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WOW! Q2 2019 Creative Nonfiction Essay Contest Winners


We had an open topic this season. Our only guidelines were that submissions be nonfiction with a minimum of 200 words, and a maximum of 1,000 words.


Thanks to our Guest Judges:

Chelsey Clammer

Chelsey Clammer

WOW! was honored to have guest judge author/editor/instructor Chelsey Clammer choose the quarter’s top winners. Thank you, Chelsey, for sharing your time and efforts to make these contestants’ dreams come true!

Chelsey Clammer is the award-winning author of Circadian (Red Hen Press, 2017) and BodyHome (Hopewell Publications, 2015). A Pushcart Prize-nominated essayist, she has been published in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The Normal School, Hobart, The Rumpus, Essay Daily, The Water~Stone Review and Black Warrior Review, among many others. She is the Essays Editor for The Nervous Breakdown and a voluntary reader for Creative Nonfiction magazine. Chelsey received her MFA in Creative Writing from Rainier Writing Workshop. Her forthcoming essay collection, Human Heartbeat Detected, looks at the ways in which we are “human” to one another. Clammer is also currently writing a craft book about lyric essays, Sound It Out. You can read more of her writing at:


Melissa Grunow

Melissa Grunow

Melissa Grunow is the author of I Don’t Belong Here (New Meridian Arts Press, September 2018) and Realizing River City: A Memoir (Tumbleweed Books, 2016), which won Second Place-Nonfiction in the 2016 Independent Author Network Book of the Year Awards and the Silver Medal in Nonfiction-Memoir from Readers’ Favorite International Book Contest. Her work has appeared in Creative Nonfiction, River Teeth, The Nervous Breakdown, Two Hawks Quarterly, New Plains Review, and Blue Lyra Review, among many others. Her essays have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and listed in the Best American Essays 2016 notables. She has an MFA in creative nonfiction with distinction from National University. Visit her website at or follow her on Twitter @melgrunow.


Naomi Kimbell

Naomi Kimbell

Naomi Kimbell lives and writes in Missoula, MT. She has an MFA in creative nonfiction from the University of Montana, and her work has appeared in The Rumpus, The Nervous Breakdown, Crazyhorse, The Iowa Review, and other literary journals and anthologies. Her essay, “Whistling in the Dark,” was recognized as a Notable Essay in Best American Essays, 2010, and her essay, “Bounty,” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in nonfiction. In addition to writing creative nonfiction, Naomi writes reviews of independent literature for the Atticus Review, has been featured on the Submittable Blog, and is currently working on a novel. When she’s not writing, she likes to wander through the woods, across hillsides, and visit small towns, taking photographs and shooting video to create impressionistic films with ambient scores using her essays, invented landscapes, and found sounds. She lives with her husband and her bird at the base of a mountain that, from a certain angle, looks a little like an elephant in repose. To learn more, view films, and read her work, visit her website at


Sarah Weaver

Sarah Broussard Weaver

Sarah Broussard Weaver is currently in her second year of the Rainier Writing Workshop MFA program at PLU. Her work has appeared in Full Grown People, The Nervous Breakdown, The Bitter Southerner, Brevity, Crack the Spine, and Hippocampus, among others. She lives in the hills of Portland, Oregon.


Melanie Faith

Melanie Faith

Melanie Faith holds an MFA from Queens University of Charlotte, NC. Her writing has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. Her full-length, historical poetry collection set in the 1918 flu epidemic, This Passing Fever, was published by Future Cycle Press in October 2017. Vine Leaves Press published her craft books about writing and editing flash fiction and nonfiction, In a Flash! Writing and Publishing Dynamic Flash Prose, and her craft book about writing poetry, Poetry Power, (both 2018). Most recently, her shorter pieces appeared in After the Pause, Contemporary Haibun Online, The Sandy River Review, The Writer’s Monthly Review Magazine, and Embodied Effigies. Her flash fiction, “The Slades,” placed honorable mention in the 2014 Bevel Summers Prize for the Short Short Story and was published in Shenandoah (Washington and Lee University). Her short pieces are forthcoming from Red Coyote (fall 2018), and her poetry will appear in Up North Lit (October 2018). She’s a monthly flash fiction judge at Sweek. In addition to numerous photography publications, her art made the cover of both OVS Magazine and Chantwood Review in 2017. Her instructional articles about creative writing techniques have appeared in The Writer and Writers' Journal, among others. To learn more about Melanie’s writing, teaching, and photography, please visit:


Thanks to our in-house WOW Judges:

As always, thank you to the WOW! staff for your careful deliberation and attention to detail. Special thanks to out to Margo L. Dill and Marcia Peterson for helping out with this contest. Excellent job, ladies!



