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Published Tue, Mar 23, 2010 05:07 AM
Modified Mon, Mar 22, 2010 11:35 PM

Artist's hasty entry grabs NPR's attention

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- Staff Writer

RALEIGH -- Most Sundays, Rhonda Strickland fuses glass into art in her home while she listens to her favorite NPR program, "All Things Considered."

On Feb. 28, she heard a familiar voice on the show. Her former George Mason University professor, Alan Cheuse, a writer and "All Things Considered" book critic, was doing one last push for the show's Three-Minute Fiction contest, in which contestants were invited to look at a photo on the show's Web site and write a story of about 350 words to describe it. Cheuse would choose the best story and read it on air.

Thing was, there were only three hours left until the contest's deadline.

Strickland, a retired English teacher who taught at Wake Technical Community College and has written short stories on and off, put down her art and went to the computer to see the photo taken from outside a coffee shop or restaurant. It was of a newspaper on a table.

The photo moved her, Strickland said. She felt lonely, like an outsider. Then she remembered a newspaper article she had read three years ago while visiting her brother in Tucson, Ariz., about the underground life of teen train-hoppers.

"It just came to me," she said, adding that her main character, Ben, 15, was fashioned after one of the teens in the article. In her fictionalized tale, Ben and his girlfriend, Sarah, train-hop from Arizona to New York, where they end up looking for food in trash bins outside the coffee shop.

Strickland finished the story in two hours, she said, and sent it in, with the title "Please Read."

On Friday, the show's producer called to say that out of more than 3,000 entries, "Please Read" was the winner.

It stood out, Cheuse said on the show Sunday, because Strickland made the scene the destination for her characters while most other writers used it to start their stories.

The story also met the goal Cheuse set forth at the start of the contest: "It predicates a life," he said. "You can just feel the life boiling up out of these lines."

Cheuse taught Strickland in a writing class more than 20 years ago during her creative writing graduate program. Cheuse said on the show he remembered her, but not her writing.

Strickland wins a copy of Cheuse' book "To Catch the Lightning: A Novel of American Dreaming," and a signed printout of his story "A Little Death."

"It's very flattering, especially just winning a contest, but then that it's NPR is very exciting," Strickland said Monday. "So many people heard it, and I'm getting calls from people I haven't talked to in a long time."

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'Please Read' by Rhonda Strickland

In Tucson, we found the train-hopping kids and went with them to New York City. I was 15 and had never been out of Arizona.

That summer, I'd learned to eat from Dumpsters, carry a knife in my pocket and sleep with my backpack chained to my waist. My girlfriend Sarah was scared to try, but when she saw I'd go without her, she came.

New Mexico and Texas floated past, framed in the open rail-car door. We slept under a Baton Rouge bridge, partied in New Orleans, changed trains in Atlanta. Sarah was liking this now.

At Penn Station, we stepped outside, and the cold stung our skin. We stood there and blinked. The other kids headed round back of a coffee shop to Dumpster dive. Sarah called to me. I shook my head, and she went. I knew she'd bring back something - a stale doughnut, a still-warm half-cup of coffee.

In the shop window, I studied my reflection. Wild red hair stuck out from knots Sarah couldn't untangle with her broken comb. My eyes seemed too large and staring. My beard still looked strange. I thought of Phoenix. I'd left home over a month ago, telling no one. I hugged myself, shivering. We'd have to find coats, sweaters. I stopped seeing myself and looked through the glass at a warm table with a spread-open newspaper carelessly left behind. The pages fluttered each time a customer opened the door and went in. Sarah came up beside me, handed over a half-eaten apple.

She said, "No coffee." Her hands were blue. She followed my gaze. "We'll get newspapers tonight." She meant for sleeping. Old papers were everywhere, littering the ground under bridges, inside doorways, beside creeks and riverbeds. We stuffed our clothes and covered ourselves when it rained.

She said, "Come on, Ben," but I couldn't stop looking at the newspaper, how people walked past, ruffling the pages, not noticing. The paper danced in the draft they created, and inched across the table, moving close to the edge. Sarah tugged my arm and looked anxiously at the Tucson kids rounding a corner, searching for food.

I didn't know how to explain to Sarah I wanted this paper. I wasn't thinking of Phoenix anymore, of my home and my parents. I wanted to fold this newspaper shut with a crease, protect it from the gray sooty day, keep it from falling to the floor, where it would soon get covered in black shoe prints. But I could not get myself to go in, take it from the table.

In its perfect frame of polished wood and gleaming glass, lit by lamps and the glowing smiles of people sipping coffee from steaming china cups, I knew the paper wasn't mine.


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