6 More Standouts From Our First (Mini) Flash Nonfiction Contest
From proclaiming love in unexpected places to rewriting narratives with bold decisions, these stories capture pivotal moments in people's lives that offer surprises and cozy comfort.
We selected Rodrigo Dos Reis’ essay, titled “Some Journeys Stay,,” as the winner of our inaugural (mini) flash nonfiction essay contest (you can read it here), but we received so many fantastic submissions that we wanted to share more.
So, without further ado, here are six more short pieces (remember it was a 300-word restriction to encapsulate so much) that surprised us and gave us all the feels. Thanks to all those who shared their gorgeous, vulnerable writing—we had so much fun reading them all!
For our 15-year anniversary, Katy and I went to an all-inclusive resort in Playa del Carmen, Mexico. She was 62 and I was 50, and we went on a day trip with a group of strangers. The excursion included zip-lining through the jungle into acavern filled with water. After that, we rappelled down a short distance into an underwater cave system, which we then snorkeled our way through.
A photographic moment was offered as two people, most of whom were heterosexual couples, had the option to stop halfway down and kiss, creating a yin-yang type formation. We witnessed it happen a couple of times, and I wondered what we would do. Would we kiss? Would we just keep going?
We hadn’t discussed it, though we did exchange a look after seeing it happen the first time. As we lowered ourselves down, we reached the point where the picture would be taken. Without a moment’s hesitation, Katy maneuvered toward me and we exchanged the most tender of kisses, full on the mouth. It lasted several seconds, not just a quick peck.
We could almost hear the astonished surprise of the guides as the photographer clicked away. Others may have been surprised by our kiss, but I had long learned of Katy’s boldness when it came to declaring that yes, we are a couple. Ironically, I’m the one who always knew my preference was for women. I had decades of history living life as a lesbian. But it was Katy, who came out later in life, that never hesitated to proclaim the nature of our relationship out loud. I couldn’t love her more for it.
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Jackie is an indie author and lifelong writer. Her most recent book, Losing Katy: A Memoir of Love, Loss, and Living Grief, is available now. Katy died in July 2020. You can read more of her work at JackieDisch.com
One wore a purple, button-down shirt with three buttons undone. The other? I can’t quite remember. Yet, evident in their entwined fingers and bright eyes, they both were incandescent for the coming evening.
“Just a couple of wild and crazy guys,” they laughed toward me with big, open smiles. I couldn’t stop looking at them. Their joy infected me.
My family met the men in a group taxi in Freeport, Grand Bahama. It was one day shy of my eighth birthday, and we were on vacation. We pointed ourselves toward dinner; these two sought nighttime adventure. I really hoped they found it.
Dad’s face was funny as the adults made small talk. He was polite enough to them, but their joy infected him negatively. I couldn’t understand why. Smiley, nice-smelling men with cool clothes were virtually nonexistent in my life. Like the rare, beautiful flamingos I loved at the zoo, these men—tall, confident, and entirely not of my world—were entirely different from me (a shy, awkward pigeon).
Later, Dad made jokes at their expense that I didn’t find funny. Worse, he convinced himself that I had been disgusted by this couple; that’s why I had been staring.
Dad still tells this story, and in the punchline, I’m the one appalled at the two gay men we met that time in the Bahamas. I’ve corrected him many times, but the truth would ruin his narrative. He’s not a homophobe. Never has been.
At 36, I finally let myself recognize that I’m agender. Perhaps Dad’s disgusted reception of two gay men’s pure joy is part of why it took me 36 years to come out. Maybe, their joy partially explains why I’m thrilled to finally be me—not a pigeon at all, but a colorful, vibrant Black-throated Mango.
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I’m driving 300 miles south to Ashland, while Gavin drives 300 miles north to Portland. At some point, assuming physics works out, we will pass each other on I-5, have the opportunity to give each other an air hug at 70 miles-per-hour. Gavin and I have shared so many hugs over the years: hungry hugs, cuddly hugs, crying hugs. We’ve hugged each other as dykes, and as fags, and as the non-binary super duo, “Butch and Boy Moving Co.” (Do not ask us to help you move. Though we’re adorable, we will accidentally break your shit.)
This particular hug will be at warp speed because we’re apartment swapping for the long weekend. I live in gay-ass Portland. Gavin lives in the wilds of Southern Oregon.
When we were young, we dated the same polyamorous trans guy. Then we each broke up with him. Then a few weeks later Gavin answered my Craigslist ad. Gavin pretended to not know it was mine. He didn’t tell me that until years later.