Note to Contestants:

We want to thank each and every one of you for sharing your wonderful essays with our guest judges this season. We know it takes a lot to hit the send button! While we’d love to give every contestant a prize, just for your writing efforts, that wouldn’t be much of a competition. One of the hardest things we do after a contest ends is to confirm that someone didn’t place in the winners’ circle. But, believe it when we say that every one of you is a true winner.

Every writer has been a gracious participant through the whole process, from the beginning of one season to the next. We’ve written emails to authors, agents, and publicists who have donated books to our contest, and we’ve shared our delight regarding the true sportsmanship among our contestants. It doesn’t matter if it’s one writer who placed or another who tried but didn’t; all writers are courteous, professional, and wonderful extensions of WOW! Women On Writing’s team. Writers’ essays and e-mails fill us with enthusiasm.

Kudos to all writers who entered, whether you won or not, you’re still a winner for participating.


To recap our current process, we have a roundtable of 4-7 judges who blindly score equally formatted submissions based on: Subject, Content, Technical, and Overall Impression (Style). That’s the first step of the process. If a contestant scores well on the first round, she receives an e-mail notification that she passed the initial judging phase. The second round judging averages out scores and narrows down the top 20 entries. From this point, our guest judge helps to determine the First, Second, and Third Place Winners, followed by the Runners Up.

As with any contest, judging so many talented writers is not a simple process. With blind judging, all contestants start from the same point, no matter the skill level, experience, or writing credentials. It’s the writer’s essay and voice that shines through, along with the originality, powerful and clear writing, and the writer’s heart.


We’ve enjoyed reading your essays, each and every one of them. The WOW! Women On Writing judges take time to read them all. We recognize names of previous contestants, writers familiar with our style. We enjoy getting to know you through your writing and e-mailing. Remember that each one of you is a champion in our book. We hope that you continue to enter so we can watch you grow as writers and essayists, because each season is a rebirth of opportunity.

Now on to the winners!

Drum roll please....

1st Place Winner
1st Place:  Ashley Memory
Asheboro, North Carolina
Congratulations, Ashley!
Ashley Memory

Ashley’s Bio:

Ashley Memory draws her inspiration from the ancient Uwharries of Randolph County, North Carolina, where she lives with her sculptor husband, Johnpaul Harris. When she’s not musing on a metaphor, she’s either marveling at the pileated woodpecker or keeping her dog away from the cat. Such adventures feed her imagination and fuel her writing.

Her poetry has recently appeared in Coffin Bell and Turnpike, and new work is forthcoming in The Phoenix and The Red Clay Review. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she’s a two-time recipient of the Doris Betts Fiction Prize, and her essay “Eulogy of a Northern Red Oak” was named second-place in the 2019 Rose Post Nonfiction Prize. If you have advice on how to cure her dog from his cat obsession, please throw her a line at her fruit-inspired blog, Cherries and Chekhov, or on Twitter @memoryashley.

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How to Chop an Onion Without Crying


Light a Candle. Strike a match to “Meadow Rain,” the celadon pillar candle you were saving for a special occasion. Relax as the soothing aroma of honeysuckle swirls around you. Muse on a memory of your son, when little, walking in a field of clover where you two imagined you saw little fairies—“lollygaggers”—rise in a mist.

Take a sweet onion in your hand, and marvel at the dry, papery husk. Think of the wings of a dead moth picked up by your broom this morning. Such a powerful force in life, such a fragile creature in death. This could be you. One day it will be.

Rub away the crispy layer, and reveal the smooth, sleek surface. With your sharpest knife, the 8” chef-style, slash in the direction of the grain. The way Jacques Pépin does. Within seconds, your eyes swell and burn. Try not to think of your son again and glance at your phone. Try not to wish he would call. Tears blur, sting, blur again. Remember that you need two chopped onions for your chicken parsnip soup, and the pot is still empty.

