Here are the top three entries in our 2022 flash fiction competition, as judged by short fiction writer Matt Kendrick, on the theme of ‘Equinox’.
( o )
Third place
Choose by Louise Wilford
The red-gold sky stretches ahead, still as a salt flat, resting on clouds that obscure the landscape beneath. The rippled granite of the summit unrolls behind me to the horizon.
I’m halfway, balanced on the edge between the climb and the fall.
Taking the granite path will definitely bring pain, though a pain dulled by familiarity. I’m already acquainted with the endless drone of regret, each day as pewter-grey as the last, until even the daily acts of washing, eating, breathing have become too tiresome to sustain. A long dying, followed by a long death.
Stepping into the sky will probably bring pain – my body a shattered, bloody mess, lacerated by the knives of jutting rocks as I fall. Or, who knows? I might soar through the sky like a gull, held in the warm arms of the air. My grandma used to say that, for every demon’s push, there’s an angel’s embrace.
The only way to avoid either of these pains is to choose the other.
It is the vernal equinox today. I heard it on the news. Today there is an equal quantity of light and dark. Here, we’re about to tip from winter into spring, but elsewhere they’ll vice versa it and move from spring to winter. The magic is in such borders, they claim. On the brink of here and there, of sleep and consciousness, of death and life.
My grandma used to claim you could balance an egg on its smaller end at such times. But what good does that do? Balanced on its end, it’s still an egg. It still smashes as it hits the ground, or grows rank and sour from being kept in the same bowl too long.
I’ll choose the red-gold sky.
I’ll hope for an angel.
( o )
Second Place
Ostara and the Hare by Sam Hook
Esther looks at her watch, again. He’s late, but of course he is.
She sighs and contemplates leaving, giving up this bad habit like she did the ciggies. She turns to leave and that’s when she sees him. He smiles. A radiant, conspiratorial smile that invites the best kind of trouble. He approaches and slips an arm around her waist, pulling her to him. She feels the warmth of his tall, lithe body and softens. For a moment she imagines that he is all hers, all the time. She puts to the back of her mind the disappointment she will feel when he says he can’t stay; the mystery of where he goes and who he’s with; and the hope that this time will be different.
She knows what always happens next. As sure as one sneaky fag leads to finishing a pack of twenty, one drink will lead to another and another and to a luminous night of laughter, exploration, and intimacy. The morning will be darker, as he explains why he needs to go. He never stays longer than about twelve hours.
As they hold each other she wonders if he can feel a difference this time, a change in the soft round body in his arms. She closes her eyes, to hold on to this moment. She sees a vision of the Spring Goddess Ostara, rounded tummy and full breasts partially covered by her long dark hair. Ostara kneels, offering the simple gift of an egg to a beautiful, golden-eyed hare. Ostara knows one thing about hares: they have long, powerful legs made to run. Will he accept her gift, or will he run?
Esther opens her eyes and searches the golden eyes that meet hers for the answer.
( o )
First Place
When we walked out at sowing-time by Sarah Royston
“I will stay,” you said.
Our shadows fell behind us on the old white track; the blackthorn winter dying with the rising of the light. You watched my face to see if I were glad.
In the leafless beech, two ring-doves cooed. It was my brother who taught me to mimic their calls. I thought of him, waving his cap from the train; the coal-smut tang of the air. I wondered, do the birds still sing in France?
You showed me new lambs in the field and starwort by the stream. Spring’s brightness was too cold a flame to touch my hoarfrost heart.
Blackthorn petals drifted in billows on the wind, white as the steam when an engine pulls away. A spine drew a thread of scarlet on my skin. “Wash the scratch,” you warned, “Or it may poison your blood.”
You reached for my hand, but I drew back. We parted on the ridge.
When we walked out at reaping-time
We met on the ridge. I clasped your fingers tightly in mine.
Berries gleamed in the thicket, black as my dress. You reached to pick one. “It’s too late,” I said. “They are past eating now.” Rosehips flecked the hedge like drops of blood.
The lambs were all gone from the field. A few butterflies lingered, red as poppies, defying the frost that must come.
In the russet beech, a magpie screamed. A wind-blown feather, bone-white, drifted to your shoulder. You dashed it off and looked away. I thought of my brother’s cap, when the parcel came. The stench of gas and mud.
I watched your face, praying that you wouldn’t speak. Our shadows stalked before us on the pale track; the bramble summer dying with the fading of the light.
You said, “I will go.”
( o )
Leave a Reply