museum archive are amazing.  I really enjoyed watching students discover the history of their home region through these images.  In addition, the method students practiced for scanning visual sources meets middle and high school history standards.  Writing these flash fiction stories in just three class periods challenged students to keep their writing lively and focused.  This project was a great way to use local historical resources and student creativity to bring history to life.”

pARTners is a non-profit organization with over 15 years experience  promoting creativity and improving learning in the schools by bridging the education and arts communities.  This year pARTners will work with students and teachers at every grade level and from every school to bring arts-based projects into classrooms.

Beaver Dick Leigh

Beaver Dick Leigh

Grand Champion

Unbearable Thoughts

Sydney M. – Jackson Hole High School

          I stepped outside with tears on my face. My rifle was in my left hand, my pistol on my hip. I wiped away the tears with my free hand before they could freeze, it was still early enough in the morning that the sun hadn’t risen yet and the brisk November air bit at my nose. I took a steadying breath and started my rounds, there still needed to be food on table, even if half the house was too sick to swallow.

I knew we shouldn’t have given the women a place to stay, something like this had been bound to happen. Jenny was sick in bed, two of our children had passed away, and I was still recovering. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to give the women and her child a place to stay, it was that small pox took almost every life it came in contact with. But Jenny had insisted, and the day I didn’t give that women something she truly wanted was the day I was lying in my grave.

I was halfway around the lake and already had two beavers hanging on the hip opposite my holster. The sun was about to rise over the top of the mountains and, in a moment of last decision, I sat down on a rotting log to watch it. I set the dead beavers behind the log, plucked a piece of straw from the ground next to me, and settled my rifle across my knee.

Watching the sunrise over Jenny’s Lake was a sight I would never get tired of, it was almost as beautiful my wife, which is why I called it by her name. Sitting there and watching the sun come up, I realized how much I needed Jenny to recover. I knew kicking out the women who had brought this upon her would do no good, so there was no solution that I knew of. This was a battle she needed to fight on her own.

The sky lit up pink and made the frost covered trees around me look angelic, but that was the exact opposite of what this day would be. Jenny wasn’t going to recover today, or any day after that. Our youngest had died in her sleep the night before, and I was going to be the one to bury her today, alone. No one else in the family was well enough to get out of bed.

Jenny couldn’t die. She couldn’t leave me with only a lake to remember her by. She couldn’t die and leave me with another body to bury alone. She couldn’t die and leave me alone at all. Jenny couldn’t die, not this close to Christmas. I took a deep breath and started back home, there was a child to dig a grave for.

John Holland

John Holland

 

Runner Up

                        Breaking the Night with the Dawn

Hannah D. – Jackson Hole Middle School

The coyotes howled as our posse headed across the town into the wood, the sun began to rise like an old moon of the yesteryear.  A wind chilled the bones of the men as the trees grew thick like blood, and all was quiet. The windows of the old cottage ahead glowed with the fire of a wick. Steady hooves shifted in the dark, as the horses in the pen adjusted to the night. I carried my ropes in my cold, dry hands, my stomach tossing like the river that whooshed to my left among the trees. The men’s spurs glinted like the stars. The old wood of the barn door left a deep splinter in my hand as I pushed it open. Moonlight cast a heavy ray of ice blue light across the hay-covered ground. The heavy metal of my holster weighed down my belt just like the traps I used to carry along the winding trails. Boots crinkled the stiff hay, as each man approached a horse. They snorted as the men undid the heavy ropes. The sun began to gleam higher, breaking the night with the dawn. Soon the man of the house would come to feed these creatures, and we would be caught. The white horse in which I decided to take resisted my pulls toward the door. He gave in, we tromped into the woods my posse and I. Familiar trails traveled before me; dust stung my wet eyes. My throat was dry as I twisted the rusted cap off the cool canteen.  Sun beaming on the new morning we came to a clearing. Men and horses gathered in a circle, like my old group of trappers out to make a living. I traded it for this; the soft pelts were rare now. I never made much off of them, so I stood reins in hand, packs of supplies strapped to the horse, prickled bushes at my feet. My stern face engraved in the quick blinding flash of the camera.

Ben Sheffield hauling wood for Jackson Lake Lodge

Ben Sheffield hauling wood for Jackson Lake Lodge

Runner Up

Burning

Marcella E. – Jackson Hole Middle School

          Burning. That’s that I could remember. The flames had reached ceiling height, and had leapt from log to log. The last thing that we had poured our hearts into had burned to the ground and left us from the blistering heat to the burning cold that left us empty. The hot coal had leapt from its place in the hearth and fell onto the dry, dusty rug. It burned for hours, and we could only salvage what we could carry in our arms.