Drown it. You’ve heard that cutting an onion under water works. Of course. Water. Tears. Water doused with salt. Think of Shakespeare. Look, they weep, said Enobarbus, who addressed his master in Antony and Cleopatra, as the other servants sobbed before the fateful battle. And I, an ass, am onion-eyed: for shame, transform us not to women.

Wonder why men are ashamed to cry. The last time you saw your son he cried, but he dropped his head and turned away. You yelled at him for not being glad to see you. You treated him like a boy, furious that he still smelled of beer after a late night with friends. He’s 29. He’s old enough to take better care of himself. Why doesn’t he?

Position the knife on the wet onion. It slips and nicks your left thumb. Hold your thumb to your mouth. The cut hurts more than it should. It always does. Wish you could feel your son’s pain. You know he drinks to soften the loneliness of New York City, where he moved to follow his dreams. Be glad you lost it. If you are under control, says the old Zen master, you lose the danger of glimpsing an unknown realm. You are a mother. Know you must always peer into the darkest abyss, eyes wide open. It’s what mothers do. Hold a napkin to your face.

Freeze it. Slip the now ragged onion into the freezer. They say this will lessen the chemical reaction that irritates your eyes. While you wait for it to harden, meditate on the history of the onion, how, like cats, it was revered by ancient Egyptians. A symbol of eternal life, found in the eye sockets of the mummified Rameses. Laugh, thinking of the joke on the tomb robbers. Onions instead of jewels. Wonder what they will find and snicker about when you’re gone. Your first four-leaf clover pressed in wax paper, broken clown toy from your grandfather, clay paperweight made by your son at age five. Cat or dog? Dragon! he shouted.

Think of the sermon from Sunday, how your pastor spoke of the exodus of the Jews in the Bible. How he lamented that everyone glosses over the Book of Numbers because they think it’s just boring old lists. But the words in 11:5 roll like poetry: We remember the fish we ate in Egypt that cost nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic. Ponder the fact that your son doesn’t pine for those elaborate dinners with onions and garlic that you cooked for the family. Instead he yearns for that silly tray of Kraft cheese sandwiches, each one cut into four little squares because a gang of eight-year olds invaded your kitchen and you didn’t have enough on hand to feed every little boy a whole sandwich. Laugh. The miracle of the cheese sandwiches.

Take the onion out of the freezer. Put on a mitt. Chop, chop, chop. Sob, sob, sob. Pray, pray, pray. Will it take a miracle to chop two onions?

Wear goggles. Strap on the goggles your husband wears when he runs the belt sander. Tighten the strap. Raise the knife again. Think of the goggles your son wore on the swim team. An expert swimmer, he struggled instead against the riptide of high school. Like you. Think of the times you ached to fit in with the cool crowd. Your envy of the cheerleaders who pranced and chanted with confidence. We ain’t scared and we ain’t cocky, gonna ride over you like a Kawasaki, zoom zoom!

The goggles pinch. Take them off. Reflect on the etymology of “onion.” It’s Latin, from unio, for “one” or “unity.” The root holds the onion together. Remind yourself you must not sever the root or all is lost.

Return to the field of the lollygaggers. Think of your son as he turned his hazel eyes to yours, and recall those seemingly nonsensical questions that you so relished. Where do lollygaggers sleep at night? Is the sun my friend? Remember what he asked you recently, words that could have come from that same child. Are you proud of me? Grope blindly across the counter. Where is the napkin? Find it and press it to your eyes. Forgive your son. Forgive yourself.

Recall what you read in the old farmer’s almanac. The more often you chop onions, the less prone you are to cry. Shake your head. Realize that the more often you experience joy, the more often you will cry. Reach for the phone. Call your son.



What Ashley Won:

2nd Place Winner
2nd Place:  Jackie Pick
Chicago, Illinois
Congratulations, Jackie!
Jackie Pick

Jackie’s Bio:

Jackie Pick is a former teacher and current writer living in the Chicago area. She is a contributing author to several anthologies, including Multiples Illuminated, Nevertheless We Persisted, So Glad They Told Me: Women Get Real About Motherhood, Here in the Middle, as well as the literary magazines The Sun and Selfish. In 2018, her work won commendation from the Mark Twain House and Museum Royal Nonesuch Humor Writing Competition. Jackie is a contributor at Humor Outcasts, and her work has been featured on various online sites including Mamalode, The HerStories Project, and Scary Mommy. A graduate of the University of Chicago and Northwestern University, Jackie co-created and co-wrote the award-winning short film Fixed Up, and was a member of the 2017 Chicago cast of Listen To Your Mother. She can be found lurking on Twitter or on her website.

