I’m excited to share that my entry was one of ten runners-up for the Writers’ Police Academy Golden Donut Short Story Contest.

What’s a Golden Donut contest and who can enter?

The contest is open to everyone. A photograph is posted and you have to write about it in exactly 200 words, including the title. Exactly means just that. Contractions count as two words and acronyms count as all the words. It wasn’t easy to meet that part of the requirement. But the writing was fun. I’ll include mine at the end, but here’s the link to all of them. It includes the photo. While you’re on Lee Lofland’s site, take a look around. His blog, The Graveyard Shift, is a rich resource for crime writers.

Finalists were judged by author Brenda Novak. So now I can brag that Brenda Novak reads my writing! They announced our names at the conference banquet. They also gifted me with a souvenir. I was as red as the taillight. To see how I “earned” the light, check out this post.

What I find most interest is how this contest can reassure anyone who fears that her ideas might be stolen. Every entrant looked at the same photograph–of a bridge leading to a mysterious woods. And every submission was different. Proving that even given the very same idea, each of us will come up with something unique to us and our styles and biases.

So, here’s my entry:

Bridging Fear

It was not the same bridge. Totally different construction. My brain registered that fact, but the fear that lay deep in my bones and muscles rose unbridled by reality.

Home lay across that bridge. Home, peace, and Grandma’s peach cobbler. Downstream the pond waited for me, cool and refreshing. Ready for me to jump in naked, washing away the pain and soothing the scars.

My brain knew that. Knew that beyond that bridge I’d soon be enveloped in the love of my children and my husband. I knew how sturdy that bridge was, how it could support all of us and all the food we could tote. I smiled, remembering how we pondered each purchase, determining if it was worth the haul across the bridge and up the hill beyond.

That other bridge had been longer, stronger, built from concrete, built to last. Until an IED had destroyed it and most of my squad. Since that day I had been unable to cross bridges.

A cold, wet nose pressed against my fist and a soft, warm body leaned into my side.

“I can do this.” I stepped onto the wooden planks, my dog beside me.

***

Take a look at the photo and tell us what you might have chosen to write about.