Creative Writing Ink Short Story Competition 2025: Winner

We are delighted to announce this year’s Creative Writing Ink competition winner, selected by judge Tyler Paterson.

‘Oscar Night 1998’

By Deborah Levine

At lunch, my friend Marge is telling me about the marital therapist that she and her husband, Irv, are seeing.  Walter and I used to go to therapy too, but it saves money to just fight at home.

We are at Borders, my favorite store.  You can browse through the books and peruse a few during lunch in the café. If only you could borrow a compact disc for your dining soundtrack, it would be perfect.

Still, it’s close enough. First, because you can put the books back. And, second, because they have Italian sodas: carbonated water with your choice of flavored syrups. I have always wanted to go to Italy. Or “Ittly”, as my husband calls it.  Being at Borders may be as close as I ever come.

Anyway, over cups of Thai peanut stew, Marge says, “Dr. Kravchek gives homework assignments.  Like we’re in grade school.”

I nod. “Our therapist did that too.  My homework was always on random scraps of paper, scribbled during stoplights on my way to the appointment.”

Marge’s eyes widen.  “Mine, too.”

“Walter, on the other hand, always had his completely prepared, in a spiral notebook that he’d pull out of his pocket before he even sat down.”

She quickly touches my hand in acknowledgment.   “That’s funny.  Irv has a notebook too.”

“Showoffs.”  I sprinkle a veil of salt over my stew.

Marge is peeling the top layer of tortilla from her quesadilla, examining its contents.  The filigree of melted cheddar reminds me of a cheese spiderweb, which reminds me of the dusting I didn’t do at home, which reminds me that, despite Walter’s retirement two years ago, the housework has remained my sole responsibility.  His responsibility is golf.

“So,” I say, “are things better between you, do you think, from the therapy?”

“Hmm.”  She replaces the lid on the quesadilla and samples a bite.  “We’re still together.  Sometimes that’s the best that can be said.  How about you, Lil, did it help you and Walter?”

I shrug.  “As much as anything can, I guess.  We’re two very different people.”

Marge bites off another corner of her quesadilla, nods, and speaks with her mouth full.  “Like night and day.”

It drives me crazy when Walter talks with food in his mouth, but for some reason it doesn’t bother me at all when Marge does.

“The Academy Awards are tonight,” I say.  “Who are you rooting for?”

“Anything but the Titanic movie.  God, aren’t you sick of it?”

“I haven’t seen it.”

“Neither have I.”

I gently clink her water tumbler with my glass of raspberry Italian soda.  “Who needs to?  We have been inundated with the song, the saga, and the sad ending.  Blub, blub, blub.  It’s like life, and I have enough of that, thank you very much.”

“Well, yes,” Marge says, “but it is a sweet story of those two young lovers, I hear.”

“Of course,” I say.  “The ship goes down before they have a chance to find out what life’s really like.”

*         *         *

The day passes.  Mid-evening arrives, and I imagine that, in Hollywood, gowns are rustling and tuxedoes are restricting.  Or maybe both are expanding, in their own ways.  How I wonder about such edges of reality.  How I wish for expansion, as I clean up the kitchen.

“Good dinner, Lil,” Walter says, as we settle onto the couch to watch Billy Crystal’s opening monologue.

Good dinner.  I bought it at the deli.  “Thanks.”  I figure that Oscar night is like Super Bowl Sunday: someone else gets the glory, so someone else can cook the dinner.  I still clean up.  “Glad you liked it.”

Billy, God bless him, pours out his usual serving of talent, incorporating almost everyone from every film of the past fifty years into three or four minutes of a song-and-slide show in which he vocalizes every part.  What range.  Makes my throat dry, just listening to him.

I head toward the kitchen.  “Walter.  Want anything to drink?”

“No, thanks,” he says.  I choose a San Pellegrino with a fat slice of lemon.

The prelude to the award for Best Supporting Actress is rolling on the theatrical drum.  Walter and I are rooting for Minnie Driver from Good Will Hunting.

