“Centre Stage” by Andrea Bernard—Our June 2026 Gold Medal Winner
Andrea Bernard is our first place winner from the contest posted in our June 2026 issue and their story will be published in the September 2026 edition. Congratulations, Andrea!
What the judges had to say:
“I enjoyed the understated progression of the story. You resisted an easy ending or cliches. The characters’ voices are unique and express their emotions clearly.”
“I found myself moved by this story’s ending ... The topic of dementia is portrayed delicately and poignantly...”
“I liked the character relationships. Dialogue and details were interesting. Very good effect of showing rather than just telling.”
Meet Andrea
Andrea Bernard is a Canadian marine biologist and an avid runner. She lives in the Toronto suburbs and her short fiction has appeared in The Antigonish Review, On Spec, Blank Spaces, and Prairie Fire.
Centre Stage
an excerpt of Angela’s winning story
Eleanor smoothed the wrinkles in her skirt, then adjusted her collar, worrying the silk fabric between pinched fingers. She patted her short grey hair, measuring its spring and hold. Satisfied, she glanced about the rapidly filling theatre, its aisles and rows swelling with ticket holders, reminding her of tiny blood cells jockeying for position inside clogged arteries.
She sat in the centre block, one seat from the aisle, her coat strewn across the chair to her right, her purse atop the one to her left. Eleanor hated small talk, especially with strangers, so it was important the other patrons know she wasn’t alone. She turned, craning her thin neck, her eyes flitting from person to person, searching for familiarity but spotted none. She rarely recognized anyone when she went out these days. The city had gotten too big.
Her hands returned to pressing her skirt and thighs; her arthritic fingers fumbled with her collar. She waited.
Eleanor’s daughter, Alice, plopped into the aisle seat next to her, transferring the purse to the theatre floor. She wore dark jeans, a button-up shirt, and her blonde hair was tucked in a loose ponytail. “Here,” she said, presenting her mother with a plastic bottle of water.
“I asked for glass.”
“They only had plastic.”
Eleanor wrinkled her nose. “They say chemicals from the plastic bottle contaminate the water.”
Alice frowned. “Who says that?”
“The scientists on the TV.”
“It’s all they had, Mom.”
Eleanor glared at the bottle.
Alice rocked the bottle end over end. “So?”
The older woman shook her head. “I’ll get something at intermission.”
“Last chance,” her daughter said.
Eleanor crossed her arms.
Alice unscrewed the cap and took a swig.
“Your father likes to sit on the aisle.”
“I don’t think he’ll mind,” Alice muttered between sips.
“What’s that? I can’t hear you when you mumble.”
To the women’s left, a man cleared his throat. “Excuse me.”
Eleanor glowered up at the sound. In the aisle stood two middle-aged men. One was bald, the other had excessively thick and plush black hair. She briefly wondered what the latter man had done to deserve his friend’s full share. “Yes?” she snapped.
The bald one pointed to a pair of empty seats further down their row. “Do you mind?”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” Alice scrambled to her feet, gathering her bag and sweater, the bottle of water, and retrieving her mother’s purse from the floor. She stepped into the aisle. Eleanor stayed put. “Mom?”
Eleanor gestured to the gap between her covered knees and the row in front. “They can get by. I’m not fat like some of the other women here.”
The men exchanged a look.
“Mom!”
“I have a bad hip, Alice. There’s plenty of room.”
The man with too much hair waved his hand. “Not a problem.” He squeezed passed Eleanor; his hairless acquaintance followed a moment later.
“Well, that was rude,” Alice whispered after she was reseated.
“They’ll survive.” Eleanor pointed to the plastic bottle. “You shouldn’t drink from that. The chemicals will pickle your organs.”
Alice rolled her eyes.
…
to read the rest of the story, order your copy of the September 2026 issue.
