3/25/2020

The Grocery Store Encounter

The following story was submitted as an entry to the first round of the Creative Quarantine Contest. The prompt was as follows: Write a short story no longer than 1500 words of a first meeting between two people that leaves both with hope in a shared future. This encounter takes place during an epidemic.

The Grocery Store Encounter
by Leah Jarrett

“Skurump, skrump, screech.” Aden rolled the cart along the scuffed grey cement floor of his local chain grocery store. The buggy veered stubbornly to the left as the rear wheel stuttered. He identified the culprit as a tangled mess of a mystery substance wound around the axle. Muttering under his breath, Aden strong-armed his mischievous cart, joining the stream of gloved and masked individuals in their determined march towards the back of the store.

Lodged squarely between an angular young woman pushing a cart full to the brim with an odd assortment of canned kidney beans and artichoke hearts and an austere old man defensively wheeling along bulk bags of cat food, Aden surrendered himself to the slow and squeaky shuffle of shoppers. His cart bounced and slurred, the knuckles of his right-hand straining against the pale blue rubber of his glove as he fought the insistent off-kilter pull of his cliché bum buggy.

Having recently returned home from university following the timely pre-midterm school closure, Aden had a simple, if crucial, mission. His quest, the only venture to adequately justify his escape from quarantine, was to fend off the inevitable depletion of his family’s toilet paper supply. With two parents, three brothers, and one displaced roommate, Aden’s sanity depended on the outcome of trips like these.
Sure, contagion was a risk, and of course, boredom would eventually set in, but Aden found the prospect of holing up in his room for a few weeks rather enjoyable. No, the real danger, Aden thought, would not be the risk of infection or mental fatigue, rather the depletion of their toilet paper. Although, Aden imagined, a close second would be the loss of high-speed internet. Then the world would truly fall into chaos. Aden felt the right wheel of the old man’s cart clip his ankle as the line surged slightly. His damp sneakers squeaked as he tripped into an awkward jog, narrowly avoiding collision with the woman at his left shoulder as his deviant cart careened. With her mask pulled tightly from left ear to right, her face was mostly obscured. Still, nothing could conceal the expression in the arch of her brow and the slight twitch of her crow’s feet. Head ducked and shoulders square, Aden adjusted the cart's trajectory. He wouldn’t want to meet that woman in a dark alley after curfew.

As he passed aisle after aisle, he was struck by the stark emptiness of the shelves, like out of some cheap dystopian film he might pirate on a particularly dull Sunday night. Never, in his all of his 20 years, could he have imagined that this would one day be his reality. He figured that he was living history. One day, when he was old and shrunken, surrounded by his fidgeting grandchildren, one of them would grasp his pant leg with chubby fingers and ask, “You lived during the outbreak of 2020? Whatever did you do?” He would nod his head, tap the child’s nose with a wrinkled finger and respond in a gravelly tone, “Well, my dear, we posted Facebook memes and fought over toilet paper. After that, not much, not much at all.”

Aden snorted, his sharp exhale pinging inside of his mask, warming his cheeks. A scuffle ahead abruptly pulled him from his thoughts. In an aisle previously obscured by the procession of carts, Aden could see a frantic female figure muscling a large package of water into her heaping cart. A dejected employee slumped noncommittally next to the woman, pointing a gloved finger towards a battered sign taped to the orange shelf scaffolding.

“Ma’am…”

The woman ignored the young man and huffily marched towards the shelf, palming stubborn springs of auburn hair out of her eyes.

Feeling ignored, the employee repeated, “Ma’am, I must ask you to limit yourself to one pack: store policy.”

The woman finally turned, her eyes sparking as she took a threatening step towards the uniform-clad man.

“I have a right…” she seethed. Turning back to the shelving, she grasped the cumbersome package with stubborn fingers, puckering the protective plastic as she set it defiantly on top of the others in her cart. “I have a right...to LIVE”.

The hesitant employee considered the woman for a moment. He gazed down at her petite frame, then glanced at the cart piled high with water. His eyes never leaving the woman, he retrieved a walkie talkie from his front jacket pocket, thumbed its controls, and muttered into the pitted speaker, “Robbie, I’m taking my 15”.

