I missed the announcement of the Slate Significant Objects contest. One of the more wittier historical fiction pieces won, and subsequently, brought in fifty-four dollars for the knickknack on eBay. Pretty good. Congrats to Matthew Wells and the runners up.
Below the cut is my entry. I haven't read it since I submitted it so it is reproduced in full, possible hidden errors and what not.
My nephew Drew pulled my name for the family’s Big Secret Santa the same year he and his family came to the July 4th barbeque smelling of the prior night’s hangover, the combined breath from the four of them could marinate the chicken better than what Grandma had whipped from the leftover jars of mustard, mayo and barbeque sauce she had in her fridge. That combination would ultimately give Drew’s father Dave a case of gas, something that he would show off with the same Aim-n-Flame used to light the grill.
His wife and daughter sat at one of the park’s picnic benches, disowning him and those neon blue puffs of fire coming from his ass. Later, Dave started up a game of football with Drew and two of my other nephews. It resulted in a 21-14 loss and Dave losing his pants on a heroic dive during the end of the final play. Never a bashful guy, he showed off the grass stains and skid marks to everyone, ruining what little appetite I had left after tasting Grandma’s marinade.
Whoever picked Dave’s name for the Secret Santa must have remembered the 4th, since his big gift was a pair of new Levi’s. “Thanks!” he shouted. “I’ve been needing these for a while now!” There was a shared laugh among the sounds of tearing paper and young grandchildren squealing.
When I pulled out the glazed jar, I had to fight my eyebrows from rising and my mouth from forming the words ‘what is it?’
“Made it myself in shop class,” Drew said, bright smile piping up through what might have been my all too visible confusion. He sat in the farthest corner of the room, an arm’s length from his family, with the hood of his Yankees sweatshirt pulled up.
“Oh,” I said. “Thank you. It’s very nice.” I almost, almost believed him until I went to put it away and saw the words “IN CHINA” on the bottom. He wasn’t watching me anymore; too busy looking at the back of one of his new video games. Gift given. Christmas Accomplished.
When Shane looked over at me and asked what Drew got me, I showed him the jar.
“Oh,” he said. It was all he or anyone could say.
“Do you like barbeque sauce?” I asked, low enough that even if they were paying attention, neither Dave or Drew would hear.
“No,” he said.
“Same here.” I thought for a moment. “We don’t have a grill, do we?”
“No,” my husband replied.
“I thought so,” I said, putting my gift away. If Drew’s so crafty, maybe I’ll ask him to papier-mâché me one for my birthday.
His wife and daughter sat at one of the park’s picnic benches, disowning him and those neon blue puffs of fire coming from his ass. Later, Dave started up a game of football with Drew and two of my other nephews. It resulted in a 21-14 loss and Dave losing his pants on a heroic dive during the end of the final play. Never a bashful guy, he showed off the grass stains and skid marks to everyone, ruining what little appetite I had left after tasting Grandma’s marinade.
Whoever picked Dave’s name for the Secret Santa must have remembered the 4th, since his big gift was a pair of new Levi’s. “Thanks!” he shouted. “I’ve been needing these for a while now!” There was a shared laugh among the sounds of tearing paper and young grandchildren squealing.
When I pulled out the glazed jar, I had to fight my eyebrows from rising and my mouth from forming the words ‘what is it?’
“Made it myself in shop class,” Drew said, bright smile piping up through what might have been my all too visible confusion. He sat in the farthest corner of the room, an arm’s length from his family, with the hood of his Yankees sweatshirt pulled up.
“Oh,” I said. “Thank you. It’s very nice.” I almost, almost believed him until I went to put it away and saw the words “IN CHINA” on the bottom. He wasn’t watching me anymore; too busy looking at the back of one of his new video games. Gift given. Christmas Accomplished.
When Shane looked over at me and asked what Drew got me, I showed him the jar.
“Oh,” he said. It was all he or anyone could say.
“Do you like barbeque sauce?” I asked, low enough that even if they were paying attention, neither Dave or Drew would hear.
“No,” he said.
“Same here.” I thought for a moment. “We don’t have a grill, do we?”
“No,” my husband replied.
“I thought so,” I said, putting my gift away. If Drew’s so crafty, maybe I’ll ask him to papier-mâché me one for my birthday.
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