Charlotte Gerwin of Guelph, Ontario, Canada is the winner of the 2025 ServiceScape Short Story Award.
Her short story "Mary's Merry Mugs" is a tender, witty, and quietly devastating piece that uses an everyday object—a mug—to trace love, ambition, time, and memory. It won the contest for several reasons:
- Fresh, charming premise with real emotional depth: The escalating parade of handcrafted mugs is instantly delightful, but it's never just a gimmick—the story turns that playful hook into a heartfelt throughline about connection, longing, and what we choose not to say.
- Strong voice and vivid detail: The narration is full of personality and specificity, from the coffee-shop banter to the tactile care of holding each mug. The details make the world feel lived-in and warm—even as the emotional stakes rise.
- Beautiful structure across time: The story's shifts—youthful hesitation, shared life, and the tender ache of later years—land with clarity and momentum. Each section reframes what came before, deepening the meaning of the repeated moments and phrases.
- Love expressed through small, human actions: Gifts tucked into mugs, a run to the bus stop, making coffee, choosing flowers—these ordinary gestures become extraordinary in context, showing devotion without leaning on melodrama.
- A resonant ending: The final return to "Don't wait" feels earned and haunting. The story leaves the reader with that rare mix of sweetness and sorrow—the kind that lingers long after the last line.
In summary, "Mary's Merry Mugs" is heartfelt, imaginative, and beautifully paced—an intimate story that finds something luminous in the everyday, and something universal in what we carry for the people we love.
You can find her story below. We look forward to reading more great submissions for our 2026 short story contest.
Mary's Merry Mugs
By Charlotte Gerwin
The little artist woman just brought in another mug. I swear they're getting bigger. Poppy's Coffee is going to have to revoke its "bring your own mug" policy if she keeps bringing in these ceramic barrels. But I say nothing, as always. I haven't said anything to her for the entire year that she's been bouncing into the little coffee shop tucked in the armpit of the downtown mall, each time bringing a new custom coffee container to sip from. One day, it was an upside-down mushroom. Another was a mass of sculpted leaves that I was shocked could actually hold liquid. One was a massive Mount Doom, with an inscribed "One Ring" as the handle. As it filled up with hot, flowing coffee, the volcano glowed and changed hues, shifting like actual lava.
I know she makes them herself. Though anyone who comes up to ask her about them will always be told a different story: this one's from Guatemala, that one from Maine. This one here's an antique, found on a crashed ship off the coast of Norway. But I'm the one who gets to hold them so carefully, mixing her favourite blend of hot chocolate, coffee, and ginger root powder (I don't know how she stomachs it). Underneath each one is a stamp reading "Mary's Merry Mugs."
She's been coming here every single day for a year. She's friends with all my co-workers; I've even seen her giving a suspiciously mug-shaped gift to my boss. But I've never gotten up the nerve to talk to her. Not even on her birthday, when I'd looked everywhere for a pair of custom mug warmers I could give her. Not even on Christmas, when I'd spent weeks trying to learn pottery to show her I loved mugs, too (they just turned into blobs). Not even today, February 14th, when I heard her talking to my co-worker, Kristy.
"Hiya Mary, I'll grab ya the usual. Oooo, a rose mug today! Oh deary, yes I will be your valentine!" Kristy giggles, walks to the machine, and starts pouring out the coffee. "So love, have you heard back from CalArts, then?"
Mary slumps against the counter. "Noooo, why won't they get back?! Other people have gotten their offers by now, I don't know what's taking so long." Mary chews on her lip. She does it every day she comes in here to sketch new mug designs. "I don't know what I'll do if I don't get in, Kristy."
"I don't know what I'll do if you do get in, Mary. You'll be moving to California! I won't get to see any new mugs a'tall!"
"Well, don't be too stressed about that, you might still be seeing a lot more of me at this rate." Mary lets her head flop onto her arms. She drums her paint-covered fingers next to her face.
"Oh honey, cheer up now. Here ya pop." Kristy hands her the mug of disgustingly-flavoured ginger hot chocolate coffee.
"Thanks." Mary slumps over to her usual table by the door.
I busy myself with some sort of cleaning supply. I'm really not sure what it is, because I'm actually just looking at her. Her auburn hair flowing over her shoulders, tickling her forearms as she scrolls on her phone. I pull out the premium set of paint brushes from my apron pocket. I don't think I'll manage it this time. Every other gift I've tried to give her, I just couldn't find the perfect chance. I look at her, and at the brushes, and back to her again.
