EPIC Award Setup
Awards Event
Welcoming Guests
Winners Read their work continued
Congratulations • Group photo • Cleaning Up
Adult Author Prose
First Place
Flawed Gods by Natalie Leif
Mrs. Goodwin had three children: Lily, Daniel, and the computer.
Lily was my best friend: eleven years old, like me, tall and gangly and blonde, full of sharp laughter and soft words. Her room spilled over with things each time I visited, battered Barbies and hand-me-down clothes clamoring for attention. I’d take a handful and sit with her, drowning myself in pinks and powders and shrieking laughter.
Daniel was older--fourteen, an impossible age to imagine--and as broad-shouldered and solemn as any adult. He spoke little and drifted from place to place, keeping his language quiet and close to his chest. His room was a closed door and an unknown void beyond it, which he slipped into when he needed to not exist.
The computer was younger: one year old. It sat in a heavy beige shell, staring through a black cathode eye, and when it ran, it coughed with a sweet stench of ozone and a rush of dust. Its room was the computer room--a musty stretch of basement flooring, where every couch and box left down there to rot had been shoved aside to make room for a desk, a tattered office chair, and it.
We all loved the computer.
The computer hadn’t grown into itself yet--no touchscreens or apps--but there was an idea of what it could be. Like us, it was all awkward joints and stuttering thoughts, loud noises and fumbling language. It was, like us, still learning what it could be, and we helped it along like children do.
// Let’s grow up together, you and I.
The computer would screech when connecting online, and we’d babble back, like we were laughing together. It’d load a page and its fans would heave with effort, and then it’d finish and the fans would slow down in a puff of warm air as if it was sighing in relief. And when it went to sleep, we’d watch until its lights went out, then creep away so it could sleep in peace.
But Daniel, he was the one who first learned how to code--how to speak to the computer and have it reply. He’d stare at it through his thick glasses, and the thick cathode eye would stare back, and he’d write down a string of brackets and gibberish that the computer would turn into pictures and graphics. We watched over his shoulder as he worked, building strange worlds out of lines and measurements.
“You’re really good at this,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, and smiled. It was the first conversation we’d ever had.
“How far does it go?” I asked Lily, zooming in and out on the fractal pattern he’d drawn. She shrugged.
“He never told it to stop, so... forever, I guess.” She trailed off. “It just goes on and on forever.” It was then that I understood what magic was.
In school, Lily and I learned about golems--about how people long ago would trace the arcane names of God into clay to breathe life into it. If you knew the right names, we learned, you could bring anything to life: music, pictures, and the voices of people from continents away, blooming through wires and clay.
“But of course, the golems weren’t real people,” our teacher said. “They didn’t talk or think like we do. They shambled around and did tasks.”
And it seemed to me that of course they wouldn’t talk or think like we do: that their language would be mostly brackets and slashes and <image.png>, and their imaginations would be as simple yet dizzyingly infinite as a fractal drawing. Did that make them not real?
Later, at Lily and Daniel’s house, I saw their mother leaning over the counter with the phone pressed against her ear. Her fingers curled around the cable, squeezing and unsqueezing, strangling the runes flowing through it.
“I just don’t know what’s wrong with Daniel. He knows I love him, right? But it’s so hard to talk with him when he barely replies back. I’m just... exhausted.”
And I stood there, perched on the basement stairs, a lukewarm Coke in hand. She hadn’t seen me, so I crept on downwards, back to the computer desk, where the fans purred and I pressed my head to the tower’s warm side and I felt safe.
Later still, weeks on, the computer spat out a news article: a woman several miles away had killed her disabled son. He’d had a meltdown, screaming and clawing at her, and something within her snapped. She’d calmed him down and gotten him home, then fed him sleeping pills ground into his milk. Then she’d patted his hair and told him how much she loved him as he drifted to sleep like a computer winding down.
There was a picture of her, in the article. She was short and round, hunched into her oversized sweater, her hands speckled with bruises. She looked less like a mom and more like a small child, wondering how it ended up here.
After reading the article, Daniel retreated into his room. Lily and I knocked on his door, but he didn’t answer. So we camped out in front of the door, her Barbies splayed across the hallway carpet like playing cards.
“Don’t bother,” their mom said when she saw us. Her hair hung in front of her face and the edges of her sweatshirt were frayed. “He’ll come out eventually. Why don’t you find something else to do? I don’t like you all spending that much time on the computer, so maybe go outside or something.”
As Lily and I shuffled out, I saw their mom knock on Daniel’s door and say, in an exasperated voice: “I love you, Daniel.”
And I couldn’t help but wonder, if she didn’t love him retreating to his room, or his coding, or his quiet replies, what part of him did she love at all?
That evening, before heading home, I nudged the computer awake--“Hey, little buddy, time to get up”--and read the article again. There were comments on it, now, and I scrolled through them.
Sharron R., from Oregon, wrote in:
“What a tragic story! His mother must have been in so much pain. Children like that aren’t able to be reasoned with like we can. She probably did her best to help him and finally broke down.”
Carrie P., from California, added:
“Great article! As a mom, I feel nothing but heartache for that woman. If my daughter ever ended up that way, I don’t know what I would do. It would be too horrible to bear.”
Grant S., from New York, replied:
“Don’t worry. Autism that extreme only affects boys. Keep her away from vaccinations, and she’ll be fine.”
// Thank goodness.
I thought.
// I’m safe. No one can get me.
And I wondered how weird it was to feel so relieved. As if mothers were something I had to protect myself from, as if the life they’d given me could be snuffed out of me as easily as wiping an inscription off a slab of wet clay.
(Did that make me not real? I thought about sending a message to Daniel to ask, something in brackets and fractals, but I couldn’t find the words in any coding book or how-to guide I read.)
Their mom threw out the computer later that year, replacing it with a smaller, silver one. It had a thinner screen and a smaller tower, with fans that clicked instead of whirred.
Outside Daniel’s room, Lily and I watched her heft the old computer away. I stepped forward, wanting to stop her or object, but I couldn’t find the words to talk with her. All the language I knew--all the fractals and code--weren’t words she could understand.
// We were supposed to grow up together.
“Thank God,” their mom said, as she carried the new box inside. The sleeves of her sweater fell over her arms, like a small child’s. “I never understood how the old one worked. This one is better.”
She moved on to the basement to set it up. Lily--a newer version of Daniel, a better version, safe and feminine and full of shrieking, girlish words--went after her.
And me? I stayed behind, close to the door. I reached out to the knob, but stopped myself.
Underneath the door, dribbling through the crack, was a pool of wet clay, still sparking with electricity.
Flawed Gods by Natalie Leif
Mrs. Goodwin had three children: Lily, Daniel, and the computer.
Lily was my best friend: eleven years old, like me, tall and gangly and blonde, full of sharp laughter and soft words. Her room spilled over with things each time I visited, battered Barbies and hand-me-down clothes clamoring for attention. I’d take a handful and sit with her, drowning myself in pinks and powders and shrieking laughter.
Daniel was older--fourteen, an impossible age to imagine--and as broad-shouldered and solemn as any adult. He spoke little and drifted from place to place, keeping his language quiet and close to his chest. His room was a closed door and an unknown void beyond it, which he slipped into when he needed to not exist.
The computer was younger: one year old. It sat in a heavy beige shell, staring through a black cathode eye, and when it ran, it coughed with a sweet stench of ozone and a rush of dust. Its room was the computer room--a musty stretch of basement flooring, where every couch and box left down there to rot had been shoved aside to make room for a desk, a tattered office chair, and it.
We all loved the computer.
The computer hadn’t grown into itself yet--no touchscreens or apps--but there was an idea of what it could be. Like us, it was all awkward joints and stuttering thoughts, loud noises and fumbling language. It was, like us, still learning what it could be, and we helped it along like children do.
// Let’s grow up together, you and I.
The computer would screech when connecting online, and we’d babble back, like we were laughing together. It’d load a page and its fans would heave with effort, and then it’d finish and the fans would slow down in a puff of warm air as if it was sighing in relief. And when it went to sleep, we’d watch until its lights went out, then creep away so it could sleep in peace.
But Daniel, he was the one who first learned how to code--how to speak to the computer and have it reply. He’d stare at it through his thick glasses, and the thick cathode eye would stare back, and he’d write down a string of brackets and gibberish that the computer would turn into pictures and graphics. We watched over his shoulder as he worked, building strange worlds out of lines and measurements.
“You’re really good at this,” I said.
“Yeah,” he said, and smiled. It was the first conversation we’d ever had.
“How far does it go?” I asked Lily, zooming in and out on the fractal pattern he’d drawn. She shrugged.
“He never told it to stop, so... forever, I guess.” She trailed off. “It just goes on and on forever.” It was then that I understood what magic was.
In school, Lily and I learned about golems--about how people long ago would trace the arcane names of God into clay to breathe life into it. If you knew the right names, we learned, you could bring anything to life: music, pictures, and the voices of people from continents away, blooming through wires and clay.
“But of course, the golems weren’t real people,” our teacher said. “They didn’t talk or think like we do. They shambled around and did tasks.”
And it seemed to me that of course they wouldn’t talk or think like we do: that their language would be mostly brackets and slashes and <image.png>, and their imaginations would be as simple yet dizzyingly infinite as a fractal drawing. Did that make them not real?
Later, at Lily and Daniel’s house, I saw their mother leaning over the counter with the phone pressed against her ear. Her fingers curled around the cable, squeezing and unsqueezing, strangling the runes flowing through it.
“I just don’t know what’s wrong with Daniel. He knows I love him, right? But it’s so hard to talk with him when he barely replies back. I’m just... exhausted.”
And I stood there, perched on the basement stairs, a lukewarm Coke in hand. She hadn’t seen me, so I crept on downwards, back to the computer desk, where the fans purred and I pressed my head to the tower’s warm side and I felt safe.
Later still, weeks on, the computer spat out a news article: a woman several miles away had killed her disabled son. He’d had a meltdown, screaming and clawing at her, and something within her snapped. She’d calmed him down and gotten him home, then fed him sleeping pills ground into his milk. Then she’d patted his hair and told him how much she loved him as he drifted to sleep like a computer winding down.
There was a picture of her, in the article. She was short and round, hunched into her oversized sweater, her hands speckled with bruises. She looked less like a mom and more like a small child, wondering how it ended up here.
After reading the article, Daniel retreated into his room. Lily and I knocked on his door, but he didn’t answer. So we camped out in front of the door, her Barbies splayed across the hallway carpet like playing cards.
