"Rubber Boots" by Doris von Tettenborn—Our September 2024 Gold Medal Winner
Doris von Tettenborn is our first place winner from the contest posted in our September 2024 issue and her story will be published in the December 2024 edition. Congratulations, Doris!
What the judges had to say:
“Succinct and to the point, with vivid imagery. ”
“…an intriguing narrative.”
“…strong voice.”
Meet Doris
Doris lives in the shadow of the Alberta Rocky Mountains and is grateful for her mountain panorama sunset views. She savours being retired with time to garden, write and play with her granddaughters. Doris’s essays have been published by Globe and Mail, Off Topic Publishing, and Inspired Lifestyle magazine.
Rubber Boots
an excerpt of Doris’s winning story
You are scurrying, hurrying home from work and it’s already dark outside because you were the last to leave the office because everyone knows they can count on you to finish whatever they give you—anything and everything—and anyway you don’t have anybody waiting for you at home so it makes no difference. They say.
You keep your head down and your chin tucked into your thick oatmeal-coloured scarf that used to be white when your grandma knitted it for you 27 years ago. Your head is tucked down because it is cold and dark and you never make eye contact because eye contact makes you nauseous.
Snowflakes swirl in patterns under the street lights, increasing speed, whirling, and you whimper. You try to stop it. You know it’s coming, but you try to stop it anyway, you close your eyes, you hum a tuneless tune, you chew on the tip of your matching oatmeal-coloured mitts, shove the whole end into your mouth to stifle the sobs. You even shout NO, loud enough that the dingy mitten can’t muffle it. But that doesn’t help, it never does, and the memories flood your body, every cell drenched with the fear and the shame, the fear of that day when you were 7 and your mother forgot to pick you up at school.
It was dark that day too, dark and snowing and the street light right outside the school flooded the crosswalk where you weren’t supposed to cross without a grownup holding your hand only there was no grownup. It was dark and snowy and cold and silent that day when your mother’s car finally rolled up, close to the sidewalk where you stood huddled, freezing and crying, when the car barely stopped and she screamed at you to get in.
You had cried so hard that day your eyes were almost swollen shut and snot was smeared and frozen across your cheeks. Your mother called you disgusting and pulled a crumpled used tissue from her sleeve and spit on it and handed it to you to wipe your face and you’d rather have your own snot, thank you very much.
…
to read the rest of the story, order your copy of the December 2024 issue.