Kristy bumps my shoulder. "Harry, are you ever going to talk to the lass? Don't wait, deary, I'm worried you might not get another chance!"
I shift my weight back and forth, not saying anything. Suddenly, a chair flies backwards. I look up to see Mary standing up, her chair knocked over behind her, eyes glued on her phone. She looks up and I feel like she looks straight into me. Only to see her eyes meeting Kristy's.
"I got in…" she whispers. Her face glows with an ethereal smile. "I got in!!" She jumps up and down, then starts pacing, then giggles.
I smile, then my heart drops as I realize what she means. She's moving. She's leaving for California, it's certain.
She's still fussing, not sure what to do. Suddenly she bolts upright, realizing something. Then she's grabbing her bag and running out the door.
Her mug—still on the table.
I freeze. My chance, it's there. Her beautiful mug, a sculpted rose, brilliantly red.
Kristy shoves my back. "Go! You lover fool!"
I run. I pick up her mug carefully, then take out the brushes from my pocket. I put them into the mug, staring at it. Then I leg it out the door, bell ringing madly on my way out.
She's running for the bus stop, bag flapping wildly in the wind. I rush after her, my chance fleeting and fleeing from me. My throat is dry.
"Mary," I croak. She doesn't hear.
"Mary!" I yell. She reaches the bus door.
"MARY!!"
She stops, turning around in confusion. I skid to a stop in front of her, out of breath.
She looks me straight in the eyes. Seeing me. Recognizing me.
"Um, hi… Harry?"
I start. How does she know my name? Belatedly, I remember my name tag, nodding and finally catching my breath. "Here," I say, too nervous to say anything more.
Her eyes widen as she takes the mug, "Oh! Thank you so much!" She smiles, starting to turn away, then looks down to notice the brushes inside. "Oh, uh, you left something in here," she says, reaching for it. "What—"
"Happy Valentine's Day," I say.
* * *
It's almost dark now, the light of the sun crawling its way back below the dusty California horizon. The train is so peaceful at this time. The robot voice announcing each stop drones like a melody, the chug of the engine a little beat. I fiddle with something in my pocket, a nervous smile creeping onto my lips. My phone buzzes. It's a text from Janice, despite me specifically asking Poppy Co. to leave me the heck alone for the weekend. But a CEO never gets a day off, I suppose. Not even on Valentine's Day.
I put my phone back in my pocket. The bell for my stop rings evenly, my feet pounding faster than my heart as I rush down to the platform.
I hug her so tight at the door, it's like I'm trying to pull her straight through my rib cage and out the other side.
Mary sighs deeply into my arms. "Oh Harry, Harry, Harry. How long was it this time? Thirty-five days and seventeen hours? Give or take?" She looks up at me and smiles. I kiss her. She shoves me inside, chattering about how cold my hands are on her face. I just smile. I hang my wool coat on her mug-handle hooks, dry my feet on her cup-print rug, and breathe in deeply her coffee-scented candle. We never should have told our friends that she likes mugs; they'll never give her any other type of gift again.
She hugs me again, burying her face into the back of my sweater. I smile and pat her paint-stained hands. I don't think they'll ever wash out.
"So, my love, what can I help you with for dinner?" I ask.
"Oh honey you don't need to do anything, I got it all ready hours ago."
I look at her, dismayed, "Really?"
She pauses, a grin dancing on her lips, "Well, alright, how about you make some coffee for us?"
I laugh and shake my head. "Alright, you. I call the Death Star mug!"
She shoots me a pout as she marches into the kitchen. "Ohh, you always call that one before me." She ties up her beautiful auburn hair, chews her lip and busies herself stirring a pot of thick, savoury sauce.
I grind up the beans, my sleeves rolled up. Mary walks by, eyes my forearms and nods approvingly. I roll my eyes. I press the hot water through the grounds with a French press, letting the steam fill the little kitchen.
Mary takes a big whiff, letting out a sigh. "Wow, smells amazing, honey. Go grab me a mug and bring it to the table, ok?"
I nod. I walk around the corner to the living room, to her beautiful cabinet filled with rows and rows of mugs. My hand reaches to touch them, my fingers shaking down through my shoulder all the way to my heart. My stomach does flips. My hand skims over the smooth, shiny surfaces. Memories of trying my own hand at pottery with her help (I still just made blobs), strewing cups along the floor to rate them in a very official tier list. Holding each little mug in my hands while watching the coffee flow from the machine in that shop in the armpit of the downtown mall.