“Don’t bother,” their mom said when she saw us. Her hair hung in front of her face and the edges of her sweatshirt were frayed. “He’ll come out eventually. Why don’t you find something else to do? I don’t like you all spending that much time on the computer, so maybe go outside or something.”
As Lily and I shuffled out, I saw their mom knock on Daniel’s door and say, in an exasperated voice: “I love you, Daniel.”
And I couldn’t help but wonder, if she didn’t love him retreating to his room, or his coding, or his quiet replies, what part of him did she love at all?
That evening, before heading home, I nudged the computer awake--“Hey, little buddy, time to get up”--and read the article again. There were comments on it, now, and I scrolled through them.
Sharron R., from Oregon, wrote in:
“What a tragic story! His mother must have been in so much pain. Children like that aren’t able to be reasoned with like we can. She probably did her best to help him and finally broke down.”
Carrie P., from California, added:
“Great article! As a mom, I feel nothing but heartache for that woman. If my daughter ever ended up that way, I don’t know what I would do. It would be too horrible to bear.”
Grant S., from New York, replied:
“Don’t worry. Autism that extreme only affects boys. Keep her away from vaccinations, and she’ll be fine.”
// Thank goodness.
I thought.
// I’m safe. No one can get me.
And I wondered how weird it was to feel so relieved. As if mothers were something I had to protect myself from, as if the life they’d given me could be snuffed out of me as easily as wiping an inscription off a slab of wet clay.
(Did that make me not real? I thought about sending a message to Daniel to ask, something in brackets and fractals, but I couldn’t find the words in any coding book or how-to guide I read.)
Their mom threw out the computer later that year, replacing it with a smaller, silver one. It had a thinner screen and a smaller tower, with fans that clicked instead of whirred.
Outside Daniel’s room, Lily and I watched her heft the old computer away. I stepped forward, wanting to stop her or object, but I couldn’t find the words to talk with her. All the language I knew--all the fractals and code--weren’t words she could understand.
// We were supposed to grow up together.
“Thank God,” their mom said, as she carried the new box inside. The sleeves of her sweater fell over her arms, like a small child’s. “I never understood how the old one worked. This one is better.”
She moved on to the basement to set it up. Lily--a newer version of Daniel, a better version, safe and feminine and full of shrieking, girlish words--went after her.
And me? I stayed behind, close to the door. I reached out to the knob, but stopped myself.
Underneath the door, dribbling through the crack, was a pool of wet clay, still sparking with electricity.
Second Place
1500 by Kipling Knox
I’m still amazed I got such an opportunity, on my very first day as an AV tech. I should say seized such an opportunity, quoting Horace here, since credit goes to the one who acts in the moment. Just that morning Mama was telling me I lacked gumption. I was late bringing her sausage muffin, and she was already sitting up in bed. She gave me an earful, louder than the jets on the north runway. My problem wasn’t just being a landscaper, it was working with those people. They’re a bad influence, she said. They’ll make you settle. America is about grabbing what’s yours, before they take it.
Well I grabbed it. When Miguel told the crew they wanted volunteers for the event, I raised my hand and probably gave a little yell, like ‘oh!’ The guys laughed at me, like they do, me being the white guy always talking about the future, doing online classes and so forth. But in that moment, my heart spun up and I felt something big coming.
I felt it later while I taped down cables on stage. Mr. Fancy was there to rehearse, pacing back and forth, asking questions about where some journalist would sit, and what volume the music would play, and whether smuggled cameras might capture too much of the secret device. He was obsessed with security and preparation and so in the middle of one of his rants he stopped suddenly and looked down at my work and said, Now I like that. That’s how you do things. Look how this guy (what’s your name?) look how he does something as brain dead as taping cables--look how the cable is perfectly laid within the tape edges and how the ends meet so no one trips? Patrick, do you see that? Can we take a lesson from this guy and stabilize the projection with the same care and precision?
Colton, I said.
Mr. Fancy stopped pacing and looked at me. I could smell his citrusy cologne.
That’s my name, I said. Colton.
He stared at me for a while, smiling. What kind of name is that? Some cowboy name?
I didn’t take offense, because I was trying to place his accent. Argentinian? He might have known about cowboys from days on the pampas. But then I realized that of course not, he was making fun, not just of me but also of Mama.
I got ready to explain that Mama did like how Colton sounds wild-westy, but actually her inspiration came from an actor on General Hospital, which got her through some rough times after Daddy was arrested before I was born.
But he interrupted, Stand up. Would you mind?
So I stood up, not because he said so but because I knew I would tower over him.
You’re a tall man, he said. I could see strands of his shaggy hair rising in a wave of static.
He dragged me over to the podium, climbed on the step, and said, Look, Patrick! Could this guy stand in for Lillian as our mule?
Patrick didn’t look up from his laptop, but said, I guess, if she’s that sick…
Mr. Fancy said, He’s the perfect height! He put his hands over my head like a halo and said, Device goes right here, we’re both in frame--perfect money shot, right? Elsa? Good?
Elsa said, Well if he’s our mule, we’ll have to get him changed and start rehearsing like now. Do we have any shirts that size left?
The room was filling with staff and the press were lining up outside. 1,500 people, they said. Journalists, influencers, bloggers, execs. They had me stand in the demo location and tried out lighting arrangements. I could smell the electric ozone. I described the setup they needed, but Elsa shooshed me and said, Just concentrate on your posture. No slouching with the device!
Mr. Fancy whispered, You’re probably tired, Mr. Colton?
For some reason I blurted, Well I bet I’m the only one who took three buses this morning.
He leaned forward to see if I was joking. He said, Don’t mind Elsa. She’s our unicorn. Where do you live, sir?
Drive toward the airport until you can’t, I said. That’s my house.
He laughed. Convenient for travel!
I asked, When do I see the device?
He put his hand on my shoulder and it was strangely warm and heavy for such a small man. Very soon, he said. Not before showtime.
Elsa added, Remember: it’s heavy. Don’t let them see that. Or the cable.
They put me backstage and the A/C was noisy, cranking so the device wouldn’t overheat. But I could still hear what Mr. Fancy said, sort of a liberal utopian sermon. The usual things like ‘enhancing human capabilities.’ But also his own psychedelic spin, ‘A wealth of knowledge for the teeming billions occupying no more space than electrons, but filling infinite rooms, infinitely.’ He whipped up the crowd. Then they called me on stage.
I had to walk perfectly to the ‘X’ of gaffer’s tape. With all those lights and faces, I started to sweat. I could feel it pooling up under the tight band that secured the device to my head.
The audience typed furiously on tablets and laptops.
Please welcome Colton, Mr. Fancy said. He might seem like a cowboy, but I assure you the only heat he’s packing is this revolutionary new device.
The audience laughed and relaxed, and Mr. Fancy went into the technical details.
This technology is no big deal now. You’ve seen videos probably. But up on stage, through the huge lenses, I was mesmerized. Cartoon chipmunks climbed over the people in the first row. Rainbow jellyfish floated farther back. Starlight settled in sparkling dust across everything, falling from some unseen universe just beyond the device’s tiny field of view.
It surprised me to feel Elsa dabbing sweat from my face. Mr. Fancy made a joke out of it.
Big day for Colton, he said. This morning he was outside pulling weeds. But it’s so easy even our landscaper can do it!
The audience made a gasp like ‘did he really say that?’ and then the awkward pause broke into uproarious laughter. I became more aware of the room.
They were projecting the demo on 20-foot displays. I could see them on the back wall. There was my sweating head, my mouth breathing. Mr. Fancy was just in frame, gesturing, holding the money shot. In another camera, they showed what I saw in the room. And in a third camera, they showed my eyeball. It was disconcerting, frankly, to see your eye so large. It must have been 6 feet tall. It darted. It twitched. A little bloodshot, from the sweat probably. It was misleading, of course, but on all those screens my giant eye looked scared.
Mr. Fancy put his hand over his microphone and said, Hang in there, big guy. Almost done.
Then he told them, It’s perfectly natural for your eye to move around like that. But we factor all that to understand your intent. You don’t have to think--the computer does. Whether you’re a surgeon or a landscaper. So easy… even his mother can do it!
Now. I know in video footage it sounds like he said ‘Even my mother,’ but I distinctly heard ‘Even his mother,’ so maybe they’ve edited it. Either way, he inspired me to act.
I pushed my head forward to feel the tension of the cable. I held it and began walking forward toward the stairs. As I took the first step, the cable yanked free of the big hidden computer and dragged behind me like a bride’s veil. I kept walking down the aisle, faster and faster. I heard Mr. Fancy try to make a joke but it came out as a high and strained stutter. The journalists rose to their feet and pulled out their smuggled cameras as I passed. The security guards at the door were loafing, not expecting me, so I started running.
Outside it was hot and bright. My eyes hurt and I had trouble seeing my way. I heard the crowd coming behind me, all 1,500 of them, in a roar like a jet. For some reason, I kept thinking of my giant eye, like I was running from it.
Security caught me pretty fast--those guys are fit. They hit me hard, like cornerbacks, and all three of us went ‘oof!’ when we hit the ground. But I persevered. I kept my head up, still wearing that monstrous headdress, and grinned back at the bloggers and influencers. Just like I was hamming it up, like I was saying cheese, just holding that pose so they all could capture it perfectly. And today and forever probably you can go on your computer and type ‘Colton’ and see my money shot. Now everybody knows me. So watch this space.
Because I have a lot to say.
1500 by Kipling Knox
I’m still amazed I got such an opportunity, on my very first day as an AV tech. I should say seized such an opportunity, quoting Horace here, since credit goes to the one who acts in the moment. Just that morning Mama was telling me I lacked gumption. I was late bringing her sausage muffin, and she was already sitting up in bed. She gave me an earful, louder than the jets on the north runway. My problem wasn’t just being a landscaper, it was working with those people. They’re a bad influence, she said. They’ll make you settle. America is about grabbing what’s yours, before they take it.
Well I grabbed it. When Miguel told the crew they wanted volunteers for the event, I raised my hand and probably gave a little yell, like ‘oh!’ The guys laughed at me, like they do, me being the white guy always talking about the future, doing online classes and so forth. But in that moment, my heart spun up and I felt something big coming.
I felt it later while I taped down cables on stage. Mr. Fancy was there to rehearse, pacing back and forth, asking questions about where some journalist would sit, and what volume the music would play, and whether smuggled cameras might capture too much of the secret device. He was obsessed with security and preparation and so in the middle of one of his rants he stopped suddenly and looked down at my work and said, Now I like that. That’s how you do things. Look how this guy (what’s your name?) look how he does something as brain dead as taping cables--look how the cable is perfectly laid within the tape edges and how the ends meet so no one trips? Patrick, do you see that? Can we take a lesson from this guy and stabilize the projection with the same care and precision?