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The Moon, the Womb, and Dim Sum


Fact: Back when I was growing up, the New Jersey suburbs nestled in the Watchung Mountains had few good Chinese restaurants. We’d order the same two or three dishes: cashew chicken, beef with broccoli, sweet and sour chicken, nothing too spicy, all cloying and overly sauced, and satisfying in their predictability.

The fortune cookies they served us on a tiny black plastic platter alongside the check doled out only career advice, useless to an eleven-year-old in search of answers to life’s juicier mysteries: Who will I marry? Will stirrup pants ever go out of style? Why should I trust a cookie?

Fact: Sydney Omarr wrote astrology books offering 365 targeted, daily predictions, lucky numbers, and colors of the day. My grandmother faithfully purchased the Aquarius one each year. The first section of the book detailed how the reader’s sign interacted with the other eleven signs in various combinations: Parent/Child. Husband/Wife. Boss/Employee. As the only other books Grandma had were a set of World Book encyclopedias and the Bible, I flipped through Omarr’s prognostications when I visited her small home. I’d sit in her narrow, wood-paneled living room under the paintings of JFK and of Jesus. Jesus looked heavenward. Kennedy grinned beatifically at whoever looked at him.

Fact: Whenever my sister or I misbehaved, my mother (Leo) would say, “Such a Pisces” or “There’s the Scorpio.”

“You believe in this?” I asked my mother when I spotted her copy of Omarr’s Leos 1984 on her nightstand. She kept making her bed, the spritz of Opium she’d just applied hanging thick in the air.

“If the moon affects tides,” my mother reasoned, smoothing her bedspread, “is it so hard to believe the stars could affect the fluids in the womb?”

“Then shouldn’t astrology be based on the moon? And on conception, not birthday?” I blanketed my discomfort at a trusted adult’s apparent irrationality with an eleven-year-old’s anger.

My mother smiled tightly and left the room. I thumbed through Omarr’s exploration of Leo mothers and Scorpio children. “Expect a certain amount of conflict.” My mother had underlined that.

Fifteen years later, the day we buried my grandmother, my mother told me and my sister all the signs she was receiving from her mother. Cardinals on a porch railing. Lights inexplicably turning themselves on. My sister nodded and encouraged my mother to go into my details. My mother waited for my reaction. I shrugged and looked down at the table. I’d sat here many times with my grandmother to talk with her about the forgetful details of my life and she would carefully dole out bite-sized morsels of advice. Aquarians are guarded and loving.

My mother locked eyes with my sister and tilted her chin toward me, “She doesn’t believe in this.”

We Scorpios are skeptical and inscrutable.

Fact: My family was never the type to add “in bed” to fortune cookies. I learned that game from a Pisces I dated. He had a thick mop of brown-black curls, a magnetic JFK smile, and eyes that looked heavenward when he made jokes. He knew the best places in Chicago to get Chinese food.

Fact: Astrologically speaking, my sister and I should have gotten along. I should have been loyal, she should have been nurturing. Growing up, she told me she hated me and I tattled on her. My mother told me she didn’t mean it.

Fact: Before a first date with anyone, I checked our astrological compatibility with a schoolgirl’s mooniness. Scorpio and Pisces pairings were supposed to be harmonious, deep, and rich with understanding, my sister and I notwithstanding.

Fact: After sixteen months, my Pisces boyfriend unexpectedly broke up with me over the phone a few weeks after my grandmother passed. For weeks I tormented myself. Could I—should I—have seen this coming when he started talking nonstop about his plucky new boss who had given herself the nickname “Angel” because she was “a gift from God to the company”? She was a fan of his work and insisted they spend a lot of overtime working, often over dinner.

Despondent in a way that can only be hatched from a broken heart, I asked my mother if she believed in curses because maybe Angel put one on me.

My mother shrugged, a perfect mirror held up to a day long ago. “Your grandmother believed in them.” Then, perhaps in a maternal effort to distract me, she told me of the cardinal my sister had seen just that morning, and how much Grandma had been on their minds these days.