Without giving the woman a second glance, the worker slouched towards the break room, a set of keys rattling at his belt. Aden shook his head, chuckling to himself as he passed the resolute woman, wheeling past the chip aisle, abandoned except for a crushed bag of Takis, and beyond the bread aisle where two middle-aged women seemed to be negotiating for the last bag of rye.

Finally, he reached his destination. Aden broke from the line and steered his cart down the aisle. That was when he saw it, as though illuminated by a heavenly light from above: the last pack of Charmin Ultra Soft. He steered his cart around the corner and moved swiftly towards the pack, attempting a deceptive nonchalance that might distract from his true mark. That was also, however, when he saw her. At the far end of the aisle, Aden could make out a figure clothed in ripped jeans and a large hoodie sneaking her cart around the corner. She hunched her shoulders, curling inward to evade the notice of fellow shoppers; her gaze intently locked on the lone package nestled against the back of the aisle’s bare shelf. Despite having slowed to avoid discovery, the rear wheel of his cart let out a traitorous squeal. The girl’s eyes snapped up. Curse his cliché bum buggy. Aden took stock of his options. One, he could play the chivalrous knight and surrender the pack to his opponent, or two, he could speed down the aisle and snatch up the prize. Option one was clearly not possible; desperate times called for desperate measures.

When asked in his old age what exactly took place in the following seconds, Aden, perhaps in embarrassment, or due to acute amnesia, would reply that he was not entirely sure. However, the dejected floor man Arnold, for that was in fact his name, prided himself on an elephant-esk memory, and, as it happened, was blessed with a front-row seat to the exchange. Having just returned from his break, Arnold shuffled back to his post guarding the packs of bottled water and soda. Just as he was considering the pros and cons of licking a buggy handle and testing fate, he caught sight of two shoppers charge from opposite ends of the deserted toilet paper aisle. He was quite certain that the boy had actually growled. Arnold sighed, straightened the sleeves of his jacket and brushed past the platform. It was outside of his department.

Aden and the girl raced towards the center of the aisle; carts wielded like shields. Stopping just shy of collision, they abandoned their carts and vaulted towards the lone pack of toilet paper. What neither of them realized was that, in the aisle adjacent to their own, there stood another player. Oblivious to the rising conflict only an aisle to her left, an eclectic college student embarked on a similar mission. Having been distracted from her true destination by an unusually large collection of biodegradable straws, she was glad to spot the pack of toilet paper. She squatted in front of the shelf, abandoning her tie-dye bucket bag and glass mason jar on the concrete floor. Crawling forward she managed to hook her finger through the plastic wrapping and tug the hefty load over onto her side of the aisle. She deposited the pack in the wide belly of the cart, collected her belongings, and contentedly lilted towards checkout.

For one beat, Aden and the girl stood completely still, staring at the spot where the package had been only moments before as if through sheer will power, they could turn back the clock. Aden lowered himself onto the bottom platform of shelving; arms wrapped around knees; ratty black sneakers pressed together. The girl collapsed to his left.

They sat in silence. Finally, after a short eternity, the girl brought her palms to press against her kneecaps, inhaling deeply before saying, “My name’s Emily.”

He let the statement hang in the air, probably too long, it must have collected dust. She turned to catch his eye, arching a brow, waiting. Realizing his mistake, he quickly filled the silence.

“Aden, my name’s Aden.”

She nodded. Scrunching her nose, she peered into his empty cart.

"Rotten luck, huh,” Emily observed. Aden hummed in reply, reaching to rub his eyes with the heels of his hands, then thinking better of it.

"You know, none of this feels real," she sighed, hands dancing in the air as if to punctuate her words. She continued, "Feels like yesterday I was complaining about the weather and wishing Andrew Norman would just ask me out, and now I think I just fought a random guy in a store over.... over what?"

She drew her bent legs to her chest, picking at the busted-out knees of her jeans. "Over a pack of toilet paper!”

"Yeah,” he said lamely, rubbing his palms together.

They sat there, on the dingy wooden platform; orange metal industrial shelving rising around them. The conversation came slowly at first, then flowed smoothly. He told her about the fiery woman and the exasperated employee. She told him about the three seasons of Friends she had binged in the past three days. He explained the chaos of his home, the cramped room he shared with his ex-roommate and oldest brother, and the cozy breakfasts they shared at their battered dining room table. She spoke somberly about living with her grandmother, how her grandmother had gotten sick, how she now lived alone.