Colton, I said.
Mr. Fancy stopped pacing and looked at me. I could smell his citrusy cologne.
That’s my name, I said. Colton.
He stared at me for a while, smiling. What kind of name is that? Some cowboy name?
I didn’t take offense, because I was trying to place his accent. Argentinian? He might have known about cowboys from days on the pampas. But then I realized that of course not, he was making fun, not just of me but also of Mama.
I got ready to explain that Mama did like how Colton sounds wild-westy, but actually her inspiration came from an actor on General Hospital, which got her through some rough times after Daddy was arrested before I was born.
But he interrupted, Stand up. Would you mind?
So I stood up, not because he said so but because I knew I would tower over him.
You’re a tall man, he said. I could see strands of his shaggy hair rising in a wave of static.
He dragged me over to the podium, climbed on the step, and said, Look, Patrick! Could this guy stand in for Lillian as our mule?
Patrick didn’t look up from his laptop, but said, I guess, if she’s that sick…
Mr. Fancy said, He’s the perfect height! He put his hands over my head like a halo and said, Device goes right here, we’re both in frame--perfect money shot, right? Elsa? Good?
Elsa said, Well if he’s our mule, we’ll have to get him changed and start rehearsing like now. Do we have any shirts that size left?
The room was filling with staff and the press were lining up outside. 1,500 people, they said. Journalists, influencers, bloggers, execs. They had me stand in the demo location and tried out lighting arrangements. I could smell the electric ozone. I described the setup they needed, but Elsa shooshed me and said, Just concentrate on your posture. No slouching with the device!
Mr. Fancy whispered, You’re probably tired, Mr. Colton?
For some reason I blurted, Well I bet I’m the only one who took three buses this morning.
He leaned forward to see if I was joking. He said, Don’t mind Elsa. She’s our unicorn. Where do you live, sir?
Drive toward the airport until you can’t, I said. That’s my house.
He laughed. Convenient for travel!
I asked, When do I see the device?
He put his hand on my shoulder and it was strangely warm and heavy for such a small man. Very soon, he said. Not before showtime.
Elsa added, Remember: it’s heavy. Don’t let them see that. Or the cable.
They put me backstage and the A/C was noisy, cranking so the device wouldn’t overheat. But I could still hear what Mr. Fancy said, sort of a liberal utopian sermon. The usual things like ‘enhancing human capabilities.’ But also his own psychedelic spin, ‘A wealth of knowledge for the teeming billions occupying no more space than electrons, but filling infinite rooms, infinitely.’ He whipped up the crowd. Then they called me on stage.
I had to walk perfectly to the ‘X’ of gaffer’s tape. With all those lights and faces, I started to sweat. I could feel it pooling up under the tight band that secured the device to my head.
The audience typed furiously on tablets and laptops.
Please welcome Colton, Mr. Fancy said. He might seem like a cowboy, but I assure you the only heat he’s packing is this revolutionary new device.
The audience laughed and relaxed, and Mr. Fancy went into the technical details.
This technology is no big deal now. You’ve seen videos probably. But up on stage, through the huge lenses, I was mesmerized. Cartoon chipmunks climbed over the people in the first row. Rainbow jellyfish floated farther back. Starlight settled in sparkling dust across everything, falling from some unseen universe just beyond the device’s tiny field of view.
It surprised me to feel Elsa dabbing sweat from my face. Mr. Fancy made a joke out of it.
Big day for Colton, he said. This morning he was outside pulling weeds. But it’s so easy even our landscaper can do it!
The audience made a gasp like ‘did he really say that?’ and then the awkward pause broke into uproarious laughter. I became more aware of the room.
They were projecting the demo on 20-foot displays. I could see them on the back wall. There was my sweating head, my mouth breathing. Mr. Fancy was just in frame, gesturing, holding the money shot. In another camera, they showed what I saw in the room. And in a third camera, they showed my eyeball. It was disconcerting, frankly, to see your eye so large. It must have been 6 feet tall. It darted. It twitched. A little bloodshot, from the sweat probably. It was misleading, of course, but on all those screens my giant eye looked scared.
Mr. Fancy put his hand over his microphone and said, Hang in there, big guy. Almost done.
Then he told them, It’s perfectly natural for your eye to move around like that. But we factor all that to understand your intent. You don’t have to think--the computer does. Whether you’re a surgeon or a landscaper. So easy… even his mother can do it!
Now. I know in video footage it sounds like he said ‘Even my mother,’ but I distinctly heard ‘Even his mother,’ so maybe they’ve edited it. Either way, he inspired me to act.
I pushed my head forward to feel the tension of the cable. I held it and began walking forward toward the stairs. As I took the first step, the cable yanked free of the big hidden computer and dragged behind me like a bride’s veil. I kept walking down the aisle, faster and faster. I heard Mr. Fancy try to make a joke but it came out as a high and strained stutter. The journalists rose to their feet and pulled out their smuggled cameras as I passed. The security guards at the door were loafing, not expecting me, so I started running.
Outside it was hot and bright. My eyes hurt and I had trouble seeing my way. I heard the crowd coming behind me, all 1,500 of them, in a roar like a jet. For some reason, I kept thinking of my giant eye, like I was running from it.
Security caught me pretty fast--those guys are fit. They hit me hard, like cornerbacks, and all three of us went ‘oof!’ when we hit the ground. But I persevered. I kept my head up, still wearing that monstrous headdress, and grinned back at the bloggers and influencers. Just like I was hamming it up, like I was saying cheese, just holding that pose so they all could capture it perfectly. And today and forever probably you can go on your computer and type ‘Colton’ and see my money shot. Now everybody knows me. So watch this space.
Because I have a lot to say.
Honorable Mention
The Exchange by Pat Power
Max drew down on his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, waiting for the nicotine rush to calm his nerves. A wisp of smoke escaped from his pursed lips. Small rivulets of anticipatory perspiration trickled down his neck. After forty years the diamond had finally surfaced, here, in New York City. And now he sat, waiting patiently, quietly, for a cue from the little Jew sitting across the table; the broker who stood between Max Andropov and the valuable stone that should belong to him, an overdue payment from a dead Tsar for Max’s unquestioning loyalty to the royal family.
The broker was a slip of a man. He wore a faded black jacket and limp white shirt. He sat on a padded folding chair under the hot glare of two fluorescent lamps. His delicate hands rested on a bare stainless steel table that breached the open space between the two men.
“Mr. Andropov,” the broker said, “I am Simon, Philip Weizmann’s son. My father has been called away unexpectedly, so I will be conducting this transaction on his behalf. Knowing how far you have traveled to make this purchase, he thought it best to keep our appointment as scheduled.”
“Of course, of course,” Max replied, crushing the stub of his cigarette into a black plastic ashtray. “Naturally, I am disappointed not to meet your father but the sale should be concluded today.” The two men rose slightly and shook hands. Perfunctory smiles were exchanged before each sat down again.
A small, square black box was sitting on the table in front of the broker. Simon gently nudged the box outward. Max watched the box skim the shiny surface of the steel table, floating across the centuries and continents, coming to rest at last, a few inches from his fingers. He picked up the box, lifted the lid, drew out a small sheet of crisply folded paper from the velvet casing, and eased the gem out of its package. The jewel, plundered from the body of Tsar Nicholas’s eldest daughter, had unspeakably, though not entirely unexpectedly, turned up in Manhattan's diamond district last winter.
Broker Philip Weizmann, having been gifted with an intuitive sense of the extraordinary when it comes to stones, had wasted no time buying the gem, wrapping it in the same brivke Max now held in his hand, and scuttling the extraordinary find to his private safe. In less than two months from the time Weizmann leaked news of the find to the public, Max Andropov, the aged but ardent royalist who was personally responsible for the brutal murders of Philip’s brother, wife, and children in the Odessa pogrom had contacted him. Philip knew Max would salivate at the prospect of recovering this precious symbol of Russian imperium. And the old man would eagerly pay for it, whatever the price.
By the sanguine expression on Max’s face, Weizmann’s son realized how prescient was his father’s optimism. Max was holding the stone tenderly between his forefinger and thumb, nearly caressing it as he examined it through his loupe. Simon allowed his buyer a few moments to savor his find. “Does the diamond meet your expectations then, Mr. Andropov?”
“Yes, yes, it does,” Max replied absently, his mind preoccupied with the magnitude of his good fortune. Max removed a small, manila envelope from the table and carefully slid the jewel inside. He ran the lip of the envelope over his tongue and recorded his offer on its backside. The taste of burnt tobacco and glue mixed most unpleasantly on his palate. He slid the sealed envelope across the table to Simon.
Simon looked at the figures on the envelope and smiled. He looked up to Max and said, “My father and I accept with the utmost gratitude for your generosity.”
Max reached down and lifted his briefcase onto the table. Inside was the cashier’s check for an unconscionable sum of American dollars. He handed the payment to Simon in exchange for his diamond. He was flooded with a sense of exhilaration he had not felt in decades. Max rose and turned to leave the stifling room when Simon’s voice rang out.
“Please,” Simon said, “I apologize, but I have a message from my father to convey to you now that you possess the diamond you sought. I fear, however, that when you have heard his final proposition, you may wish to reconsider your purchase.”
“What?” Max asked, more annoyed than interested in what Simon had to say now that their business together was over.
“My father . . . well . . . I can assure you he is, ultimately, a fair man. He offers you a chance to live; a chance his family did not have. Though he doubts you will take him seriously. And, I must say, what he has written strains even my credulity.” Simon unfolded a piece of notebook paper that was lying on the table and began reading,
“Mr. Andropov, when you sealed the envelope with your tongue, perhaps you noticed a bitter sting? Yes? It is the taste of poison, which I mixed with the glue. It will, slowly but inexorably, lead to a relatively painless death. The antidote, which should be taken within an hour or so of ingesting the poison, is in my son’s possession. He will supply it to you in exchange for the diamond you possess.“
Max, taken aback by the melodramatic note that Simon was apologetically reading to him, thought a moment. Then he shook his head in sympathy for Simon’s apparent discomfort and began to laugh, “Does your father believe I am that much a fool?”
“I cannot say, Mr. Andropov. I’m sorry.” Simon shrugged his shoulders and pocketed the letter. He followed Max and the diamond upstairs where he watched them exit the double-doored vestibule onto 47th Street. A smug smile began to spread across Simon’s face as he slipped down the hall to notify his father that this final transaction had been completed.