I pull my hand through my hair, my other hand fiddling in my pocket again. I scan the shining rows of beautiful sculptures. My eye lands on glittering red. Delicate petals, painted veins of colour. I reach up and take it into my trembling hands.
Music strings from a creaky old speaker. My eyes are glued on her perfect lips spinning glorious stories over a delicious meal. Tales of crazy customers, outings with friends, and days spent in pajamas. I can't look away. She takes a sip from the rose mug and sighs. "Ahh, my favourite."
I cock my head, "Really? I thought the Chinese dragon mug was at the top of S-tier?"
"Hah, yeah. That one's great. But this one just…" She looks at me, then smiles, taking another sip. Her eyebrows furrow, looking down at the mug. At the bottom lies a tiny plastic bag, with something gold and shiny peeking out. Her eyes grow wide, and she looks up to see me on one knee, heart leaping from my chest and into her arms.
* * *
The roses drip with dew, down onto the cellophane wrapper. The clerk hands me the bouquet. "$13.50" he says, without looking at me.
I reach for my wallet, my hand trembling as usual with age. I drop my card. The clerk sighs, then turns around to look at a girl with hair like sheets of polished ebony, reflecting the beautiful colours of the flowers all around her.
I've picked up my card. I stare at him, studying his face and watching him fiddle with something in his pocket. My eyes prick between their folds.
I lean in close to him. "Talk to her. Don't wait."
The man jolts, spinning around to me and stuttering, "I wasn't, what, I can't—". He stops, looking into my eyes. I implore him with sight alone. I tap my card on the reader, then point a knobbly finger towards the lady without taking my eyes off of him.
"Don't wait," I say again, carrying the bouquet gently in my arms. Teenage boys all around me are picking out flowers and chocolates, a look of pure perplexity on their faces. I chuckle and push open the door. The bell rings softly behind me.
The beeping drones like a melody. The ticking from the clock a little beat. My flowers soak up the water from a brilliantly red rose mug.
My Mary looks at them in surprise. "Well…those look lovely. Thank you, sir." She continues to stare through the dripping roses as the dew falls to the counter.
I sit next to her hospital bed. Her thin, greying hair tumbles in knots over her pillow. I look at her frail little hands, hardly a speck of paint on the tips of her nails. I barely stop myself from holding them.
A nurse comes into the room. "Hello there, ma'am, nice to meet you. My name is Joanne, I'm a nurse. Would you be alright if I check your blood pressure today?"
Mary doesn't take her eyes off the flowers. "Oh… sure, Kristy." I scrunch my lips.
Joanne pulls out the black blood pressure sleeve, glancing at me with a pitying gaze. "How are you holding up, Harry?" she whispers over to me.
I shake my head, muscles in my jaw fighting to stop the trembling.
"You've all been so strong. Your kids are coming into town to say goodbye soon, right?"
I nod in reply.
Joanne notices the mug on the counter. "Oh wow, that one's glorious. Where is it from?
I look towards Mary out of habit. Her cracked lips are moving with no sound. The silence stretches. I drag open my mouth. "A-aruba. A beautiful craftswomen in Aruba made it. She—" My throat catches. "She made it for me. It's my favourite."
Joanne nods, "Wow, how interesting. She must be a very talented lady." She finishes with the test, removing the band. "You're all done, Mary."
"Thanks, Kristy," she mumbles.
Joanne leaves. The room is quiet. Tears creep from my eyes, fighting their way down my cheeks and beading onto my sweater. My Mary just looks at the flowers, her eyes travelling slowly, slowly down the stem, past the leaves, and resting on the glittering, painted petals.
My sniffles are the only sound.
"It's my favourite, too."
My head jerks upright, the tears stopping. "What?" I say.
"It's my favourite. Better than the Chinese dragon."
I don't make a sound. It's been three years since she's recognized a mug. Let alone this mug.
"M-Mary?" I ask, calling to her from the depths.
Silence. Then, "Pity I left it in that shop. Where did you find it, Harry?"
My lips won't move. My chance is fleeting and fleeing from me. Breath won't come. She sees me. Recognizes me.
"Happy Valentine's Day, my love."