First Place:

Grandmother’s Hands

By Zoe Webb

I think of Grandmother’s hands as I peel back the orange skin, beholding the magic of the scented oil spraying through sun rays from my kitchen window.

The citrus aroma fills my mind with memories of those halcyon days, and I’m transported back to childhood, watching with fascinated anticipation as she prepares the orange cake. My mouth waters.

“When will it be ready, Grandma?”

I snap back to the present and smile down.

“Soon, little one.”

She hugs the counter, watching avidly as my stained fingers juice and zest, mix and bake. Grandmother’s hands.

Second Place:

Bittersweet

By Morwenna Rogers

‘Aren’t you good, taking your old nan to market every fortnight?’ Chuckling, she squeezed his arm. The oranges were bright and bulging with juice. ‘Gorgeous,’ she said, smacking her lips. 

He bought her a fat one while she was buying fresh bread. Surprise! She giggled, child-like. ‘A treat for supper,’ she said, thumbing its waxy skin.

Smiling at the memory, he rattled the knocker, a fortnight later. ‘Market day, Nan!’

Silence. He peered through the kitchen window. ‘Nan!’ 

In the fruit bowl, a shrunken orange, coated with velvety teal.

He already knew. 

But he knocked a little louder, nonetheless.

Third Place:

The Christmas Gift

By J.L. Theoret

When the town librarian was an old, old man, he told me that as a boy growing up during the Depression, he’d only asked for one thing for Christmas.

An orange. He asked for the same simple present every December.

He never got it. Every Christmas morning his small, threadbare, much-darned stocking was empty.

The Christmas after he told me, I gave him the finest orange I could buy. The orangy-ist of all oranges, globe-like and outlandishly bright and smelling of blossoms and sunshine.

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“Oranges give me heartburn,” he said.

Fourth Place:

The Last One You’d Expect

By Angela Fitzpatrick

I smell citrus. Oranges splash past, and I tilt my umbrella to see where they’ve come from.

An ancient woman struggles to rise from the cracked pavement. 

‘Are you hurt?’ There’s a graze on her face. Not new, she's fallen before. 

She whispers, ‘I just need to get home.’ 

I flag down a taxi for her, re-tie her headscarf, brush off mud and gather up the shopping. Except for the oranges: disappeared down the drain. 

Drenched, I wave at the departing cab then continue shopping, mentally editing my Samaritan tale, adding drama.

I reach the till. My purse is missing.