News

1^st place: Helen Pinsent's "Transaction"
2^nd place: Lysle Hood's "Fragments"
3^rd place: Mitchell Brinton's "Qu'Appelle! - Who Calls?"

"Transaction" by Helen Pinsent

    I remember the ink blotted when I signed. I looked up into eyes no less dark than that already bleeding blotch, and said, "Then we have a bargain." My love's sickbed was at the end of the hall, and presumably my visitor had business elsewhere. The study was empty before the pen hit the carpet.

    I had been careful. I would escape the cruel fate of banishing disease only to see it replaced by catastrophe. "A long life without sorrow." Thus, she and I would live and die together, I knew.

    I burst into her room, but no bright smile greeted me. No vibrant physique had replaced her frail frame. I felt betrayed. I would find that swindler and demand justice. Then, as I turned to leave, the light glinted off the sweat on my wife's grey forehead. I noticed for the first time the intricate pattern in which her pale lips had cracked. Each movement she made triggered the symphonious creaking and popping of brittle bone. How could I leave now, when faced with the most captivating image I had ever seen? I watched her deterioration, utterly fascinated.

    And I knew what I had done. It was no trick; I had received exact payment. In selling my soul I had sold my sorrow. and the Devil didn't wait for death to claim his due. Long life would be mine, and sorrow has no home when one worships dissolution. I am as happy today as I have ever been.

“Fragments” by Lysle Hood

    She found the first one when she was seven. Stepped on it with her bare foot. It was soft. Spongey even. She didn’t know what it was; covered with seaweed and drift wood. But things washed up with the tide all the time. Mostly garbage thrown overboard from the black steam ships. Sometimes the tide brought her treasures. Like the ring she found last fall.

    After she stepped on it she bent down. Her knees rested on the slimy river rocks. She brushed her black hair out of her face. Poked the thing with a stick. It didn’t move. She squinted. Stuck her neck out. The mist from the river was starting to engulf the coast and it was hard to see. The water was rising. She knew it was time to go back. Walk back through the forest. Go home. But instead she reached out and brushed the seaweed off of the thing. That’s when she knew.

     When she told her parents they gave each other a look. That look they give when something bad has happened. They sent her to her room but she hear their whispers. She listened. It’s happening again.

    But by the time she was eleven she had found three more. They weren’t bodies. Not anymore at least. Parts, maybe. Pieces. She knew it didn’t matter because the river always took them back. Reclaimed them. She didn’t understand why. But she knew there was something in the water.

"Qu'Appelle!--Who Calls?" by Mitchell Brinton