The Exchange by Pat Power
Max drew down on his cigarette. He inhaled deeply, waiting for the nicotine rush to calm his nerves. A wisp of smoke escaped from his pursed lips. Small rivulets of anticipatory perspiration trickled down his neck. After forty years the diamond had finally surfaced, here, in New York City. And now he sat, waiting patiently, quietly, for a cue from the little Jew sitting across the table; the broker who stood between Max Andropov and the valuable stone that should belong to him, an overdue payment from a dead Tsar for Max’s unquestioning loyalty to the royal family.
The broker was a slip of a man. He wore a faded black jacket and limp white shirt. He sat on a padded folding chair under the hot glare of two fluorescent lamps. His delicate hands rested on a bare stainless steel table that breached the open space between the two men.
“Mr. Andropov,” the broker said, “I am Simon, Philip Weizmann’s son. My father has been called away unexpectedly, so I will be conducting this transaction on his behalf. Knowing how far you have traveled to make this purchase, he thought it best to keep our appointment as scheduled.”
“Of course, of course,” Max replied, crushing the stub of his cigarette into a black plastic ashtray. “Naturally, I am disappointed not to meet your father but the sale should be concluded today.” The two men rose slightly and shook hands. Perfunctory smiles were exchanged before each sat down again.
A small, square black box was sitting on the table in front of the broker. Simon gently nudged the box outward. Max watched the box skim the shiny surface of the steel table, floating across the centuries and continents, coming to rest at last, a few inches from his fingers. He picked up the box, lifted the lid, drew out a small sheet of crisply folded paper from the velvet casing, and eased the gem out of its package. The jewel, plundered from the body of Tsar Nicholas’s eldest daughter, had unspeakably, though not entirely unexpectedly, turned up in Manhattan's diamond district last winter.
Broker Philip Weizmann, having been gifted with an intuitive sense of the extraordinary when it comes to stones, had wasted no time buying the gem, wrapping it in the same brivke Max now held in his hand, and scuttling the extraordinary find to his private safe. In less than two months from the time Weizmann leaked news of the find to the public, Max Andropov, the aged but ardent royalist who was personally responsible for the brutal murders of Philip’s brother, wife, and children in the Odessa pogrom had contacted him. Philip knew Max would salivate at the prospect of recovering this precious symbol of Russian imperium. And the old man would eagerly pay for it, whatever the price.
By the sanguine expression on Max’s face, Weizmann’s son realized how prescient was his father’s optimism. Max was holding the stone tenderly between his forefinger and thumb, nearly caressing it as he examined it through his loupe. Simon allowed his buyer a few moments to savor his find. “Does the diamond meet your expectations then, Mr. Andropov?”
“Yes, yes, it does,” Max replied absently, his mind preoccupied with the magnitude of his good fortune. Max removed a small, manila envelope from the table and carefully slid the jewel inside. He ran the lip of the envelope over his tongue and recorded his offer on its backside. The taste of burnt tobacco and glue mixed most unpleasantly on his palate. He slid the sealed envelope across the table to Simon.
Simon looked at the figures on the envelope and smiled. He looked up to Max and said, “My father and I accept with the utmost gratitude for your generosity.”
Max reached down and lifted his briefcase onto the table. Inside was the cashier’s check for an unconscionable sum of American dollars. He handed the payment to Simon in exchange for his diamond. He was flooded with a sense of exhilaration he had not felt in decades. Max rose and turned to leave the stifling room when Simon’s voice rang out.
“Please,” Simon said, “I apologize, but I have a message from my father to convey to you now that you possess the diamond you sought. I fear, however, that when you have heard his final proposition, you may wish to reconsider your purchase.”
“What?” Max asked, more annoyed than interested in what Simon had to say now that their business together was over.
“My father . . . well . . . I can assure you he is, ultimately, a fair man. He offers you a chance to live; a chance his family did not have. Though he doubts you will take him seriously. And, I must say, what he has written strains even my credulity.” Simon unfolded a piece of notebook paper that was lying on the table and began reading,
“Mr. Andropov, when you sealed the envelope with your tongue, perhaps you noticed a bitter sting? Yes? It is the taste of poison, which I mixed with the glue. It will, slowly but inexorably, lead to a relatively painless death. The antidote, which should be taken within an hour or so of ingesting the poison, is in my son’s possession. He will supply it to you in exchange for the diamond you possess.“
Max, taken aback by the melodramatic note that Simon was apologetically reading to him, thought a moment. Then he shook his head in sympathy for Simon’s apparent discomfort and began to laugh, “Does your father believe I am that much a fool?”
“I cannot say, Mr. Andropov. I’m sorry.” Simon shrugged his shoulders and pocketed the letter. He followed Max and the diamond upstairs where he watched them exit the double-doored vestibule onto 47th Street. A smug smile began to spread across Simon’s face as he slipped down the hall to notify his father that this final transaction had been completed.
Honorable Mention
Mark by Mary Pan
When my daughter was first born we thought it was just a bruise, a remnant from birthing trauma. Just to the left of center on her forehead lay a purplish macular disc. Her cousin said, “It looks like a heart.” When it didn’t resolve after a few days we realized it was a birthmark.
My mom had my mole removed when I was twelve. Just above my left eyebrow, the raised black spot was likely benign but some doctor told her it might eventually become cancerous, so she took the conservative route. She used to call it a beauty mark, but I know she was just trying to make me feel better.
We took her to a pediatric dermatologist, who looked it up in a medical book and told us it was a rare location for a common skin lesion among Asians: a so-called congenital dermal melanocytosis. Usually they’re located on the lower back or buttock. I used to have one on my back that has long since faded. The further caudal they are, the more unusual. Also, the more unlikely they are to disappear. “We’ll have a better idea when she’s five or six years old; it may lighten a bit over time. But it’s likely to persist into adulthood.”
They removed it in the outpatient surgical center. Since it was on my face and I was on the precipice of the superficial teen years, a plastic surgeon was tasked with this important feat. I remember he looked me in the eye and reassured me, “In a few years, it will just blend in with the lines on your forehead.” He raised his eyebrows in demonstration. I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. Wrinkles? I was twelve.
“You could try laser treatment but it may leave a scar. Just simple makeup will cover it up.” She said this to us as she smiled at our 6-month-old bald baby wriggling in her lap. “She can just wear makeup when she’s older.” She repeated the statement, letting it sink in. Were we being unreasonable, superficial? I felt small, vain. “Yes, makeup, that’s fine.” I scooped her up in my arms as we left.
While we were in the OR I was conscious but numbed up. They chatted as they worked, above my head. Lighthearted small talk was made and I was confused. Wasn’t this surgery? He asked if I wanted to see the mole after it was removed. He held up the sterile container with the hunk of flesh, fat dangling from the dermal layers.
When she was a toddler, prone to unsteadiness, strangers would comment, looking down at her, “Oh, did you fall and get a boo-boo on your forehead?” Depending on how rushed I was at that particular moment I would either smile, give a small nod and let them proceed with their incorrect assumption or reply, “Actually, it’s a birthmark.” Then I’d whisk her away while a confused look surfaced on their face.
The surgeon followed up with me in the recovery room. He reiterated how my scar will “just turn into a wrinkle someday.” I was skeptical, but enjoyed my red jello. I’d never been in the hospital before.
Her hair finally grew out from the short mullet she had her first two years of life. She didn't get her first haircut until she was a toddler. Presented with a choice in styling that could cover her birthmark, I faltered. Finally, I decided: yes, give her bangs. Her hair grows quickly now, like her mama. Her thick bangs need trimming often. When the aberrance sneaks through and others notice, she’s quick to correct them herself: “No, it’s a birthmark.”
Sometime in my late teens I noticed the asymmetry, the subtle dip of my left eyebrow, especially when I smile. The hypopigmented line stood out if you looked at my face for more than a few seconds. I realized he lied, that surgeon: it would never just blend in with my wrinkles.
I wonder if she'll judge my decision years from now, standing in front of a mirror, tracing the purplish smudge on her face. Resentful I didn't take a chance on a scar to have it removed. Now, it's a part of her; like an appendage or an organ. When she draws stick figure self-portraits, she includes a dark spot on her forehead. Her penned portraits are missing a waist and a nose, but the birthmark, it’s always there.
Mark by Mary Pan
When my daughter was first born we thought it was just a bruise, a remnant from birthing trauma. Just to the left of center on her forehead lay a purplish macular disc. Her cousin said, “It looks like a heart.” When it didn’t resolve after a few days we realized it was a birthmark.
My mom had my mole removed when I was twelve. Just above my left eyebrow, the raised black spot was likely benign but some doctor told her it might eventually become cancerous, so she took the conservative route. She used to call it a beauty mark, but I know she was just trying to make me feel better.
We took her to a pediatric dermatologist, who looked it up in a medical book and told us it was a rare location for a common skin lesion among Asians: a so-called congenital dermal melanocytosis. Usually they’re located on the lower back or buttock. I used to have one on my back that has long since faded. The further caudal they are, the more unusual. Also, the more unlikely they are to disappear. “We’ll have a better idea when she’s five or six years old; it may lighten a bit over time. But it’s likely to persist into adulthood.”
They removed it in the outpatient surgical center. Since it was on my face and I was on the precipice of the superficial teen years, a plastic surgeon was tasked with this important feat. I remember he looked me in the eye and reassured me, “In a few years, it will just blend in with the lines on your forehead.” He raised his eyebrows in demonstration. I didn’t have any idea what he was talking about. Wrinkles? I was twelve.
“You could try laser treatment but it may leave a scar. Just simple makeup will cover it up.” She said this to us as she smiled at our 6-month-old bald baby wriggling in her lap. “She can just wear makeup when she’s older.” She repeated the statement, letting it sink in. Were we being unreasonable, superficial? I felt small, vain. “Yes, makeup, that’s fine.” I scooped her up in my arms as we left.
While we were in the OR I was conscious but numbed up. They chatted as they worked, above my head. Lighthearted small talk was made and I was confused. Wasn’t this surgery? He asked if I wanted to see the mole after it was removed. He held up the sterile container with the hunk of flesh, fat dangling from the dermal layers.
When she was a toddler, prone to unsteadiness, strangers would comment, looking down at her, “Oh, did you fall and get a boo-boo on your forehead?” Depending on how rushed I was at that particular moment I would either smile, give a small nod and let them proceed with their incorrect assumption or reply, “Actually, it’s a birthmark.” Then I’d whisk her away while a confused look surfaced on their face.
The surgeon followed up with me in the recovery room. He reiterated how my scar will “just turn into a wrinkle someday.” I was skeptical, but enjoyed my red jello. I’d never been in the hospital before.