We rode on; our horses arranged two by two, a train of eight in total. The brooding man that rode in front of me on horseback was no longer the young, bright boy that had been beaming earlier about his strength. He sulked, and his hat coved most of his face from the stinging cold wind. He hadn’t said a word after we had buried the bodies. The smell of burning flesh still stung at my nostrils, and my blackened hands pulled the blankets closer.

We pulled what we had left of wood and supplies, and I sat in the back in order to collect any supplies that where dropped or lost. The only other person to survive was an old man with an inability to ride and work. The fact he had even survived the fire was just a stroke of luck. He had just so happened to be walking back from a hike when the lodge burnt down.

We rode for five days. We said little, and the only words that were ever said to each other was a simple command. It had snowed the night before, and drifts where as deep as the horses where tall in some places. We stopped where we could, but the snow had made almost every campground inaccessible, and the wind stung our eyes and cheeks like a thousand frozen ants. Our supplies where running low, and we would soon end up eating twigs if we didn’t reach town soon.

On the fourth night, while we searched for a flat area to make camp, I saw the gleaming of lamps in the distance like fallen stars. They glowed like hope, and almost made me cry out for joy. We where close, but too far for us to reach town before our supplies ran out. All we had left was a piece of bread, barely the size of my hand. We had no hunting or gathering equipment. None of us knew the first thing about surviving without any food or water. I knew then, that one of us wouldn’t survive the fifty mile journey to town.

Marie and Emil Wolff with son Willie outside log cabin at Elk, Wyoming

Marie and Emil Wolff with son Willie outside log cabin at Elk, Wyoming

Runner Up

My Decision

Cinthia H. – Summit High School

 Willie woke us up, he was crying uncontrollably. With only three days after our big move, I could tell Willie felt a difference. Emil warned me that the photographer was coming very soon and we had to be ready by then. I got up and got dressed, I looked at the stripes on my sleeves and wondered if I could really go through with this, I fixed the wrinkles on my sleeves and looked over at Willie, I picked him up and got him dressed. I picked up the bonnet that my great grandmother made my mom and that was passed down to me and placed it on Willie’s head and tied the ribbons together. Emil banged on the wall of the cabin, a sign that the photographer was here, and that I was late. I walked out the door and looked at the man standing in front of our cabin fixing up his camera at the right angle. I stood by the window with Willie in my hands, the wrinkles on my sleeves formed again but this time I let them be, and I drifted into deep thought.  I didn’t ask for this. I never wanted to come here. I had a great life planned out for Willie at Luxembourg, but Emil heard about the chance to own land here in Wyoming and decided to change our whole lives without asking how I felt about it. Emil brought the dog with him and stood sideways facing the baby and smiling. The sun shined too bright, it was hard to look in one direction. I felt the warmness on my face. I wanted to get this over with, and I wanted to have my life as it was. The photographer took the photo and I could finally move again. I took the picture and went back inside. I studied the picture closely and realized that this wasn’t me. I made my own decision this time, and I waited until Emil was asleep. I got my bag from under our bed and packed some clothing and food for the trip back. Still wearing my dress from earlier today I changed Willie and wrapped him with a warm blanket and tied him up with a bow as he fell asleep. I looked at the picture one last time and placed it on my pillow next to Emil and walked out the door.

Jackson Lake Lodge employees Bob Koedt and Bill Erlinbush

Jackson Lake Lodge employees Bob Koedt and Bill Erlinbush

My Inger

Rylee A.

Jackson Hole High School

Tilgiv mig, Inger, my poor wife. We work all day and do you know what for? Another cent to continue our labored lives. How hollow. Do you miss Copenhagen? Mr. Erlinbush hasn’t a clue what an actual problem is if he’s complaining about ash hitting the floor. Why, Mr. Erlinbush is a sad man. I can’t help feeling great sorrow for him. Oh Inger, where have we been all these years? Jackson is beautiful, but it lacks ecstasy. Our lives are parting from us. We live in a burdened world, you see. We go home and fret our existence away. Let’s drink and enjoy a night for ourselves just once more. Let’s awake with great pleasure to be alive and not worry about another poignant evening.

Aren’t you tired, Inger? You’ve never complained much. I wish you would. You look at the world so mercifully. So benevolently. I have to wonder sometimes what could be going through your mind. My beautiful wife, how life isn’t as mundane when you’re around. Everything in your eyes is exquisite. But don’t you wonder sometimes, how our lives could have been? How Denmark would have treated us after the war? Let’s leave, Inger. The only logical explanation for an unsatisfying life, where nothing happens in our favor, would have to be that we were made for another world. You love it here, don’t you Inger? Without you, I’d sure as hell loathe it. Let’s leave the Estes Cabins, Kid. Let’s go where the flowers flourish, and there isn’t another humdrum soul to bring us planted a little further into the ground.