There was nothing for me to say.

Fact: Ten years later, after I’d married a nice, even-keeled Libra and had three kids (two Virgos and an Aries), the ex-boyfriend (still a Pisces) tracked me down on social media and, after a few pleasantries, asked me if I even remembered why we’d broken up.

“Because I seem to recall an ultimatum,” he wrote.

“Not from me.” I shot back. “That must have been Angel.” Passionate. Headstrong. Bold. Emotional.

“Maybe.” He backed off. Friendly. Dreamy. “Hey, do you want to grab some Chinese and catch up?”

I wrote. I railed and cursed. I took aim, trying to inflict maximum damage. I deleted and rewrote. “Thanks, but I must decline.” Most Unscorpio-like. Very unsatisfying, but my grandmother would approve. My mother would have encouraged me to tell him to go to hell.

Fact: Sydney Omarr was born Sidney Kimmelman on August 5, making him a Leo. He changed his name based on numerology, perhaps inspired by the Jewish tradition of gematria which assigns numeric value to letters and weaves connections between words with the same sum of letters. Confusing, perhaps futile, but an understandable pastime. What else are a people to do while sitting around on Christian holidays when everything else is closed? Chinese food on Christmas wouldn’t become a thing until 1935.

Fact: My grandmother once told me, “Be careful what you put in writing.”



What Jackie Won:

3rd Place Winner
3rd Place: Kristina Neihouse
Stock Island, Florida
Congratulations, Kristina!
Kristina Neihouse

Kristina’s Bio:

Kristina Neihouse moved to Key West in 1995. An off and on again creative writer since college, she got back to it after completing her Master’s degree in 2007. She won The Studios of Key West 2014 Writes of Spring competition and placed 2nd in the 2018 Tennessee Williams Short Story Contest. In 2017 she was awarded an Anne McKee Artist Fund Grant to publish her first novel Knowing When to Leave. In 2019 this debut novel won a silver medal in the Florida Book Awards Young Adult category.

Kristina is a full-time librarian who spends her time reading, writing and talking about writing. She serves as Secretary of the Key West Writers Guild, and spends Saturday nights in the Monroe County Detention Center talking with female inmates about writing and other life choices. Read their work at Write On Published.

Check out Kristina’s occasional blog at KAN writes.

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Death and an Abscess


That morning I sent you a text from the writer’s guild meeting about a one-eyed bookseller who wore an eye patch. He was giving us pointers on cover design so he could sell our books to Walgreen’s, and kept referring to bestselling author Tom Chancy. I knew it would make you laugh. I could hear you laugh.

I can still hear you laugh.

The next day I learned you were gone. Looking at the time of the text, I knew you had never received it. I wondered if the police and paramedics had been there, if they had heard the ding of the text’s arrival.

Amidst texts and phone calls of travel plans and schedules with your friends and family members, I had a filling replaced in a sore tooth. While looking at the x-ray the dentist told me the decay was deep.

“Let me see how it looks when I open it up. I’d like to replace the filling and save the root if possible, instead of going right to a root canal,” he said.

I was up for saving anything that might have a chance of survival.

That night, the novocaine just wearing off, I met your mother and sister at the bar of their hotel. You always wanted us to meet. You said your mother referred to me as your “Library Lady.” Two other friends were there. We drank and talked, about you in our lives and how in one way or another you saved each one of us.

Your sister told of your last days and hours as filled in by employers, neighbors and deputies. Your mother said when she saw the police at her door in Baltimore on that Saturday morning, she knew why they were there.

Two days later, with my tooth sending pulses of heat along my jaw, we put your ashes in the ocean where your mother said you could swim with the dolphins. I wondered if you even liked dolphins. But really, who does not like dolphins? And I smiled, knowing if anyone did not like dolphins it would have been you, and for some very good (and precise) reason.

As the ashes fell heavy out of the box and into the ocean, I knew it was final. I saw what was left of you flowing dryly out of that felt-covered box. You were gone. A sob caught in my throat, a phrase I never understood until that moment. When I felt it.

Like my last text to make you laugh, the filling was too late and a week later it abscessed. By Friday night I couldn’t sleep from the throbbing. By Saturday my jaw felt warm. That afternoon I ran into a friend and started to tell her my tooth woes. She interrupted, told me my jaw was swollen.