“And the winner is” – the presenter gently tears open the envelope, and pulls out the missive – Kim Basinger, for LA Confidential.”

Now, nothing against Kim.  Who wouldn’t adore her, she is just about perfect, with a husband to match, and now there she goes, up to the stage, swishing along gloriously, in her pale moss-green satin evening gown, and her flawless everything, and probably she is not even nervous.

She gives her acceptance speech, holding Oscar in her graceful hand.  The camera most kindly shows us her husband, Alec Baldwin, splaying his fingers over his mouth and gazing upon her with such moist adoration in his eyes that I look away for a moment.  Kim is a lucky woman.

“No,” Walter yells, edging forward on his seat, “Minnie Driver, you idiots!  Minnie Driver!”

Technical awards come and go.  Special effects.  Soundtrack.

Celine Dion sings the theme song from Titanic, which I have heard sixty-seven times at least.  It breaks my heart and tires me all at once.  Walter takes this opportunity to go to the bathroom.

When he returns, the award for Best Actress is unfolding.  We love Helen Hunt, one of the contenders, and she wins.  There she is, in her awkward, bony, girl-next-door gait, striding to the stage.

A charming speech she gives, and in doing so, acknowledges her fiancé, Hank Azaria, who, as the camera obligingly shows us – of course I wanted to see him – is lavishing his eyes upon her in rapt devotion.  He reminds me of Bambi, but I’m still envious.

“And to my beloved,” Helen says, holding Oscar in a salutary gesture, as delicate as a champagne toast, “the best man I know.”

I’m in the mood for popcorn, so I go to the kitchen and put some in the microwave.  While it’s popping, I look in the refrigerator and find a bit of Chardonnay in a bottle at the back.  I could split it into two glasses.  “Walter,” I holler, “want to have a little wine with our popcorn?”

“No, thanks,” he answers.  Sometimes I think that, no matter what the question, his answer is pretty much always “no, thanks.”  I never know what to give to the man that he would want.

Three minutes later, I set the blue-and-white bowl of popcorn on the couch next to Walter, and sit down with my Chardonnay.

After a while, one of my all-time-favorite actors, Robin Williams, wins for Best Supporting Actor. He has gone from crazy to comic to carefully-calibrated, and it is about time the Academy recognized it.

He thanks his wife for giving him a reason to get up every morning.

“Oh, no, I can’t believe it!”  Walter says.  I stare at him, annoyed that he’s interrupting Robin.

“What is it this time?” I ask.

He is clenching his jaw, an unattractive habit that I’ve observed for thirty years and never learned to like.

“My timing,” he says.  “I missed the Best Supporting Actress category.”

“No, you didn’t.  It went to Kim Basinger.  How can you not remember that?”

“It should not have gone to her.”

“Well, no.”  I shake my head, and drain my Chardonnay.  “It should have gone to Minnie Driver.”

“No, Lil.  Not Minnie Driver.”

I place my empty glass on the coffee table and stare at the television, wondering if Alzheimer’s has arrived, and if it has: is it his or is it mine?

“The envelope,” Walter says, in a master-of-ceremonies voice.

On the television is a commercial, so I look at him and listen.

He pulls a white envelope from between the couch cushions, from behind the popcorn bowl.  ”And the winner, for Best Supporting Actress, is…”

Thank God.  It’s his Alzheimer’s after all.  He thinks he’s Billy Crystal.  I smile at him as patiently as I know how, from watching medical shows and Oprah.

He opens the envelope, peeks at its contents, looks surprised, then hands it to me.

”Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a speech prepared.”  I focus my vision on the papers in my hand, stalling for time as I decide whether to call an emergency phone number.

I am holding airline tickets. Alitalia.

“Walter.”  I look at him: for a second, he’s twenty again. “What –”

He pulls a little spiral notebook from his breast pocket and taps it with his index finger.
“Ittly, Lil.” He nods and smiles. “Ittly.”

Thank you to everyone who took part in our Short Story Competition this year!