Jeg elsker dig, Ingrid.

Jackson Lake Lodge employees Bob Koedt and Bill Erlinbush

Jackson Lake Lodge employees Bob Koedt and Bill Erlinbush

Eye Witness

Chantz G.

Summit High School

 

He came in about an hour ago. He had nicely fitted Carhartt jacket a little short in length just above his Rolex. I was a little concerned when he came in all jumpy and skeptical. I couldn’t resist but to place the touch of my fingertips on my revolver once I saw how large and odd shaped his right pocket was with hand lodged inside. The way he eyed the items in my store I thought he sure would be the type to pull a five finger discount.

There was heavy tension in his breath when he addressed me though, so I knew something was up. I gave him a greeting and asked what business he has being here. Then he pulled out a small golden container which I was relived it wasn’t a pistol. I took a look at the item for its value estimated it around twelve hundred, but I only gave him an offer of eight.

He immediately slammed his fist against the table splitting his knuckles as he snapped at me in a sharp tone. I jerked back and a few seconds of silence fell between us. He was the first to speak after that, he looked at me with these sorrowing eyes and looked at me and said, “I’m sorry, my daughter is in the hospital and if I don’t get the money for the transplant, she’ll die. She’s the only thing I have left. Please Sir.” I didn’t want to believe him but I had no other choice when I saw that one tear form in the corner of his eye.

I reached down and grabbed my pack of smokes, slipped one between my lips, flipped the lighter and took a puff. I felt bad for the man so thought of buying the item, but first had to ask where it came from. He truthfully came out and told me it was stolen, and one thing I don’t do is accept stolen items officer. He begged and begged for almost ten minutes, but I just couldn’t give in.

I’ve seen many things in my day of working here but I have never seen someone as desperate as him. We both heard the faint sound of your sirens in the distance so he grabbed his item and going to be off on his way. I had no other choice, I could tell he wasn’t bad, just a man trying to save his daughters life. Before he hit the door I had no other choice to yell after him to come back. I popped open my register and told him to keep his container and take as much as he needed and helped on out the back door. I know it’s illegal to help him get away but any kind heart would have done what’s right. So, will you be taking me into the station now?

Marie and Emil Wolff with son Willie outside log cabin at Elk, Wyoming

Marie and Emil Wolff with son Willie outside log cabin at Elk, Wyoming

The Last Shot

Aspen J.

Jackson Hole High School

          I stared at the new small fragile body covered in yellow skin draped in a white cloth. Emil looks at his new kin with pride. He use to look at me that way, before he found his mat. Emil and I we were a pack. We hunted, traveled, and slept together. Now he only looks at me in disgust, well not so much Emil but his mate Marie does. I try to establish territory in the house but I just get thrown out, everything seems to belong to the new blond pup. This morning Emil and I went hunting the first time in months. I was so excited I couldn’t help it I started barking and jumping all over the place. I knocked over a chair and the small pup started winning. I want the high pitched noises he was making to stop. I jump up on his cradle and snarl, but the noise just got louder. Emil’s mate ran over and kicked me. I yelped.

Emil’s mate said, “See this is what I’m talking about Emil!” Emil didn’t say anything and he walked out the door, I followed. Hunting was very productive, we killed two ducks and a rabbit. It felt like old times again. We went back to the house. Emil goes out back to skin our kill. His mate Marie comes out she is yelling and points at me. Her face is all red and twisted in a way I’ve never seen before. She grabs Emil’s rifle and walks abruptly towards me. Emil sits down by the house with his head in his hands. Marie calls for me to follow her so I obey. I’ve never been to the woods with her before. She moves faster than I’ve ever seen her move, I have to trot to keep up. Suddenly she stops. Slowly she turns around to face me, her hands fidget with the rifle by her side. Our eyes lock I can see her breath puff out into small clouds in front of her. She raises the rifle her eyes never leave mine.

Mary Wadams, grandmother of Frances Judge, in doorway of her homestead cabin

Mary Wadams, grandmother of Frances Judge, in doorway of her homestead cabinStanding Alone

Standing Along

Jessie O.

