Buckeye, Arizona
Congratulations, Beth!
Beth’s Bio:
Beth Cato resides in Buckeye, Arizona, on the outskirts of Phoenix. Her husband Jason, autistic son Nicholas, and two crazy cats keep her very busy, but she still manages to squeeze in time for writing and other activities that help preserve her sanity. Beth is originally from Hanford, California, but lived all over the country during Jason's time in the Navy; she is quite content to have her husband out of the service and home most evenings, though her time as a military spouse has provided tremendous writing material.
Her essay "Home is Where the Kitties Are" is featured in the book The Ultimate Cat Lover. Beth's fiction has been published in The Shine Journal, and she received an honorable mention in the Ligonier Valley Writers Zombie Flash Fiction Contest. She's seeking representation for her women's sci-fi novel, The Locked Door, and is working on a new near-future superhero fantasy titled Normal. National Novel Writing Month is celebrated in her household each November, though the degree of celebration varies wildly dependent on her word count and caffeine level. Her current projects and blog are all accessible through her website: http://www.bethcato.com.
Junk and Mothballs
The shopping carts were locked together, a mating mass of plastic and metal, so Ruth reached for a hand basket instead. She glanced up with a sigh and studied the aisles. She had been to this thrift store before and was something of a regular, but this mission was different. Already she had hit three sister stores and left without spending a nickel, and this had to be the last one for the day. The kids would be on the bus soon.
The clothing wasn't of concern, so she turned towards the knickknacks instead. Immediately Ruth's eyes snagged a clay figure of a hunched naked woman, the sort that art students make in high school. Biting her lip, she caressed the coarse curves before setting it back on the shelf. This was a sign. A good sign. But it wasn't what she was after.
The jewelry box was hiding beneath two dog-gnawed "Welcome" signs and a thimble advertising Sequoia National Park. She brushed the other objects aside and opened the jewelry box to check. It was solid cherry wood lined with vermilion velvet. She twisted the brass knob, and the weary musical contraption only griped. It hadn't played "Blue Danube" for at least a decade. She smiled and set the box in her basket.
Nothing, nothing, nothing. Cheap junk, mostly, accompanied by Avon pretties that had looked lovely in 1983. Ruth tipped the stacks of saucers, carefully, and studied each one until she found a solid stack of Johnson Bros. designs featuring a brown castle. Jackpot! Looking through the dinner plates had no result. The matching plates must have sold or were broken in the back. She rubbed the edge of the wooden jewelry box and glanced at her watch again.
Finally, Ruth turned to the wall of obsolete artwork. It was a flashback to her childhood in the 1970s, complete with painted black velvet and fake wood-framed artwork of big-headed children in plaid. They smelled faintly of mold and mothballs. She flipped through the pictures leaning against the wall, then another stack, then another. She had almost given up when she looked up on high, and there it was—adorning the wall right above the half-lit emergency exit sign.
It was a painting, a crude one, featuring two cats entwined. The black tabby stripes were too bold on one, and the eyes were ovals rather than almonds, but it was beautiful nevertheless. Ruth hugged the painting as she carried her treasures to the cashier.
"Those're some weird lookin' cats," the cashier said, smacking gum and bagging the items.
"Don't say that," said Ruth with a frown. "My mom painted it."
"Oh. Why's it here then?"
Ruth held the plastic bags against her hips. "She died a week ago, and my brothers decided to offload her junk without asking what I wanted." Tears filled her eyes. "I'll be back tomorrow."
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