It’s many more years later now. I’m driving deeper into the woods, with my partner’s hand on my thigh, no reception. Gavin is driving to Portland for a play party. He has a key to my apartment dangling from his keyring; I have a key to his place swinging from mine.
As a teenager, when I longed to be a queer adult, this is precisely what I had in mind: to be in relationships that straight people have no vocabulary for, to take trips separately while you share a path, to know your partner is about to fuck you in your ex’s bed, and that your ex is about to pull on their boots on your couch before being engulfed by leathermen. To be loved in multiple cities at the same time.
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Driving down a Costa Rican highway, still an hour out from Jaco, I think, The good thing about dating me is that I’m thrifty and proactive. The bad thing about dating me? The “thrifty” flights I proactively booked got us into Puerto Rico at 10 p.m., put us at the rental car place at 11, and at a cash-only toll booth with $17 USD, two credit cards, and zero Costa Rican colóns at 12:30 in the middle of the night.
An attendant lets us pass, but he warns, in broken English, about the two tolls ahead that we likely won’t make it through. It’s the first time I’m embarrassed around Andrew, my boyfriend of only a year. In my exhaustion, I’d forgotten cash. Now, we’d be stranded and sloths would slowly drag us into the jungle. And it was all my fault.
“Pull off here,” Andrew says, signaling to an off ramp.
Pulling into the parking lot, I say: “I don’t know Spanish.” He shrugs, exiting the car. “I don’t know Spanish!” I repeat.
A small crew enjoys drinks at an outdoor bar. I approach and pull out my pockets—in the way a white man who only knows English (and five semesters of French) does out of desperation. Then Andrew starts speaking in tongues, quickly and deliberately. The people start pulling out coins and paper, putting them in my hand. “De nada,” I say, realizing I’ve chosen the wrong phrase and gratefully make my way back to the car.
I suppose I had become so used to not knowing Spanish that I never considered that someone else might.
“I can’t believe I remembered that,” Andrew says, smiling and pleased with himself. We don’t pass another toll booth all the way to Jaco.
We crossed the post-stamp parking lot, dodging surfboards and waving at children. The sand crept up the concrete ramp as if it was trying to escape the beach. Walking along the surf, we got as close as we could without getting our feet wet. I gestured to the jutting sandstone rocks that towered over the water, telling you about my trips here as a child. The dune never seemed to diminish in size, even as I grew.
I wondered how it appeared through your eyes. I could recall the taste of Oregon summers; blackberries plucked from bushes and clam chowder served in sourdough bread bowls.
Without all that background, how would the coast of my childhood compare to your own sun-kissed Atlantic summers?
I promised the end of the hike just around the bend. When we crested the hill, we emerged through a handful of trees to the lookout point. We stood together, my back pressed into you, and watched the waves crash against the pale red and brown rocks.
You pointed to a smaller rock, at the base of the huge sea stack, questioning where it had gone. We yelped when we realized that it wasn’t a rock, but a whale. Hands shielding our focused eyes, we stood for ages, counting a whole pod of whales roaming in the water below. In all my years visiting, I had never seen whales on that beach before.
You emptied your pockets and I carefully stowed each item as we prepared to descend the dune. At my encouragement, you ran down the slope, allowing gravity and sand to propel your body toward the beach waiting below. We laughed like kids, like I had as a kid in that same place doing the same thing so many years before.
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She said she was going to a wedding in New York. I said I was visiting my dad in Florida. Together, we flew to New Orleans.
Our love was new, bright, and raw; our collision years in the making. In northern Michigan, my ancestors are buried in a cemetery she drove by every summer as a child.
“I have a friend I think you’d like,” she was told by a mutual friend after moving back to the Bay Area from New York City; the suggestion left on the table, unexplored.
When we were younger, we both worked at the dykey cafe in Oakland, our stints not quite overlapping. When we met, finally, the feeling of “there you are” was overwhelming. “Here I am,” we told each other with our eyes and hands and mouths.
Decades of decisions lead us to the Big Easy. Fingers dusty with powdered sugar, lips stained with red wine, we stumbled through the city at night; pens in hand and cameras in our bags, we wrote at cafes during the day.
For a moment, we forgot our lives back in San Francisco, where we worked together. That reality was a million miles away. The shower in our Airbnb was covered in a wild mosaic, proudly created by the gay man who owned the apartment. Bright, broken pieces of ceramic framed a doll’s head over the handles. We imagined a life in that apartment, the doll head greeting us each morning, music on every corner lulling us to sleep at night.
We knew that we were on the cusp of a future set in motion generations before us. We followed that feeling, and in October flew back to New Orleans to celebrate 10 years married, our eight-year-old daughter at our side.
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