Jackson Hole Middle School

            Standing up from my tough desolate chair, my old bones ache as my feet crack on the ragged wooden floors. I stagger my way over to the fire my old rags fall behind me catching on the nails beaten into the floorboards. Its not like it used to be- the present- the nails creep up from the rotting wood tearing into my rags like fingers digging into the past, making me bleed with every scrape. I gently pick up a log carrying it one at a time, my bones delicate bearing only so much weight. I proceeded to the fire, my footsteps ponderous under my vulnerable knees. The coals burn a bright comforting orange -the only happiness in this home. I toss the log in and stir the fire with the long iron rod, almost too heavy for me to hold. My hands now a coal black filled with blisters and wounds, my heart heavy. I try to visualize his radiant smile, our hands fitting together like a key in a lock. I remember the way he smelled after a day in the fields, sweaty but of warm sugar. He’d work all day to keep the stalk healthy; he was a strong man, he knew just what to do in any situation.

He was my genius; I missed the way he held me when I was ill, or his smile shining bright on any given day. I remembered what I felt when he was around, I could still feel him deep in my bones and I longed for him in my breath. I missed him. Now that I was here, in this quiet small town, I missed his company. I endeavor to preserve my life in this house. Alone with much work to be done, I just don’t have the energy to keep up.  And as I stand here in this window looking out on this cloudy lonesome day I remember, when life was well and when all was happy. I fold my hands together trying to grasp the feeling of our hands combined as one forever. But I come out of my trance and I realize he isn’t there, and he will never be again. And once again I am pushed into the dark hole that brings me to my knees and causes me to weep. I slowly arch my back and stand up, I lean against the rotting wooden frame my eyes full of misery.

“FLASH” the camera catches me, just a glimpse into the dark space of my heart. I stand there, my eyes feel heavy, and my bones weak. I stand there, minute after minute. Looking at nothing but almost something, I see him and he smiles at me. My heart beats quickly and I try to speak but no words come out, I’m angry; he left me all alone. He disappears as quickly as he came. I stagger my way back to my chair. Avoiding the nails of the old wooden floorboards. I sit down slowly; my back aches, I move around uncomfortably. I try to imagine his face again, I try to visualize that he is still there. But he isn’t, and he never will be again.

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Over Old Scars

Doug Thompson

Summit High School

 

Great. I’ve done it again, I thought to myself. I looked down at my thighs, which were bleeding in thin red lines. I felt the shower water run down my body, taking the blood with it. I now stood in a puddle of my own blood. My body was shaking as tears streamed down my face. I looked at my hand, a blood-stained razor lying in my palm.  Dark thoughts swarmed my head. Normally when I introduce a piece of metal to my skin, it makes me feel better about my problems. But today, it only made me feel worse about myself. I felt like a waste of time. That Monday had started off just fine. It was dreaded picture day, and I decided that today I was going to take a good picture. I picked out the perfect outfit and put it on with a smile. My smile faded when I looked in my vanity mirror, looking at my face. I looked away in disgust and grabbed my makeup. I worked for about an hour on prettying myself up, and finally I was happy. I had flower beads in my wavy brown-ish red hair, red lipstick, and a white button up shirt. I had a couple moles and small pimples on my face, but nothing too major.

Now came the scary part. Facing my “darling” mother for the first time in the morning. I silently prayed that my mom would still be sleeping. No such luck. I walked out my door to my tiny apartment. The woman who gave birth to me sat at the breakfast table, eating some nasty fake Mexican TV dinner and drinking from a bottle of Captain Morrigan. Breakfast of champions.

I walked past her quickly, trying to avoid conversation. Surprisingly, my mom ignored me instead of insulting me.

“See you later mom.” I quietly said to her. No response.

I walked out the door and headed to school. When I got there, my friend Carrie greeted me eagerly. She complimented me on how I looked.

Carrie and I went class and just as always, I was teased for my looks by the other torturous kids. Carrie tried to cheer me up by telling me I’m pretty. I didn’t believe it, so she took a picture of me on her phone and showed it to me. I actually smiled and blushed, feeling happy about my looks. Lunch time came along and school pictures were about to be taken. Just as I was daydreaming of the perfect school picture, a random person in the hallway threw their lunch on me, ruining my clothes and my hair. I ran into the bathroom to try to fix what I looked like, which proved useless.

I was done dealing with these kids. I feigned illness and went home. As I sobbed into my pillow, my mom came in to my room. She told me to stop complaining. She told me that if I had actually looked beautiful in the first place, that there would be a reason to cry for having picture day ruined. She further went on to insult me on the color of my skin, my weight, my hair, and to put the icing on the cake, she called me ugly for having self-harming scars.

So once she left, my first reaction was to go into my dresser, grab the familiar razor blade I’ve seen before, and brought it into the shower. I cut over old scars, causing extended bleeding. As I was sobbing silently under the raining shower water, I heard the phone ring. My mother yelled at me to answer it.

I put on a towel and answered it. My now-boyfriend Jeff called and asked me to the school party tonight. We kissed that night, and started to date. I now haven’t hurt myself for three months since we’ve been together, and don’t plan on it.