So there, in the most unlikely of places with the unlikeliest of people, they were reminded of the realities stretching far beyond their own. Their tiny little islands of solitude were, for a moment, bridged.

"So,” Emily said through a lopsided smile. "I have a proposition.”
"Yeah?" chuckled Aden. For the first time in weeks, he felt the smile reach his eyes.

"We may not have toilet paper,”, she mused, gesturing towards their empty carts. "But, how do you feel about paper towels?"




Renewed Hope

The following story was submitted as an entry to the first round of the Creative Quarantine Contest. The prompt was as follows: Write a short story no longer than 1500 words of a first meeting between two people that leaves both with hope in a shared future. This encounter takes place during an epidemic.

Renewed Hope
by Lily Blackston

You sit on your bed, immersed in a world of virtual media. The headline has been the same for three weeks now “Virus Sweeps the World”. You sigh heavily and turn your attention to something one of your friends posted. It was a picture of a cat lying lazily on the beach. Underneath the text stated, Virus? What virus? It was supposed to be funny, but you didn’t think so. The virus had torn your family apart, it was destroying countries, and no one knew how to handle it.

You heard a knock on the door. You pulled yourself out of the internet and back into reality. It wasn’t normal for someone to go knocking on doors, it was too dangerous with the virus everywhere. You went to go answer the door anyway and were surprised to find a girl selling cookies.

“Hello Ma’am,” she greeted, “Would you like to buy some cookies? It’s only three dollars a box.”

You stare at her in astonishment. That was a ridiculously low price, how could anyone give up a deal like that?

“Sure, I’ll buy a box,” you reply.

The girl handed you a container of sugar cookies, stating, “All profits go to an orphanage in South America. You know, to help with the virus.”

“Really?” you ask with a small smile, “How about I buy two boxes then?”

The girl smiled back and handed you another box. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” you answered.

Someone called to the girl from across the street. The girl nodded at them.

“I have to go. Goodbye!” the girl said.

“Goodbye,” you reply. You close the door and glance at the boxes of cookies in your hands. A bible verse was written on them. “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. Isaiah 41:10.” you read aloud. You read the words again. You felt relief, maybe the virus wouldn’t destroy everything. Maybe there was something bigger than all the fear and doubt in the world. The sense of hope flooded you, and for the first time in a few weeks, you had a real, genuine smile.

You made your way into the living room, where you collapsed onto the couch and ripped open a box of cookies. You turned on the TV and immediately regretted doing so. The News Channel was on: apparently, the virus had affected thousands more people today. “As the virus continues to sweep the nation, millions are being affected. The hospitals are full of the infected, and the future is looking bleaker by the day…”

You turn the TV off again, feeling just as depressed as you did this morning. You nibble anxiously on a cookie. Where had that feeling of peace gone? What distant land did that shimmer of hope vanish to? You took another bite of the cookie, looking back to the Bible verse on the cardboard. The feeling it first gave you diminished, but maybe there was more to be found?

You trudged back to your office and turned on the computer. Being careful not to look at any news articles, you search “bible verses”. Many pop up, but the one that catches your eye is Joshua 1:9. “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” you read. The wonderful feeling of strength overpowered you again, and this time you were determined not to lose it. You wanted to share this amazing emotion with everyone. But how? You ask yourself.

The girl was sharing kindness by selling cookies and giving the money to the sick, and others were finding their own ways of spreading love.

You open up your Facebook account and post one of the Bible verses. Under it, you write, Out of all the bad, something good will come. Share a Bible verse with at least three of your friends today. Always remember to encourage one another and build each other up.

After that, you shut off your computer and pull a few pieces of paper from under your desk. It was time to get to work.

A few hours later, you had created several encouraging notes and placed them in some of your neighbor’s mailboxes. Finally, you drive to your friend’s house and leave the second box of cookies on their doorstep. As you drive back to your house, you think about what other things you can do to show God’s love.

