At the behest of a friend, I served as the fiction judge for this year’s South Warwickshire Literary Festival. I thought it would be fun, and it was. I read 136 flash-fiction stories — defined in the competition guidelines as 800 words or fewer— and I enjoyed them all. The challenging literary form of flash fiction can produce breathtaking little gems.

But which story was The Best? I winnowed them down to 51, then 18, then 5, and created a sort of spreadsheet to pick the winner based on criteria such as pacing, sensory details, dialogue, character arc, depth of conflict, motivation, emotional urgency, strength of voice, and storytelling technique. The tally was close, but a winner emerged.

In my Judge’s Report (you can read it here, halfway down the page), I discuss what matters to me the most when I write and when I read.

Decades ago, I encountered the speech by William Faulkner accepting the 1949 Nobel Prize in Literature, and he spoke of “the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. … the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed — love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice.”

Of the 136 stories I read, the overwhelming majority dealt with those verities and truths. William Faulkner, you can rest in peace. (Your typewriter, shown in the photo, is still revered.) As proven by a little contest held in a corner of a shire in England, good writing endures.

Across the street from the high-rise where I live in Chicago, right below my living room window, there used to be a Chinese restaurant called Wing Hoe. It opened 43 years ago in building that had originally been a mansion, built in 1913. The restaurant closed in December 2020 because the owners lost their lease, and the old house was going to be torn down and replaced by a 50-unit apartment building. (Photo by Jonathan Ballew/Block Club Chicago).

Plans stalled over zoning issues, and the property sat empty. Spaces in the old parking lot were rented out. A new building plan was eventually approved by 2023, but for some reason did not move forward. Meanwhile, the owners didn’t do a great job of maintaining the property or shoveling snow.

On Thanksgiving morning, 2023, before dawn, I woke to a two-alarm fire across the street.

The fire department put it out quickly with no injuries or apparent damage to the cars in the parking lot. Then the building sat burned-out and untended for a while. Our alderwoman reported: “Permits for demolition have been submitted and approved for January 2024, and the subsequent construction on the building is set to commence in March, 2024.”

But not much was done to secure the site or clean up the broken glass, despite complaints. Nothing happened in January — or February or March. Finally, our alderwoman had enough, and here in Chicago, the local alder is a mini-mayor with real power. An emergency demolition was ordered by the city.

In the third week of April, an excavator was delivered to the property, and on April 29, a crew showed up and got to work, perhaps to the surprise of the people renting parking spots.

A lot was accomplished by May 1.

Historic bricks, which have a good resale value, were collected on pallets and removed on May 3.

Some of the remaining rubble was pushed into the basement and covered over with clean dirt on May 7.

On May 10, it was a parking lot again. Will the fresh soil be covered with sod or grass seed, or will it sprout weeds? Or will it attract some of the neighborhood’s ambitious guerilla gardeners?

Eventually, construction will begin on a 50-unit building.

Groundbreaking was scheduled for two months ago, though. By the time it actually starts, the weeds might have grown lush and inviting to bees and butterflies. I wouldn’t mind.