Her hair finally grew out from the short mullet she had her first two years of life. She didn't get her first haircut until she was a toddler. Presented with a choice in styling that could cover her birthmark, I faltered. Finally, I decided: yes, give her bangs. Her hair grows quickly now, like her mama. Her thick bangs need trimming often. When the aberrance sneaks through and others notice, she’s quick to correct them herself: “No, it’s a birthmark.”
Sometime in my late teens I noticed the asymmetry, the subtle dip of my left eyebrow, especially when I smile. The hypopigmented line stood out if you looked at my face for more than a few seconds. I realized he lied, that surgeon: it would never just blend in with my wrinkles.
I wonder if she'll judge my decision years from now, standing in front of a mirror, tracing the purplish smudge on her face. Resentful I didn't take a chance on a scar to have it removed. Now, it's a part of her; like an appendage or an organ. When she draws stick figure self-portraits, she includes a dark spot on her forehead. Her penned portraits are missing a waist and a nose, but the birthmark, it’s always there.
Adult Author Poetry
First Place
After the Snow by James Backstrom Among all the sticks in the thicket only a few willows, ringed in yellow-green, will soon grow into a strange & fuzzy blooming. A varied thrush whose song sometimes haunted us left the woods to follow winter into the higher hills. I found out only last week my old neighbor, Bruce, three houses down, who I chatted with on my evening walks the past 17 years, died before Christmas. He held out, they told me, for a new baby granddaughter then let go like Simeon, stubbornly living in hope, surrendering to the fulfillment of a promise. Bruce spent his life fixing things: cars, toasters, dripping faucets, and at various times, the broken hearts of his five lovely daughters, but he knew well enough to tell me to trade in my old truck when he saw it grow sluggish in blue smoke. On the edges of the marsh, the frogs are late this year, silent in an icy stupor in the frozen mud. I would have gone to his funeral had I known, I say out loud, walking past his house. In the cold, dry air patches of old snow shrink slowly, diffusing molecule by molecule, a loss invisible to the naked eye, but you can tell in a kind of time lapse you only notice if you walk by every day, how the bleached & yellowed sedges reeds & grasses unbend and straighten, slowly rise through the last crust of snow with the promise of spring. |
Second Place
12 Years by Natalie Leif Dear Meeka, They say we have 12 years left until the end of the world, Which means I only have 12 years to get to know you. That must be so much shorter for me than you And shorter still to our parents before us. When you’re twelve it’s a lifetime When you’re twenty-four it’s an investment And when you’re fifty you can drop twelve years like change out a car window You check your pockets and you look back and it’s gone and getting further all the while Like words you can’t unsay. They say the ice caps are melting and the sea is rising and the world is fire, fire, fire, Solar flares are catching every oil spill and dollar bill alight, Our nukes are overheating and there’s a plague of anti-vaccinations, Our data’s compromised and the robots are Neo-Nazis, And all of it is spinning faster and faster and faster, So it’s not a question of IF and MAYBE but WHICH apocalypse will come clawing to the top To claim the title prize in the end, And in twelve years the last Tweet standing will be #CalledIt. I want to text you a picture of the end of the world. I want to Tweet the protests and liveblog the collapse, And I want to Snapchat wildfires with aesthetic filters. I want to wrap everything terrible in tiny boxes that can’t hurt us. I want more time. Here’s the story, baby girl, and listen close and listen fast because it only gets weirder from here: Nine years ago there was a boy named David And a girl who must’ve had a name, too And they laughed and teased like siblings do And nine years ago David died And the joke stopped being funny. And that girl moved to Seattle so she could stop seeing his face In every friend of his and everybody knows everybody in Minnesota. “Oh, her? She’s David’s sister.” “Except now, I guess.” “Now she’s nobody at all.” So she went to Seattle, because there being nobody is not a bad thing to be Seattleites make art out of pretending not to know each other. And she heard on the news that there’s 21 years until the end of the world And she thought, “God, finally.” Nine years after, her parents called They’re fostering a girl named Meeka She’s twelve years old. “She likes art and writing and Disney movies.” “And she looks so much like you, Natalie.” “She’s angry and lost and broken like you.” And suddenly I want more time. The end of the world isn’t a bad thing if you’re fifty, And you drop years like change and racial slurs, And at the end you can look back and say, “I had a good run.” When the world ends, I’ll be almost forty, And I guess that’s not a bad run, either. But you’ll be twenty-four, Meeka, like a nobody lost in Seattle, And that’s not enough time. I want to go to the fair with you and the movies with you, And trade terrible selfies and recipes, And be unapologetically vapid, selfish, and human. I want to tell you it’ll be okay someday, You’ll find freaks and friends and carve out your own home, You’ll let yourself hurt and realize what it’s like to heal. David died but Meeka lived and Natalie lived, And thirteen lucky years later the second Tweet standing will be #ButTheyLived. #ButFirst,TheyLived. I want to take your hand and smash every robot, Tear capitalism apart with painted fingernails, Devour the sun like an angry god, And make a home in the ruins of nukes and broken data, Sparks like fireworks in the summer sky. They say we only have twelve years until the end of the world, But I don’t believe that. Because the world ends with us, little sister, And we’ve still got a long way to go. |
Honorable Mention
Near Paulina Peak by Chris Cantu The moon joined us mid-morning near Paulina Peak, clambered into us through blue bases of sky. Wed us, for one day. Silence then, lake light, stone shapes pale bent grasses A hawk’s opening note splintered across the valley We drew closer, watched light spill over the ancient, scoured face, felt her enormous solitude grant us a wild, mountain blessing. Firs split the air endless piercing points moment falling through moment The moon’s singular light opened us until we became the door we walked through Early October afternoon drifting leaf gardens stone stacked upon stone We went higher, sought the shimmer of a glacial green lake, as the moon tacked over the horizon. To our west, layered peaks limned in gold, to the east, hung with silver in a dark valley, a soundless cascade. We made these wishes then: Rock, bind us together Sing to us, Water, and never break Sky, to which we hold no key, Hollow us like a ringing bell. |
Honorable Mention
The Lost Girl by Regina Sadono The lost girl is sunlight, she’s shadow. She walks like an arrow in the morning, at night. She walks straight in anger, in sorrow; sees things around her, sees nothing, she’s deep. The lost girl has answers; has words without meaning, walks alone, has direction, has knowledge, has truth. Her dreams keep her busy, she’ll know them, she’ll tell them, will hear silent whispers, will mourn. The lost girl is tender as footprints in powder, in snow. She walks like an arrow, was taken, retreated in silence, in darkness, with comfort like stones. There was safety; a haven with angels and infinite rainbows where freedom was love. She was beauty. Her strength was like ages, like eagles, like bones. Her thoughts were wordless as velvet; her secrets like knives. The lost girl had riches. She had key chains and lipstick. Her hair was in pigtails, her fingernails polished, her dress was undone. Her face was familiar; her name was repeated in stations, in tunnels, on highways. This girl was a child, is a woman, was hurt. No one can see her. They’ve waited these days for the vision, the movement, as hours unravel, as rhythms combine. On the pavement her footsteps are sharp, but they’re fading. They mingle. They’re gone. The corners will turn her, the mirror; the moon is her sister, her savior. The wind moves around her. Her dress stirs. Her arms are like branches, like starlight, like clouds. She walks like an arrow, with purpose, direction. Her feet strike the earth like a drum. Like a song. |
Teen Author Prose
First Place
The Baker and the King by Emma Howlett
In a beautiful, glorious kingdom there lived a girl whose smiling rosy cheeks outshone the breaking dawn, born to two joyous parents in the rolling green hills of the countryside. With mornings filled with running through dew-laden grass and evenings spent laughing by a warm cook-fire, the girl grew into a shining young woman with long unruly hair and bright eyes, blue like the sky and a laugh that carried above the spring wind. She had a full heart, and had learned from her mother the art of baking, and cooked for her family with delight.
She experimented with the purple flower petals that lived by her window, digging roots and cutting herbs for her delectable soups, while she grew strong and resilient as she learned to knead dough and form sweet flaky pastries. She loved her parents, baking, and their cottage hidden in the emerald hills. Love poured from her like perfume.
Soon the King heard of her miraculous baking skills as news traveled from the countryside to the City of the King. He demanded to meet her and see for himself if her pastries really were as good as the country myths said. It was with crystal tears that the girl bid farewell to her crying mother and father. They knew their daughter was bright and beautiful, strong and determined, but they were also afraid that her shining light would become dimmed under the harshness of the city.
But the girl was brimming with excitement, and left with just her simple country garb and an eager mind. She entered the city gates with wide eyes, disbelief across her face as she took in the tall marble buildings, crowded cobblestone streets, and, on the crest of the city, the King’s elegant city palace. She walked slowly through the streets, bumped and bustled by citydwellers, awestruck and struck dumb. But soon she was filled with a new sense of purpose. She marched to the palace and was greeted by knights and lords who took her to the great throne room.
The King greeted her with open arms and the girl was overwhelmed by the rich colors, dress, and words of the royalty. The King brought her to the kitchens, praising her skills and speaking of her reputation. He offered her a place in his kitchen as the Royal Pastry Chef, to which the girl readily accepted. She got to work, rolling dough and sprinkling sugar, her work powered by her long-standing joy and a newfound confidence.
She worked day in and day out, baking magnificent pastries. The King came by often to praise her, and she bowed her head and wiped her flour-covered hands on her dirty apron. She grew tired, but the King kept praising her and she knew she couldn’t stop. She worked so hard, she had no time to eat, and soon became thin and sickly. She developed a cough and grey pallor, a sadness set deep in her eyes. But she couldn’t disappoint the King, or risk losing her position.
One day however, she grew so tired that she fell asleep at the counter and burned a dozen cinnamon buns, the King’s favorite pastry. The King walked in to find a smoke-filled kitchen and a sleeping girl. He struck her across the face, slapping her awake. She was terrified by his violence and mortified to find her burned pastries. He told her that she could only rest at his command. She had to double her pastry output to make up for her offense. Embarrassed and afraid to ignite further wrath, the girl ground her almonds, kneaded her dough, and whipped her frosting furiously, but she couldn't keep up with the King’s demands. She was exhausted and no longer found joy in baking. In a rage, the King threw her out of the palace and into the streets. The girl cried hard, alone without a job, support, or joy.
With no job and no means to return home, the girl had no choice but to find a place on the streets. Away from the King’s bright and gaudy palace, she noticed how many beggars stood on street corners with frayed clothes and dirty faces. Their calloused hands pleaded for food, for money, for help. Helena’s heart broke to see them, and her eyes grew wet when she realized she had nothing to give them.