A message appears on your phone. You check your phone and are surprised to find already over a hundred likes on your earlier post. A new sense fills you. The feeling of encouragement, by encouraging others. You feel joyful that others are experiencing joy. You feel renewed hope, and that’s the best feeling of all.

Survivor's Hope

The following story was submitted as an entry to the first round of the Creative Quarantine Contest. The prompt was as follows: Write a short story no longer than 1500 words of a first meeting between two people that leaves both with hope in a shared future. This encounter takes place during an epidemic.

Survivor's Hope

by Emma Blumer

Regis glanced down at the cracked screen on his scaly wrist. Nope. He wasn’t surprised, but there was always a chance. But still, no new alerts about food distribution. Kyja and the kids were almost through the supplies he’d swiftly stockpiled when the disease had started wreaking intergalactic turmoil physically and economically. Regis worked as a custodian for the galaxy’s largest communications corporation, so he did still have work at least. Executives who had been germaphobic before all this now wanted every possible surface to be nuked with cleaning products multiple times a day.

Once he had finished work, Regis started the trek home. The local public transport transport pods had been outlawed and seized weeks prior. He and Kyja had almost saved up enough to purchase a personal pod. But that was before. Most things were before. Planets all over the galaxy had taken similar losses. Except for the Sckills.

They were completely immune to contracting the disease or spreading the contagion. So besides being in the clear physically they were also able to travel and trade freely. Somebody always makes bank during uncertainty, mused Regis as he passed by a Sckill.

“Excuse me?” He turned. What did this sckill kid want with him? “Umm...can I use your communicator?”

“Sure, kid.” Not like I’m scared of your germs anyway.

“Thanks so much. Mine just died. My mom sent me here to sell stuff, but she forgot to give me the most recent transport code for getting home. We gotta use special ones these days.”

Regis waited while the kid punched out a message and sent it. Then they both stood there waiting for the reply.

“So, how you doing in the apocalypse, kid?”

“Oh, okay. It’s weird having friends get sick and knowing I won’t.”

Survivor’s guilt.

Regis tried to smile at the kid.

“Well, you know, you Sckills are a huge help right now. You’re probably helping save lives by being able to travel and trade like you can.”

The communicator buzzed. The kid scribbled the code onto a crumpled receipt.

“Thanks again. Here. Take this.” The kid fished around in his pack. It was a family-sized food tube. Not very flavorful, but it was nutritious.

Regis tried to keep his voice from breaking. “Thanks, kid. You take care of yourself.”

We’ll get through this somehow. Yeah. I’m sure we will.

A Kernel of Wheat

The following story was submitted as an entry to the first round of the Creative Quarantine Contest. The prompt was as follows: Write a short story no longer than 1500 words of a first meeting between two people that leaves both with hope in a shared future. This encounter takes place during an epidemic.

A Kernel of Wheat
A short story

By J. Cate Smith


For almost sixty of his seventy years, Jon Rolafe had turned ground in the early spring, on days just like this. Small leaves unfurling beneath fitful bursts of sun and cloud, the red and brown earth turning up with the invitation of generous return, and the sap of spring giving a will to the work at hand. But this year the labor was different, and his tears wet the handle of his spade.

Almost half the village was gone. The plague has started after the first January snowfall, felling the young and hale with the same ease as the old and frail. Alf and Anders, brother blacksmiths, had been first. At first, folk said it was because the pair liked their ale stronger than their smithy fire. There had been two or three other deaths, but they had been of old dames and fathers so the winter chill was blamed. But then came the news that Hedda Nilsen had died after only three days’ illness. Hedda stitched the straightest seam in all of Norway and was well-liked, both for her craft as a seamstress and her sharp wit. Her passing sent a small ripple of fear over the townspeople, and the unease had traveled as far as Jon and Martha’s farm.

But then the snow fell again, with a layer of sleet encasing the roads in glass. News was slow coming up to the higher farms, and it was weeks before Jon had word of the devastation. He had shared the names quietly with Martha. It was not a night that could bear much thinking on...nor were many of the days since.

Another and another, spadeful after spadeful...and grave after grave.

“Verily, verily, I say unto you, еxcept a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.”

