2025 Short Story & Essay Contest: First Place, High School Short Story Contest
By Max Bakelar
The boy woke to the smell of burned toast and the muffled sounds of clinking dishes. For a moment, as he lay in the dim light of the morning, he could pretend it was any other day—a better day. He stretched under the thin blanket, feeling the chill of the air pressing against his lanky legs as they escaped the safety of the blanket. Across the small room, his younger sister stirred, her hair a tangled nest atop the pillow.
“Is he up yet?” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her tones were urgent but nervous.
“I don’t know,” the boy said, sitting up on his mattress. However, the sound of boots downstairs told him everything he needed to know.
The kitchen was a cramped space, its yellowing wallpaper peeling in places, the corners darkened with stains that never seemed to come off no matter how hard his mother scrubbed. The woodstove cast a faint glow, and the room smelled of weak coffee and eggs cooked in too much butter. His older sister moved quickly between the counter and the table, her head down, her hands careful as she placed a plate of toast in front of their stepfather.
The man sat at the head of the table, hunched over a cup of coffee that steamed in the pale morning light. His presence was dominating like a storm cloud, unpredictable and impossible to ignore. The boy sat down at the opposite end of the table, a quiet act of defiance that had become routine as he grew.
“Coffee’s cold,” the man muttered, dropping the mug from his grip and spilling it everywhere. The boy flinched. Jolted from her thoughts, his mother swiftly got to cleaning up the mess and brewing another mug.
The man didn’t thank her. He never did.
The boy ate in silence, his stomach knotting with every scrape of his stepfather’s fork against the plate. His little sister sat beside him, nibbling on her toast like a mouse, her eyes darting toward the man every few seconds.
“You finish that woodpile yesterday?” the man said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. He didn’t look up from his plate.
“Yes, sir,” the boy said quickly.
“Good. You’ll do another one today. And no slacking this time.” The boy nodded, his throat tight.
The man stood, scraping his chair back loudly. He grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll be back later,” he said. “And don’t give your mother any trouble while I’m gone.” He didn’t wait for an answer before stomping out the door, slamming it shut behind him.
The boy let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The house seemed to exhale with him, the tension lifting slightly in the man’s absence.
The morning passed like a reprieve, the house quieter than it ever was when the man was home. The boy helped his mother with the dishes, drying each one carefully as his older sister washed. His little sister sat by the window, drawing shapes on the wintered glass with her index finger. He smiled.
“What’re you drawing over there?” he asked with genuine interest.
“A dog!” she announced excitedly, swiveling to look at him. “Doesn’t he look good?” “Suuuure,” he drawled, peering around her small torso and looking at the shape on the window. Dog? More like an elephant. For a moment, the boy let himself laugh—a sound that felt foreign in the house, but not unwelcome.
By late morning, the boy and his sisters were in the yard, building a snow fort in the small clearing near the shed. The wind had died down, and the sun peeked through the clouds, casting a faint glow over the snow. The little girl laughed as the older sister piled snow higher, the fort growing with each pass of their hands.
The boy stood back for a moment, watching them. It felt like a memory he wanted to hold on to, a rare moment of normalcy in a life that often felt anything but.
Lunch was a quiet affair, but it was different from breakfast. With the man gone, the air in the kitchen felt lighter, the silence less oppressive. The boy sat at the table, tearing into a sandwich as his sisters chatted quietly beside him. His mother even smiled faintly as she set down a plate of leftover soup.
“Eat up,” she said. “You’ll need the energy for that woodpile later.”
The boy nodded, his stomach tightening slightly at the mention of the pile. He hadn’t forgotten, but he wished he could. For now, though, he focused on the warmth of the soup and the sound of his sisters’ laughter.
The truck pulled into the driveway just as the sun dipped below the horizon, its headlights cutting through the gray shadows of dusk. The boy froze, his hands halfway through tying his boots. His sisters stopped their game of cards at the table, their smiles fading as the engine sputtered, then stopped.
“He’s back,” the older sister said softly.
The little girl darted toward the corner of the room, clutching her teddy bear to her chest. The boy felt the knot in his stomach return, heavier now, as he stood and straightened his jacket.
The front door opened, and the man entered, bringing with him a gust of cold air that seemed to suck the life from the room. He slammed the door shut, his boots leaving snowy streaks on the worn floorboards.
“What the hell is this?” he muttered, gesturing toward the table. “Place looks like a damn mess.”
The boy’s mother moved quickly, gathering the scattered cards and wiping the table with a damp rag. “I’ll take care of it,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.
“You better,” the man said, shrugging off his coat and tossing it onto a chair. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and twisted off the cap with a sharp crack.
The boy stood by the door, his hands clenched at his sides. He wanted to move, to disappear, but the man’s gaze caught him before he could.
“What are you standing there for?” the man barked. “That woodpile’s not gonna stack itself.”
The boy nodded, his throat tight. He opened the door and stepped into the cold, the sound of the man’s voice following him out.
The snow had started falling again, soft and steady, as the boy worked on the pile. The logs were heavier now, coated in ice, and his gloves were soaked within minutes. He worked quickly, his breath coming in short bursts, his chest tightening with each movement.
The light from the house glowed faintly in the distance, a beacon of warmth that felt unreachable. The boy paused for a moment, leaning against the pile as he stared at the window. His sisters’ faces hovered behind the glass, pale and worried, their small hands pressed against the frost.
The knot in his stomach grew tighter, twisting until it felt like it might break him. He turned back to the pile, grabbing another log. He didn’t have time to think. He didn’t have time to feel. All he could do was work.