But then, she remembered a cinnamon bun in her apron pocket. Still warm and sticky, she placed it in the hand of an old woman huddled against a wall. At her first bite, the woman’s eyes lit up and the girl smiled for the first time in weeks. When the girl explained that she had baked the pastry herself, the woman’s face beamed and she took off her hat. In it sat five fat gold coins.
The woman motioned for the girl to take the hat. The girl knew the woman did not have any other money, but the woman would not be refused. The girl took the money with reverence but also sadness. She was determined to make the woman another pastry.
Yet she could not make a pastry without an oven. So, the girl decided to start her own bakery. She searched in the city, but no landlord would take her, a girl with only five coins to her name. But she finally found one on a street corner three miles from the palace who would sign her. Graciously, she thanked the landlord who believed in her, and got to work. She experimented like she had when she was younger, and created her own pastries, ones that sprung from her dreams and imagination. Beautiful sugar designs, baked bread, swirls of cinnamon consumed her, and she awoke each day with a fresh smile and a new idea.
She was deeply in debt, but her joy so overtook her that she paid it no care. She baked with abandon, and soon attracted many customers. Word spread about her imaginative pastries, their delectable goodness, and soon she paid back her debt, and more. Her business boomed, and so did her happiness. She had made her own way, without worry of pleasing someone else, only of pursuing her vision. Letters arrived to her parents in the country each month, and they were happy to know that their daughter was shining, even through the smog of the city.
Then, one day, the beggar woman who had given the girl her coins hobbled in her bakery doors. The woman’s smile was so proud that she seemed younger even though her clothes were even more filthy. The girl felt her heart swell with gratefulness as she presented the woman with a fresh, warm cinnamon bun.
But the King had also heard of her pastry shop, and just then stormed in to meet the girl and demand her to return to his kitchen. But the girl had learned to stand up for herself and her dreams. She refused him, offering him instead the perfectly sweet, chewy cinnamon bun. With an angry sweep of his cape, the King left, never again to taste a pastry as splendid as those spiraled delicacies.
The woman and the girl looked to each other. Their eyes sparkled with the knowledge of victory, and the woman accepted the girl’s pastry with graciousness. The girl smiled, as she knew she was sharing her gift, and her joy, with the kingdom. Perhaps one day the King would learn to do the same.
The Baker and the King by Emma Howlett
In a beautiful, glorious kingdom there lived a girl whose smiling rosy cheeks outshone the breaking dawn, born to two joyous parents in the rolling green hills of the countryside. With mornings filled with running through dew-laden grass and evenings spent laughing by a warm cook-fire, the girl grew into a shining young woman with long unruly hair and bright eyes, blue like the sky and a laugh that carried above the spring wind. She had a full heart, and had learned from her mother the art of baking, and cooked for her family with delight.
She experimented with the purple flower petals that lived by her window, digging roots and cutting herbs for her delectable soups, while she grew strong and resilient as she learned to knead dough and form sweet flaky pastries. She loved her parents, baking, and their cottage hidden in the emerald hills. Love poured from her like perfume.
Soon the King heard of her miraculous baking skills as news traveled from the countryside to the City of the King. He demanded to meet her and see for himself if her pastries really were as good as the country myths said. It was with crystal tears that the girl bid farewell to her crying mother and father. They knew their daughter was bright and beautiful, strong and determined, but they were also afraid that her shining light would become dimmed under the harshness of the city.
But the girl was brimming with excitement, and left with just her simple country garb and an eager mind. She entered the city gates with wide eyes, disbelief across her face as she took in the tall marble buildings, crowded cobblestone streets, and, on the crest of the city, the King’s elegant city palace. She walked slowly through the streets, bumped and bustled by citydwellers, awestruck and struck dumb. But soon she was filled with a new sense of purpose. She marched to the palace and was greeted by knights and lords who took her to the great throne room.
The King greeted her with open arms and the girl was overwhelmed by the rich colors, dress, and words of the royalty. The King brought her to the kitchens, praising her skills and speaking of her reputation. He offered her a place in his kitchen as the Royal Pastry Chef, to which the girl readily accepted. She got to work, rolling dough and sprinkling sugar, her work powered by her long-standing joy and a newfound confidence.
She worked day in and day out, baking magnificent pastries. The King came by often to praise her, and she bowed her head and wiped her flour-covered hands on her dirty apron. She grew tired, but the King kept praising her and she knew she couldn’t stop. She worked so hard, she had no time to eat, and soon became thin and sickly. She developed a cough and grey pallor, a sadness set deep in her eyes. But she couldn’t disappoint the King, or risk losing her position.
One day however, she grew so tired that she fell asleep at the counter and burned a dozen cinnamon buns, the King’s favorite pastry. The King walked in to find a smoke-filled kitchen and a sleeping girl. He struck her across the face, slapping her awake. She was terrified by his violence and mortified to find her burned pastries. He told her that she could only rest at his command. She had to double her pastry output to make up for her offense. Embarrassed and afraid to ignite further wrath, the girl ground her almonds, kneaded her dough, and whipped her frosting furiously, but she couldn't keep up with the King’s demands. She was exhausted and no longer found joy in baking. In a rage, the King threw her out of the palace and into the streets. The girl cried hard, alone without a job, support, or joy.
With no job and no means to return home, the girl had no choice but to find a place on the streets. Away from the King’s bright and gaudy palace, she noticed how many beggars stood on street corners with frayed clothes and dirty faces. Their calloused hands pleaded for food, for money, for help. Helena’s heart broke to see them, and her eyes grew wet when she realized she had nothing to give them.
But then, she remembered a cinnamon bun in her apron pocket. Still warm and sticky, she placed it in the hand of an old woman huddled against a wall. At her first bite, the woman’s eyes lit up and the girl smiled for the first time in weeks. When the girl explained that she had baked the pastry herself, the woman’s face beamed and she took off her hat. In it sat five fat gold coins.
The woman motioned for the girl to take the hat. The girl knew the woman did not have any other money, but the woman would not be refused. The girl took the money with reverence but also sadness. She was determined to make the woman another pastry.
Yet she could not make a pastry without an oven. So, the girl decided to start her own bakery. She searched in the city, but no landlord would take her, a girl with only five coins to her name. But she finally found one on a street corner three miles from the palace who would sign her. Graciously, she thanked the landlord who believed in her, and got to work. She experimented like she had when she was younger, and created her own pastries, ones that sprung from her dreams and imagination. Beautiful sugar designs, baked bread, swirls of cinnamon consumed her, and she awoke each day with a fresh smile and a new idea.
She was deeply in debt, but her joy so overtook her that she paid it no care. She baked with abandon, and soon attracted many customers. Word spread about her imaginative pastries, their delectable goodness, and soon she paid back her debt, and more. Her business boomed, and so did her happiness. She had made her own way, without worry of pleasing someone else, only of pursuing her vision. Letters arrived to her parents in the country each month, and they were happy to know that their daughter was shining, even through the smog of the city.
Then, one day, the beggar woman who had given the girl her coins hobbled in her bakery doors. The woman’s smile was so proud that she seemed younger even though her clothes were even more filthy. The girl felt her heart swell with gratefulness as she presented the woman with a fresh, warm cinnamon bun.
But the King had also heard of her pastry shop, and just then stormed in to meet the girl and demand her to return to his kitchen. But the girl had learned to stand up for herself and her dreams. She refused him, offering him instead the perfectly sweet, chewy cinnamon bun. With an angry sweep of his cape, the King left, never again to taste a pastry as splendid as those spiraled delicacies.
The woman and the girl looked to each other. Their eyes sparkled with the knowledge of victory, and the woman accepted the girl’s pastry with graciousness. The girl smiled, as she knew she was sharing her gift, and her joy, with the kingdom. Perhaps one day the King would learn to do the same.
Second Place
Silent Enemy by Kathryn Pinto
You pulled me out of the water at night. I was shivering and stoic and the lights were blinding. Your words were English and they wrapped around me, cutting and shouting. I stayed silent. You knew not who I was. I am glad you have saved me. I am sorry you ever took me in.
You had dark eyes and a big beard.
You whispered under your breath.
Poor devil. The rest of the boat is gone.
I lay on the ground in a heap, coughing my guts out. You looked down from a distance while the soldiers pulled me to your feet. You stared down in a captain's jacket, eyes moving softly to face the soaking wet German, collapsed and shaking on the deck.
Take him below.
They laid me in a dark room, alone.
I sat down on the floor, curled in the corner, panting.
Did you know what I was to do? Everything was pounding and hurt and I could feel the blood running through my head. I was alive.
I felt like throwing up. The jump was colder than I expected and I drank half the sea. I gasped.
The adrenaline was wearing off and I was shaking and-
Coward.
Stop it.
I just wanted it all to stop. I couldn't do this-
You came in with dry clothes. I stood with my back against the wall, a injured wolf, starving and frozen with snarling teeth.
Here.
I didn’t move. I didn’t want to.
Just leave. Just leave please God because I didn't want you to see me-
Afraid.
You offered them out to me, extending your hand. I reached out slightly.
Poor devil.
I am glad you have saved me. I am sorry you ever took me in.
Guards were around me day and night. They would stick guns in my chest.
For days we sailed.
Late one evening I lay on the cot, in the bottom room below. I didn’t think you knew how cold it was.
You knocked. I jumped, ready to kill you if you had found out, my life stranded in a prison camp, a guard to ask me more questions, or-
You opened the door slowly, laying something on the floor. Wool.
Sometimes, you would come in and just talk, even though I couldn't answer but-
You'd speak anyway.
One night I lay staring at the stars, my eyes wet.
You sat on the edge of a chair, looked down and said nothing. You just made eye contact and-
I-
If you had only known you would have killed me on the spot. You would have shot me and hated every fiber in my body.
But you didn't.
I turned my eyes away.
Every morning you offered me bread and butter and I ate it like a ravenous dog. I wish I
could share it with the rest of them, back home we hadn't had actual butter since before the war.
Actual butter.
You seemed to understand.
But I stayed silent.
I couldn't speak. If I dared to open my mouth, I knew you would find out somehow, because I had a secret, and you couldn't know.
Even if I could have said something I'm not sure I would have. War makes words unreachable, like sweaty hands extending out from over the treehouse ladder, limp branches that you know will drop you even if you were able to reach there grasp. It's too scary to climb anyway.
Later you were asleep. The floor was cold. I spoke in Morse to the night. The lighthouse on the shore, a piece of crumpled paper tight in my hand. It was easy. I was sweating.
