Today we are excited to publish the winner of our first Flash Fiction contest. We received more than 100 submissions and our staff chose “A Bouquet of Stars” by Cathy Ulrich. She will receive an $100 cash award donated by an anonymous reader. We also chose two finalists for our contest, “Hindsight” by Shana Ross and “The Memorial of Imaginary Lines” by Sabrina Hicks. Stay tuned for their stories in the coming months. Congratulations to our finalists and winner, Cathy. 

by Cathy Ulrich 

The astronaut’s wife takes up crochet, clacks the needles together to fill the house in the astronaut’s absence. The sky is clouds for days, but the astronaut’s wife can’t stop herself from going to the window, looking out, looking up.

She thinks of parting the clouds like curtains, thinks of hippopotamuses with wings, thinks of elephant trunks, the nape of the astronaut’s neck, crescent moons of her fingernails.

She picks her crocheting off the ground where she left it, settles back into her chair, clacks the needles.

In the night, the astronaut’s wife hears the telephone ringing. She has been sleeping on the living room floor, carpet print on her face.

The phone is just in the other room, but it takes her a while to find her way out of dreams, off the floor, lift the receiver of the antique rotary phone that she can’t remember has ever rung before.

Hello, says the astronaut’s wife. Hello, hello.

On the other end of the line, there is only silence.

When they were girls, the astronaut’s wife was already in love. She traced the astronaut’s name in the dirt, in the dew of grass, into the slip of her forearm with pinky fingernail. Stood at the window of her bedroom, waited for the tapping of pebbles thrown by the astronaut’s hand. Looked up at the sky, thought of the stars as tiny things, though she knew they were large, larger than she could imagine, larger than anything, thought of gathering them in handfuls for the astronaut.

So you don’t go.

So you don’t have to go.

The astronaut’s wife stands in the darkness, holds the antique phone receiver to her ear, listens to the buzz and the hush, the buzz and the hush.

Is anyone there?

Are you there?

When the astronaut is home, she and her wife share the bed in the master bedroom, curl together like mushrooms. The astronaut’s wife likes the idea of a master bedroom.

It’s not what you think, says the astronaut, but that’s all right.

Nothing’s quite what you think.

The astronaut’s wife doesn’t like the bed when she’s alone, fills the tub with cold water, dips herself in, wearing lavender nightgown. Floats in the cold water, bumps up against the edge of the tub, skin paling in the dark.

Comes out of the bathroom soaking and shivering, lays herself wet on the living room floor.

When they were girls, their houses weren’t as large as this one. The astronaut and her wife held hands in backyards when no one was looking, whispering eyelash kisses onto the other’s face, butterfly kiss, the astronaut always said, and her breath was so soft against her wife’s throat.

The astronaut sometimes went on dates with boys — Johnny from math class, though that was never their name. The astronaut’s wife never did.

The clouds are still there when the astronaut’s wife looks out the window, clouds heavy as night.

The astronaut’s wife can never remember what the sky is like when she isn’t looking at it. The astronaut is always telling her about the stars, the sky, about space.

It’s so quiet there, she says. A fills-you-up kind of quiet.

When the astronaut comes home, her wife will dance barefoot with her in the living room.

In the night, the astronaut’s wife picks up the receiver of the rotary phone, hears only quiet over the line.

She says: I miss you.

She says: Come home.