FICTION
CATEGORY WINNER
"Iconoclasm"
by Joel Lee
This is the way things are: You hang around next to the dumpster behind Waffle House for a half-hour. A woman will meet you soon, all exasperated compassion and frizzy hair, and sneak you an illicit to-go box with assorted scraps. When she’s feeling generous, a proper
breakfast plate finds its way into the mix.
Louisiana has been cruel in the way that only the swamps can be—a skim layer of sweat coats your forehead, wet and uneasy and permanent. The heat presses down on you, sometimes, until you can’t breathe. The grass squelches with unseen water everywhere you go. It makes you feel filthy. The tourists have no sympathy for you or your friends—you hate asking for money, like you’re helpless, some animal to be taken care of, and they only make the humiliation worse. (“The guy’s what, forty?” you overheard once, a sweaty father in cheap sunglasses whispering down at his daughter. “He had his chance. Keep the cash.” Behind the itchy beard that never quite grew in, you’re thirty-six. The chances he speaks of are now only half-memories, like something out of a dream.) You hole up in the shade when you can, still somehow just as hot as in the sun, and you dream endlessly about a fresh shave, about air conditioning, a queen bed with just-washed sheets, about mangoes and peaches and cantaloupes, full and sticky-sweet in the breeze. You’re sick of Waffle House.
"Mojave Retribution"
by Logan Cole
The crisp snapping of bone against the metal grill of the Ford Aerostar hung in the air like the heat mirages that danced across the barren horizon ahead. The collision sent the animal tumbling into the sand that creeped into the road, snout over paws. A single whimper spilled out of the animal’s jaws.
Mason James slammed on the brakes and his vintage vehicle squealed back in protest. If the heat of the asphalt alone wasn't enough to burn rubber, the force of the stop would have done it. Cheap Styrofoam cups and forgotten accessories fell to the front of the van as it came to a halt, leading Mason to pause. He looked up into the rearview mirror, eyeing an old refrigerator he was transporting. It was placed horizontally, wedged into the back of the caravan. Mason sighed as he ensured the appliance had only slightly shifted in the upheaval. His eyes moved from the fridge to his own face, studying his own sunken eyes and five o'clock shadow, collecting his wits before stepping into the sun.
The 120-degree real feel of the Mojave weighed down on Mason from the first step out onto the empty and cracked asphalt that parted the seemingly endless desert sea. Mason saw nothing but cacti and shrubbery for miles, just as he desired. He had taken an exit off I-15 several hours prior.
"Immolatio"
by Julia Wheelehan
The cave is much colder than it ought to be. And there shouldn’t be so much water in it either — but that just makes you happy you’re wearing boots. As you make your way further into the cave, all you can see is what the flickering light of the dying flashlight allows you to see. Taking worn paths, you reach an unremarkable stretch of wall in front of you. Reaching out with your shaky hand, you trace the wall and feel the wet crack in the stone.
You pull out the knife from your boot and cut your palm; it doesn’t hurt even as the blood drips between your fingers.
As you smear the stone, it gleams wet and dark in the dim light and it takes one, two, three, fou — and the wall rumbles and pulls away. Stepping into the black, you tuck the knife away and the wall grinds back into place. You shut the flashlight off, let it slip between your fingers, and you don’t wince when it falls to the ground, bulb shattering.
You wait for a few moments, yet it feels like a lifetime.
Then the Shifter arrives and you forget to breathe.
That shade of cornflower blue looks so familiar.
"A Gust of Wind"
by Dominique Rocheford
A young man wakes up early in the morning, determined to hold on to his New Year’s resolution longer than anyone else has. He gets out of bed slowly, so he doesn’t disturb his snoring wife, and pulls on his workout clothes. His sneakers are new, with crisp white details on the all black sneaker that his wife gave to him for Christmas. It was her way of motivating him.
Once he brushes his teeth and washes his face to clear the sleep from the corners of his eyes, he goes downstairs and starts to make a protein shake. He learned the recipe from an online cookbook he had found while researching healthy, fast meal options. His wife was excited because she wanted to try and cook some of the others for him.
He throws a scoop of protein powder, four cubes of ice, and a cup of water into the blender and runs it on low so it doesn’t wake up his wife. It takes a little longer to blend, but when it’s finished, he pours it into a shaker bottle and chugs it down. It tastes gross, like watered down vanilla powder, but he knows that it’ll help him build more muscle. Its thickness coats his mouth, and it leaves a bad aftertaste. He tries to wash it away with some water, but he’s convinced the vanilla stained his tongue and he’d taste the chalkiness forever.
"Blueish"
by Art Lawrence
It’s been a month since I’ve seen the skeletons, but the sound of their dead hands sifting through me still rings in my head. As I sling my backpack around my shoulders I glance down at my arm. The red dot has faded and now a blueish mark resides in place. I want to cry, want to curl up into a ball and pause time around me, but I can’t. I can’t let them win. I try to forget the skeletons, as I head out the door. Go to school and forget I tell myself.
I do make it to school, and for a moment I think everything will be okay. The red dot is gone and I’m on my own now. I think about how I haven’t seen any monsters lately, and in a cruel twist of fate, my mouth tightens up, and I suddenly feel sweat begin to run down my face. Head throbbing, I shudder at the feeling of electricity coursing through my palms. My hands drag against the gray walls and I grasp against the concrete trying to keep myself up. I glance into the gray abyss, my eyes growing heavy. I swear I can see a reflection staring back at me. A skull with two hollow eye sockets gazing back at me until my eyes finally close.