The shadows stretched long across the yard, the snow falling heavier now. The boy didn’t stop. He didn’t look back at the house. He just worked, the weight of the wood pressing into his hands, into his chest, into his soul.
By the time the boy finished stacking the wood, his fingers were numb. He stepped back, surveying his work. The pile stood straight now, the logs neatly aligned, but he knew it wouldn’t matter. The man would find something wrong. He always did.
The back door creaked open, and the man’s silhouette filled the doorway, framed by the warm light spilling from the kitchen. He was holding a beer in one hand, the bottle catching the faint glow of the porch light. In the other hand, the shotgun hung loosely, its dark barrel pointed toward the ground.
“You still out here?” he barked. His voice carried over the yard, sharp and jagged. “Jesus, boy, how slow can you be?”
“I’m done,” the boy said, his voice steady but low.
The man stepped off the porch, his boots crunching against the snow as he approached. The boy felt his stomach tighten as the man stopped in front of the pile, looking it over with a critical eye.
“This is what you call done?” the man sneered, gesturing toward the pile with the neck of his beer bottle. “Looks like a damn toddler put it together.”
“It’s good enough,” the boy said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
The man’s head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing. “What did you just say?”
“Nothing, sorry. I didn’t say anything.”
“No, what did you say?” the father asked again, more forceful this time.
The boy swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest. “I said it’s good enough,” he repeated, his voice quieter now.
The man’s face twisted into a scowl, and for a moment the boy thought he might swing the beer bottle. Instead, the man turned and spit into the snow. “Get inside,” he said. “Dinner’s waiting. And don’t think you’re getting out of cleaning up afterward.”
Dinner was silent, the kind of silence that pressed against the walls and made the air feel heavy. The boy sat at the table, his shoulders hunched as he picked at the plate of overcooked meat and soggy vegetables in front of him. His little sister sat beside him, her small hands clutching her fork as though it might slip away. Across from him sat the eldest, quietly picking at her plate, unsatisfied.
The man ate noisily, his fork scraping against the plate with every bite. He drained his beer in one long gulp and set the bottle down hard enough to make the little girl jump. His gaze flicked toward the boy.
“You think you’re too good for this food?” he asked, his voice low and mocking. “Sitting there, barely touching it. You think you’re better than me?”
“No, sir,” the boy said quickly, his throat tight.
“Then eat,” the man snapped. “And don’t make me tell you again.”
The boy forced himself to take a bite. His older sister threw him a glance, her message clear. Don’t be stupid. The younger kept her head down, hands mechanically shoveling food into her mouth.
The man leaned back in his chair, his eyes still on the boy. “You think you’re a man now, huh?” he said. “Talking back to me out there? You think you’re tough?”
“I didn’t mean to—” the boy began, but the man cut him off.
“Shut up,” he said flatly. “Meet me outside. Now. Your food can wait.”
The yard was dark, only illuminated by the faint glow of the moon and a few flickering streetlights. The boy stepped out into the cold. He didn’t look back at the house as he walked to the center of the yard, his boots crunching against the snow. He stopped and waited, his heart pounding in his chest.
The man followed a moment later, the shotgun resting against his shoulder. He took his time, his heavy boots leaving deep impressions in the snow. When he reached the boy, he raised the gun and pointed it straight at him, making him look through the very barrel of it. Two shells sat there, smirking at him.
“You think you can talk to me like that?” the man said, his voice low and venomous. “In my house? After all I do for you?”
The boy didn’t answer. He dropped his gaze, clenching his fists. “Look at me,” the man said.
The boy raised his head slowly, his breath coming in shallow bursts. The barrel of the gun still loomed there, a black void that swallowed the faint light around it.
“You think you’re tough?” the man asked, sneering. “You think you’re a man? Let’s see how tough you really are.”
The boy’s chest tightened, his heart slamming against his ribs. He glanced toward the house, where he knew his sisters were watching, their faces probably pale as they pressed against the frost-rimmed window.
“I’m waiting,” the man said, his voice louder now. “Beg.”
The boy closed his eyes. He thought of the summer sun on his back, the sound of his mother’s laughter, the warmth of a life he could barely remember. He thought of his sisters, their wide eyes and trembling hands. He thought of the cold snow beneath his feet, waiting to catch him.
“No? Fine then.”
The blast shattered the silence.
The lifeless body crumpled to the ground. The boy opened his eyes.
The man was on the ground, a pool of blood already beginning to seep into the cold snow.
The boy’s ears rang, the sound of the shot still echoing in his mind. His gaze wandered past the lifeless body. His mother stood behind the man, her hands trembling as she lowered her own shotgun.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She just stood there, staring at the man’s body, her eyes wide and unblinking.
The door to the house creaked open, and his sisters ran out, their small feet crunching against the snow. The older sister walked up behind the boy, her hands hovering over his shoulders.
“Are you OK?” she asked, her voice trembling.
The boy nodded, his gaze fixed on his mother. She stood over the man’s body, her shadow long and dark against the snow. She turned and walked back to the house, shotgun still in hand.
The boy stood there for a moment longer, the cold biting at his skin. The snow began to fall again, soft and relentless, covering the blood, the footprints, erasing everything.
About the author:
Max Bakelar
Lives in: Bethesda
School: Rising senior at Georgetown Preparatory School
Fun fact: “I can speak, read and write in five languages.”
How he got the idea for the story: “I got the idea based on the stories my father told me about his childhood, and I adapted what I knew of his experiences to create my story.”
Up next: “I’m currently focused on exploring colleges and figuring out what I want to study.”
This appears in the July/August 2025 issue of Bethesda Magazine.