They were coming.
I wish I could be a poor devil.
They were coming.
I am glad you have saved me. I am sorry you ever took me in.
I could beat you at cards, you are not very good. One day at the wheel you held up a picture of a girl and a tall boy in a uniform. Khaki drab. About my age.
Son, you said.
But I stayed silent.
You fed me more butter.
Couldn’t you have just beaten me? Couldn’t you have given me just cause to blow up your ship, to tell them all where you where? Couldn’t you have just given me reason to complete my mission?
I am sorry you ever found me.
Late in the week, the sun rose and I held the gun at your chest. You were shocked. They took you away with hands on your shoulders. The Germans crawled up the boat sides.
It was over.
I yelled out orders in beautiful navy and shining gold, an iron cross, the greatest medallion, for the fact that you are my enemy. You are my prisoner.
And if I could, I would never have hurt you. Why did you have to pull me out of the water and fall for the whole thing like it was planned? I wish you had starved me and left me in the sea.
I wish you would have kicked me every time I ate my fill, hit me like the dog I was.
I would never have planned your demise.
I wouldn’t have, I swear. In another world I could see the light. If things were different.
But, they aren't.
You are British. I am German. We are at war.
I almost forgot.
Silent Enemy by Kathryn Pinto
You pulled me out of the water at night. I was shivering and stoic and the lights were blinding. Your words were English and they wrapped around me, cutting and shouting. I stayed silent. You knew not who I was. I am glad you have saved me. I am sorry you ever took me in.
You had dark eyes and a big beard.
You whispered under your breath.
Poor devil. The rest of the boat is gone.
I lay on the ground in a heap, coughing my guts out. You looked down from a distance while the soldiers pulled me to your feet. You stared down in a captain's jacket, eyes moving softly to face the soaking wet German, collapsed and shaking on the deck.
Take him below.
They laid me in a dark room, alone.
I sat down on the floor, curled in the corner, panting.
Did you know what I was to do? Everything was pounding and hurt and I could feel the blood running through my head. I was alive.
I felt like throwing up. The jump was colder than I expected and I drank half the sea. I gasped.
The adrenaline was wearing off and I was shaking and-
Coward.
Stop it.
I just wanted it all to stop. I couldn't do this-
You came in with dry clothes. I stood with my back against the wall, a injured wolf, starving and frozen with snarling teeth.
Here.
I didn’t move. I didn’t want to.
Just leave. Just leave please God because I didn't want you to see me-
Afraid.
You offered them out to me, extending your hand. I reached out slightly.
Poor devil.
I am glad you have saved me. I am sorry you ever took me in.
Guards were around me day and night. They would stick guns in my chest.
For days we sailed.
Late one evening I lay on the cot, in the bottom room below. I didn’t think you knew how cold it was.
You knocked. I jumped, ready to kill you if you had found out, my life stranded in a prison camp, a guard to ask me more questions, or-
You opened the door slowly, laying something on the floor. Wool.
Sometimes, you would come in and just talk, even though I couldn't answer but-
You'd speak anyway.
One night I lay staring at the stars, my eyes wet.
You sat on the edge of a chair, looked down and said nothing. You just made eye contact and-
I-
If you had only known you would have killed me on the spot. You would have shot me and hated every fiber in my body.
But you didn't.
I turned my eyes away.
Every morning you offered me bread and butter and I ate it like a ravenous dog. I wish I
could share it with the rest of them, back home we hadn't had actual butter since before the war.
Actual butter.
You seemed to understand.
But I stayed silent.
I couldn't speak. If I dared to open my mouth, I knew you would find out somehow, because I had a secret, and you couldn't know.
Even if I could have said something I'm not sure I would have. War makes words unreachable, like sweaty hands extending out from over the treehouse ladder, limp branches that you know will drop you even if you were able to reach there grasp. It's too scary to climb anyway.
Later you were asleep. The floor was cold. I spoke in Morse to the night. The lighthouse on the shore, a piece of crumpled paper tight in my hand. It was easy. I was sweating.
They were coming.
I wish I could be a poor devil.
They were coming.
I am glad you have saved me. I am sorry you ever took me in.
I could beat you at cards, you are not very good. One day at the wheel you held up a picture of a girl and a tall boy in a uniform. Khaki drab. About my age.
Son, you said.
But I stayed silent.
You fed me more butter.
Couldn’t you have just beaten me? Couldn’t you have given me just cause to blow up your ship, to tell them all where you where? Couldn’t you have just given me reason to complete my mission?
I am sorry you ever found me.
Late in the week, the sun rose and I held the gun at your chest. You were shocked. They took you away with hands on your shoulders. The Germans crawled up the boat sides.
It was over.
I yelled out orders in beautiful navy and shining gold, an iron cross, the greatest medallion, for the fact that you are my enemy. You are my prisoner.
And if I could, I would never have hurt you. Why did you have to pull me out of the water and fall for the whole thing like it was planned? I wish you had starved me and left me in the sea.
I wish you would have kicked me every time I ate my fill, hit me like the dog I was.
I would never have planned your demise.
I wouldn’t have, I swear. In another world I could see the light. If things were different.
But, they aren't.
You are British. I am German. We are at war.
I almost forgot.
Honorable Mention
A Familiar Face by Andy Haider
I had always hated the living.
Maybe I just never understood them. It's hard to deeply understand something from short conversations. Still, I never met a human that I found pleasure in escorting. Every one of them had evil in their hearts, some buried deeper than others. From lawyers to murderers, doctors to teachers. I had seen everything. But no matter the person, they always repented upon being faced with damnation, no matter how evil.
All these things were true until I met Natalie.
Even though this land is eternally covered in moonlight, I remember meeting her as clear as day. She walked through that door, with a smile on her face, and a spring in her step. I did not flinch. “Great, another loony.” I remember thinking. But after only minutes of talking to her, it was clear she was not crazy. “So what is this place anyway?” she asked. “Do you not understand your situation?” I snapped. I took a deep breath, and began to explain.
“You are dead. You were hit by a truck on the way to the supermarket to buy strawberries for your sister’s birthday cake.” Most people recoil in horror upon being told the details of their death. Natalie clearly was not most people. She seemed almost happy. I had seen suicides, they all already knew their situation. Most regret having committed to the act. And of course, their deaths were all intentional. If I had flesh, a chill would have gone up my spine.
“Wow, what a surprise! So does that mean I'm going to the afterlife now?” she asked me. “Yes.” I respond. She was beginning to get on my nerves. More than normal for a mortal. “Tell me, why should you be spared from damnation?” I asked her. “Well, I've led a pretty good life. I'm compassionate, kind, and always in good spirits!” she exclaimed. Something was wrong. There was not an ounce of fear in her voice. It's as though she already knew the outcome of the judgment. Was she fearless because she knew damnation was not her fate? Or had she already resigned herself to it? I ask her this, and she for the first time since we met she fell silent.
“Good.” I thought. “Maybe this will be peaceful after all.” We continue towards the gates.
Nevermind about her being silent. Good things never last. After so many pointless questions, and a walk that seemed longer than the eternity it is normally, we finally arrived at our destination. “This is your stop, Natalie.” I turned to properly observe her soul. It looks perfectly normal, plenty of good in there, and a few smudges of darkness. Exactly average. As if she was anything resembling average. “I have seen the depths of your soul, and have made my decision of your judgement.” I proclaim as I swing the gates open. Natalie skipped inside, waving goodbye and smiling. The gates closed, and she vanished. My Scythe felt a little lighter. But I still felt a bit uneasy. I began my journey back to the entrance, brushing it off.
If seeing her the first time was unnerving, seeing her a second time was horrifying. “Hello again!” Natalie proclaimed as she skipped through the door again. My jaw fell off. As I collected myself, my mind was racing. “How is this possible? Surely she just had a twin I overlooked before?” I dared to look at her again, and confirmed that it was the same Natalie I had just ushered into the afterlife. This had never happened before. Not even once. Maybe someone upstairs just made a mistake? I have no clue how to proceed. “How have you returned to this place?” I asked, shaking. She just smiled.
Working with the assumption someone else simply made a mistake, I rushed my way with her to the gates in record time, brushing away anything she says. I don't have time to toy with mortals now, something is surely wrong with the system right now. I have to fix it. I flung open the gate, my bones shaking in their sockets, and she entered again, still grinning ear to ear at me.
The third time, I nearly crumbled apart. It was still her. Had I committed some wrongdoing by mistake? Perhaps I judged a soul incorrectly and now I too was facing damnation? I suddenly felt more hesitant sending people to damnation if this was true. I once again mustered all my courage and asked her: “Who are you? How are you returning?” She smiled, and said “That’s not important. Let’s just try to go a bit slower this time, ok?”
Assuming now that this surely must have been my eternal punishment, I heed her request and walk more leisurely. There are surely worse ways to spend eternity. “So what do you do for fun? This place seems kind of boring.” She asks me. I think for a moment. Fun had never really been part of the job. Maybe the job would be fun if she wasn't here. “Fun is not a concept to me. I’m merely the guide to the next world, nothing more or less.” “Wow, that sounds horrible. Don't you get bored of this place?” she asked, as though she had genuine sympathy. She was getting to me. The truth is I did hate this place, just never thought about it before. “I worked in an office, so the idea of being stuck in a room forever isn't exactly alien to me.” she added, as though reading my thoughts.
After much more walking, and much more talk, we reach our destination once more. Half expecting what comes next, I open the gates once more, and usher her through.
By the fourth time, I started to grow numb to it. This time I was prepared as Natalie walked through the door. “Good to see you again, you old sack of bones!” She was bold. Calling me names is not something most mortals would dare do. We continue our new routine for the remainder of the walk, but about half way through she asks me another question I had never considered. “Say, have you ever seen the other side?” she asked. I stopped in my tracks. Somehow, despite the infinite amount of time I had been here, this never occurred to me. How is it possible a thought like this could evade me, despite my occupation and circumstances?
After a pause that felt just as long as the eternal walks, I responded. “No. I haven't.” I said softly as I resumed my walking, faster than before. Natalie falls silent again. A previously unseen emotion fills her eyes. It resembled sadness, but not quite. Was I being pitied by a mere mortal? As though they could ever understand. But then it hit me. She did understand. “I guess that makes two of us.” She responds, looking up at the gates.
I lost count of the amount of loops eventually. Our walks became more filled with silence than before. But somehow, through the silence I felt connected to this mortal. No, not a mortal. She had exhibited the inability to die multiple times now. Remembering this made me feel even closer. I was still unable to remove the thought she gave me from my skull. I wanted to see the next world. I thirsted for it more than anything. I had never before wanted anything, let alone this much.