I went to the walk-in clinic for penicillin and to find out exactly how much ibuprofen was too much. The swelling continued through the afternoon. When my husband came home that evening he didn’t laugh at me but remarked, “What’d you do to your face?”

We looked in the mirror. I had half a Marlon Brando jawline.

“Too bad it’s not closer to Halloween,” he said.

All bets are off when one’s head starts to swell. Upon seeing me the next day, a holistic, vegan, yoga instructor friend immediately asked, “My god, what antibiotics do they have you on? A lot, I hope.”

After staggering through a few hours of work the following Monday I declared I wanted to go home, to which my boss replied, “Good, it looks like you should.”

That afternoon, back in the dentist chair, I slurred through my pain and showed him my penicillin bottle from the walk-in clinic. He nodded at the dosage and asked if I wanted him to open the tooth up right then for the root canal. When I turned he saw my entire face.

“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t we wait for that to clear up a bit?” He wrote a prescription for more penicillin with an appointment the following week.

In the interim, I took 500 milligrams of penicillin and three ibuprofen tablets every six hours. I shuffled through my days, much like the week after your death, only working as long as I could stand to be around people, then going home to nap on the couch while re-watching Harold and Maude, and Leonard Cohen DVDs. I went to bed early and slept through the night. My infected head distracted me from my broken heart, and I thought I was not so sad anymore, just sick and sleepy.

The following week my dentist said I would also need a crown after the root canal. The tooth was beyond saving. As he prepared the needle, he asked how I was doing.

“The penicillin affected me funny,” I said. “I’ve been sleeping a lot; two or three naps a day before going to bed for eight or nine hours a night.”

“Hmmm,” he dabbed numbing ointment inside the back of my mouth. “That’s not really a side effect of penicillin. Here, you’re going to feel a little pinch,” he warned. I shut my eyes. Then he added, “Maybe you needed the sleep.”

As he cleaned the infection out of my tooth, I thought of a funny text about infectious naps and crowns. Then remembered I could not send it to you.



What Kristina Won:


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“If you’ve ever doubted the therapeutic and transformative benefits of journaling, you need to read Mari L. McCarthy’s Journaling Power. A powerful tool for positive change, this book also contains the inspirational journaling exercises and encouragement that Mari is famous for, so you can embark on your own journey of transformation.” ~ Angela Mackintosh, Publisher, WOW! Women On Writing

Thank you, Mari! You continue to inspire.


Congratulations to the runners-up! It was very close, and these essays are excellent in every way.

Click on the titles to read:

A Recipe for Change by Angela Dawson, Bristol, United Kingdom

Legacy by Mark Fiore, Las Cruces, New Mexico

He’ll Kill Us When He Wakes Up by Kristi Scorcio, Fond du Lac, Wisconsin

Salon-aphobia by Barbara Altamirano, Watertown, Connecticut

Sacred Geometry by Heidi Rogers, Hamilton, Waikato, New Zealand

Scars—the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly by Jacquelyn Speir, Melbourne, Florida

This Week I Discovered My Daughter... by Claire St Kilda, Australia

What the Runners Up Won:


Congratulations to our Essay Contest Honorable Mentions! Your essays stood out and are excellent in every way.

Encounter by the River by Kathleen Flanagan Rollins, Davisburg, Michigan

Trauma Lives in the Stomach by Emily Clarke, Anza, California

Ashes to Ashes by Lori Lyn Greenstone, Cama, Washington

Hotel of Terror by Nancy Lewis Shelton, Springfield, Missouri

Learning to be Chipper by Janie Emaus, Winnetka, California

Leaving Mom by Shelley Roberts Bendall, Lexington, Kentucky

One More Night in Love (Kind Of) by Ella Mach, Boston, Massachusetts

Overlooked by Janet Parsons Mackey, Annandale, Virginia

Paradise Lost by Linda D. Menicucci, Paradise, California

Seeing Red by Marianne Lonsdale, Oakland, California


What the Honorable Mentions Won:


This brings the Q2 2019 essay contest officially to a close! Although we’re not able to send a special prize to every contestant, we will always give our heartfelt thanks for your participation and contribution, and for your part in making WOW! all that it can be. Each one of you has found the courage to enter, and that is a remarkable accomplishment in itself. We’re looking forward to receiving your entries for our next contest. Best of luck, and write on!

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