Much fruit. The bounty of the tree and field had always been Jon’s chief care. He was a farmer, the son of a farmer, and the grandson of a farmer. The quickening of seed-time and the weariness of harvest, the prayer for one more dry week and the grateful sleep when the grain bins were full...Jon knew these labors and joys and prayers.


This sowing was different. There were new labors and new prayers.

Martha had strengthened him for it, time and again, by opening the book and quavering through the valley of the shadow and the perishable clothed with imperishable. Then she would cough a little, stand up and they would both start looking for the next step forward.

No, not forward, but through.

When Olaf’s son, bewildered with grief, led his father’s seven milch cows past their gate, Martha had not stopped him from gathering in the cows and the boy. “Yes, man. Go. The only thing I fear more than contagion is leaving another of God’s creatures in distress when we have the strength to aid them,” she had said.

Now, Jon wiped his eyes to survey the shallow hollow in front of him. He meant to spare Hal Larsen this work if his back would let him. Back-ache was easier borne than heartache, and there were some things that age would spare youth, if flesh was able.

“Jon, would you come and eat the supper I’ve made you?”

Martha’s voice was carried on the wind, and Jon kicked aside a clump of sod to neaten the edges. Larsen’s hired hand had died in the night and Jon had chosen a peaceful resting place in the lower pasture.


He walked into the stone kitchen, and was surprised to see Martha in her cape and bonnet. “Where are you going, you old woman?”

A smile creased her face and she wagged her finger. “I’ve got work to do tonight that makes me grateful for every one of my years, you old gaffer. Hal’s come by and it’s Elinor...she’s set to have that babe tonight and she’ll be needing another pair of hands.”


A look passed between them, almost spilling to tears, but then Jon sat down to eat. Then he rose and got his coat. Martha was packing a basket, and when she turned, he was at the door. “I’ll walk you down.”


The afternoon was gone by the time they arrived, and then the evening passed in chores with Hal, while Elinor and Martha prepared and rested. Then Hal was called to his wife’s side, and Jon sat by the fireplace, dozing and aching in equal turns.

What a strange thing it was, the gift of life, given without earning or asking. And how could a mere man know its value? A seed planted, yielding thirty, sixty, even a hundred fold. Who but the Sower could see the coming profit, He being the One who had planted a specific measure of grain for a certain harvest?” 

Jon’s thoughts drifted into prayer and then back into thought. So much life, now ended in death. How could a man make sense of such times?

A cry rang out, followed by Martha’s voice, equal parts crooning and command. Then, a shuddering laugh of pain and pleading that was a cry for all to be ended...and then a new sound, new to the world. A babe. And then the shaking laughter of a new mother’s love, disbelief the pain had given way to glory. Hal was almost shouting with relief, and Jon could hear Martha laughing too. “He’s a fine big fellow, Elinor, and has Hal’s long nose!”

Jon refilled the kettle, and got the spare linens from the barn where Martha had told him they were, and went back to dozing.

He awoke, with Martha handing him a cup of tea. She looked worn, but alight. Then Hal stepped in, a bundle in his arms and the new mantle of fatherhood resting nearly visible on his shoulders.

“It’s a boy, Jon. A lad. My son. I have a son.”

Jon stood, and stepped just close enough to see the soft curve of cheek and bow of lip.

“We’ve named him Johan Halvor Larsen, after my father.” And Hal’s tears fell like jewels on the mantle, and their worth and beauty was almost too much to bear. Jon gripped his cup and said, “He would be honored by the name and proud of you, Hal.”

And then Martha called for the babe, and Jon was left in the firelight again. Johan. An honest man and a good friend, now folded in the earth beneath the greening grass. Johan. A little babe in the crook of one arm, no bigger than a newborn lamb. The final parting with Johan and this first meeting of Johan mingled within him, and Jon closed his eyes as Martha’s favorite words from the book, quoted as often as she heard news of a new baby, came to his mind:
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, that ye shall weep and lament, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy. A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come: but as soon as she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world.”

She was sitting beside him now, and he spoke the closing words aloud, the weight of the hope in them so heavy they were hard to say, “And ye now therefore have sorrow: but I will see you again, and your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.”

She leaned into him, both of them aching. “They named him Johan, Jon. Johan Halvor.”


“I know, Martha. It is a good name for him. And he’s going to carry it well.”