She seems to sense this desire of mine. She looks up and into my face. She plainly asks: “You want to see the other side now, don't you?” I nod. It was all I could communicate. “But your job prevents you from doing it?” I nod again. I was here forever. I would never know the sweet nectar of the next world.
“I want to see you happy.” I stopped walking. “What did you say?” I couldn't believe it. Someone wanted good for me? The arbiter of death? Reaper of souls? I had destroyed the happiness of so many people, so many families, and friends. I didn't deserve this. “I want you to be happy. I want you to quit.” she says, deathly serious.
“Hand me the scythe.” I just about drop it. That alone was a miracle, considering I had never put it down. The implement suddenly felt heavy. Unbearable. A weight that I had never realized was crushing me was suddenly revealed. Unthinking, I stretch my hand out. She takes it, and smiles. It was not a smile of maliciousness, but one of genuine happiness. I was at a loss for words. I was free.
The gates open, and I walk through in a trance. For the first time ever, i was seeing them from the other side. Natalie smiles at me, and I disappear.
A Familiar Face by Andy Haider
I had always hated the living.
Maybe I just never understood them. It's hard to deeply understand something from short conversations. Still, I never met a human that I found pleasure in escorting. Every one of them had evil in their hearts, some buried deeper than others. From lawyers to murderers, doctors to teachers. I had seen everything. But no matter the person, they always repented upon being faced with damnation, no matter how evil.
All these things were true until I met Natalie.
Even though this land is eternally covered in moonlight, I remember meeting her as clear as day. She walked through that door, with a smile on her face, and a spring in her step. I did not flinch. “Great, another loony.” I remember thinking. But after only minutes of talking to her, it was clear she was not crazy. “So what is this place anyway?” she asked. “Do you not understand your situation?” I snapped. I took a deep breath, and began to explain.
“You are dead. You were hit by a truck on the way to the supermarket to buy strawberries for your sister’s birthday cake.” Most people recoil in horror upon being told the details of their death. Natalie clearly was not most people. She seemed almost happy. I had seen suicides, they all already knew their situation. Most regret having committed to the act. And of course, their deaths were all intentional. If I had flesh, a chill would have gone up my spine.
“Wow, what a surprise! So does that mean I'm going to the afterlife now?” she asked me. “Yes.” I respond. She was beginning to get on my nerves. More than normal for a mortal. “Tell me, why should you be spared from damnation?” I asked her. “Well, I've led a pretty good life. I'm compassionate, kind, and always in good spirits!” she exclaimed. Something was wrong. There was not an ounce of fear in her voice. It's as though she already knew the outcome of the judgment. Was she fearless because she knew damnation was not her fate? Or had she already resigned herself to it? I ask her this, and she for the first time since we met she fell silent.
“Good.” I thought. “Maybe this will be peaceful after all.” We continue towards the gates.
Nevermind about her being silent. Good things never last. After so many pointless questions, and a walk that seemed longer than the eternity it is normally, we finally arrived at our destination. “This is your stop, Natalie.” I turned to properly observe her soul. It looks perfectly normal, plenty of good in there, and a few smudges of darkness. Exactly average. As if she was anything resembling average. “I have seen the depths of your soul, and have made my decision of your judgement.” I proclaim as I swing the gates open. Natalie skipped inside, waving goodbye and smiling. The gates closed, and she vanished. My Scythe felt a little lighter. But I still felt a bit uneasy. I began my journey back to the entrance, brushing it off.
If seeing her the first time was unnerving, seeing her a second time was horrifying. “Hello again!” Natalie proclaimed as she skipped through the door again. My jaw fell off. As I collected myself, my mind was racing. “How is this possible? Surely she just had a twin I overlooked before?” I dared to look at her again, and confirmed that it was the same Natalie I had just ushered into the afterlife. This had never happened before. Not even once. Maybe someone upstairs just made a mistake? I have no clue how to proceed. “How have you returned to this place?” I asked, shaking. She just smiled.
Working with the assumption someone else simply made a mistake, I rushed my way with her to the gates in record time, brushing away anything she says. I don't have time to toy with mortals now, something is surely wrong with the system right now. I have to fix it. I flung open the gate, my bones shaking in their sockets, and she entered again, still grinning ear to ear at me.
The third time, I nearly crumbled apart. It was still her. Had I committed some wrongdoing by mistake? Perhaps I judged a soul incorrectly and now I too was facing damnation? I suddenly felt more hesitant sending people to damnation if this was true. I once again mustered all my courage and asked her: “Who are you? How are you returning?” She smiled, and said “That’s not important. Let’s just try to go a bit slower this time, ok?”
Assuming now that this surely must have been my eternal punishment, I heed her request and walk more leisurely. There are surely worse ways to spend eternity. “So what do you do for fun? This place seems kind of boring.” She asks me. I think for a moment. Fun had never really been part of the job. Maybe the job would be fun if she wasn't here. “Fun is not a concept to me. I’m merely the guide to the next world, nothing more or less.” “Wow, that sounds horrible. Don't you get bored of this place?” she asked, as though she had genuine sympathy. She was getting to me. The truth is I did hate this place, just never thought about it before. “I worked in an office, so the idea of being stuck in a room forever isn't exactly alien to me.” she added, as though reading my thoughts.
After much more walking, and much more talk, we reach our destination once more. Half expecting what comes next, I open the gates once more, and usher her through.
By the fourth time, I started to grow numb to it. This time I was prepared as Natalie walked through the door. “Good to see you again, you old sack of bones!” She was bold. Calling me names is not something most mortals would dare do. We continue our new routine for the remainder of the walk, but about half way through she asks me another question I had never considered. “Say, have you ever seen the other side?” she asked. I stopped in my tracks. Somehow, despite the infinite amount of time I had been here, this never occurred to me. How is it possible a thought like this could evade me, despite my occupation and circumstances?
After a pause that felt just as long as the eternal walks, I responded. “No. I haven't.” I said softly as I resumed my walking, faster than before. Natalie falls silent again. A previously unseen emotion fills her eyes. It resembled sadness, but not quite. Was I being pitied by a mere mortal? As though they could ever understand. But then it hit me. She did understand. “I guess that makes two of us.” She responds, looking up at the gates.
I lost count of the amount of loops eventually. Our walks became more filled with silence than before. But somehow, through the silence I felt connected to this mortal. No, not a mortal. She had exhibited the inability to die multiple times now. Remembering this made me feel even closer. I was still unable to remove the thought she gave me from my skull. I wanted to see the next world. I thirsted for it more than anything. I had never before wanted anything, let alone this much.
She seems to sense this desire of mine. She looks up and into my face. She plainly asks: “You want to see the other side now, don't you?” I nod. It was all I could communicate. “But your job prevents you from doing it?” I nod again. I was here forever. I would never know the sweet nectar of the next world.
“I want to see you happy.” I stopped walking. “What did you say?” I couldn't believe it. Someone wanted good for me? The arbiter of death? Reaper of souls? I had destroyed the happiness of so many people, so many families, and friends. I didn't deserve this. “I want you to be happy. I want you to quit.” she says, deathly serious.
“Hand me the scythe.” I just about drop it. That alone was a miracle, considering I had never put it down. The implement suddenly felt heavy. Unbearable. A weight that I had never realized was crushing me was suddenly revealed. Unthinking, I stretch my hand out. She takes it, and smiles. It was not a smile of maliciousness, but one of genuine happiness. I was at a loss for words. I was free.
The gates open, and I walk through in a trance. For the first time ever, i was seeing them from the other side. Natalie smiles at me, and I disappear.
Youth Author Poetry
First Place
Bottled Beach by Michael Skripalsh The ocean’s lips Like clothes between an alley Gently kiss a child’s little castle The cherry boughs Web the stone sky As they weep upon the Earth One of the petals fell On the pocket of my grey suit. Its gentle petals, Gilded with a soft Vermillion and suffused With a languid pink It hardly occurred to me that I was here. That I was standing on the warm Sand, Watching the waves, Fiddling with a loose String in my pocket that Seemed to annoy me Maybe it was my greasy hair. Or that I forgot my watch On the window sill this morning. I remember walking here as a child, My feet stumbling on the large rocks And making necklaces from caps and collecting worthless coins that sparkled between the pebbles I have been thinking of making A ring from the small bolts That shine in the bloating waves Here, –I asked– She gently brushed her hair That like a blade swung Through the Yellow ribbons of her Dress The crimson edges of Her eyes wandered with the brusque Wind She pressed her anemic Lips into a gentle cusp, That fluttered like a marble butterfly under The dull sun She said something Something about the water Maybe it was its iridescence, Or its sallow skin, Or that sailboat in the distance That never seems to move –But I didn’t catch it We set a white cloth Upon the belly of a metal row boat The waves gargle when they lapp Below us And the oars would occasionally quiver when a wave crashed On the rocks We had nothing to eat But I was not hungry. –Our eyes watched the sky Its vast shoulders ebbing on distant Lands that lay in a silky dress of mist The clouds stretched across the lense of the zenith And indolently dissipating into a lithe ribbon Only to burst into Magnificent Plumes of Dark ocher We sat there alone. Listing to the ocean. –Scream |
Second Place
Another Scrapped Idea for a Poem by Devin Kyle If you take a look at us, A good look, We’re all a jumbled mess of half-finished brainstorms. I am a crumpled piece of paper, Making its home in the trash bin. Ideas useless and phrases incomprehensible. I will never be a notebook. I’m too paper thin. No other pages to support me, No organized thoughts capable to form a story. I suppose we’re all meant to be a spine displayed proudly on a bookshelf, Inside us a perfect arc of neatly typed letters, Every individual word important, appreciated, Flaws only where flaws need to be. But, The thing about people is that we’re not so neat. |
Honorable Mention
Glasses by Jasmine Boerner You push your glasses up a trigger, a bullet to my heart And I am in love “Trust me” you hesitated -- you saw my fear, a too-brisk response to a gentle reprise Like water running downhill I would not stop Now, even the contours of your words couldn’t end my fall So you push up your glasses and aim at my heart It’s axiomatic that love would keep us to part. |
Honorable Mention
Sunflower Daydream by Anonymous If my thoughts were sunflowers There would be a whole garden of you And i’d paint us a masterpiece With you as my muse The night is a blanket Sewn together with stars We crawl under it softly And forget who we are The morning will wake us With a kiss from the sun The air is refreshed A new day has begun We live our best lives With each moment in bloom Our hearts are broken records But we’re somehow in tune |