January 2022 Contest Winners

Congratulations to the winners of our January writing contest!

1st Place
“For Tonight We Can Truly Say We are Invincible”
Kit Karlsson

2nd Place
“Peter Pickles”
Clark “C.S.” Shedden

3rd Place
“A Resolution to Live”
Willie Conway

These stories can be found below, along with author bios and social media links. If you want to see your own story listed here, take a look at this month’s writing contest and give it a shot. 🙂

Enjoy!


1st Place

Well, this is the end. They’re going to kill me in an hour or so. Not that I particularly care—I always knew I’d come to a nasty end, and anyway Gnossia told me it was only a matter of time. ‘You’ve got something bad inside you,’ she’d told me, tracing her fingers along the strange black lines that were starting to creep across my spine, ending in tiny, pulsating, peculiar little black bumps.

‘It’s a tumour, right?’ I’d asked her.

‘No,’ she’d said, darkly, ‘something much worse.’ But she wouldn’t elaborate. She was annoyingly vague like that.

I shouldn’t call her annoying—she’s dead now—I saw her fat body flapping in the wind outside the gate last week, puffed flesh oozing from beneath the wrinkled, crackling skin like a roll of dough bloating in the warm polluted rain. It wasn’t right. None of it was right. That’s why I don’t mind leaving it all behind.

Van Deek is lying next to me, bored. They’re going to kill her, too, although it’ll probably take them a little longer for her than it will for me—she’s bigger than me, more muscular, and she doesn’t have this disease screaming in a black crescendo along her spine. It doesn’t hurt at all, and I can still move my arms and legs, and my bowel movements are healthy and regular, as Van Deek could tell you—we’ve been sharing this cell and a mutual bucket for a week. Whatever happens to me, at least I’m not going to die shitting blood. I guess that’s something.

‘Hey,’ she says, ‘Ambrose.’

‘Yeah. What?’

‘Did you have any plans?’

‘For what?’

‘For the new year.’

‘When was that?’

‘Today.’

‘Oh. I didn’t even notice. No.’

‘It was supposed to be a good year,’ Van Deek sighs. ‘Year of the Full Moon.’

‘They have names?’

‘Yeah. Based on the star cycles. This year, for the whole year, Necrotia and Simax remain stationary. Thus there is no crescent moon. No half moon. Only full moons. And a full moon means good luck.’

‘Deek, you’re so full of shit.’

She chuckles. ‘I know. But it’s nice to think about.’

ANNIE VAN DEEK. They announce the names over the loudspeaker, so we know who’s up next. We have to line up in rows by the door. Then they will arrange us neatly in a squadron, and march us away.

‘I just realised something. I never knew your name was Annie.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

She considers this for a moment. ‘What about you? You got anything besides Ambrose?’

‘No, actually. Just Ambrose.’

‘ANNIE VAN DEEK.’ The words dribble through the door alongside a stream of thick yellowish slime. A guard is standing at the door, tentacles seeking. ‘ANNIE VAN—’

‘I heard you the first time,’ Van Deek says, springing lightly to her feet.

‘AMBROSE—’

‘Guess this is it, then.’

‘So long, trooper.’

There’s ten, eleven, twelve of us know, shivering out in the courtyard. Fucking Imperials. They’ll dump a fortune on their fancy execution machines but can’t be bothered to spend a penny on a fire for us to warm our miserable bodies by, or a bowl of hot soup to fill our bellies with before they slice us open.

‘Hey. Psst. Ambrose.’

Van Deek shouldn’t be talking, but it’s not as though the guards have ears to hear us by.

‘What,’ I murmur from the side of my mouth.

‘Make a wish.’

‘What?’

‘A wish. On the full moon. Look.’ She nods over her shoulder.

I glance up at the sky, atomic purple, with a mass of stormclouds piled in great silvery domes against the western horizon. There isn’t a moon—or at least, not one that’s visible. ‘Van Deek. You’re growing fanciful in your old age.’

‘I know—I know it’s silly. Come on. Just play along. What would you wish for?’

‘I don’t make wishes.’

‘What would you do, then—if you had a whole year ahead of you? A brand new year?’

‘I don’t know. Kill these goddamn bastards, I guess.’

‘I’m done fighting,’ Van Deek says. ‘If I had more time—just a couple days, even—I’d find somewhere far away from here, a nice, wide, green field, with the sun above and the soft grass below. And I’d just lie there, and sleep, I guess.’

I don’t remember the last time I saw grass. I’m not sure I even remember what it looks like. Everything here is dark and grimy, brown and grey. The tower rises above us in jagged black circles, like a ring of petrified puffer mushrooms. Van Deek is dreaming. Not a bad way to go, I guess. But I’d prefer to meet death with my eyes open, and my mind as sharp as the blades that will dispatch me.

Marcellus, the captain, the general, whatever they call their main motherfucker, is sitting by the scaffold—he can’t stand—he’s far too fat for that. They march us right up to him, and he smiles. ‘Welcome,’ he says, ‘to your incorporation!’

Annie goes up. She’s ready. She’s been ready, I think, since they took her daughter. ‘Good luck,’ she winks at me.

What would I do if I had a year? What would I do if I had a minute?

What would I do if there were something dark and powerful growing inside me, morphing, mutating, leaping from my spine to my nerves to my fingers, materialising into a great globe of black fire, viscous, effervescent, a blob of pure radiation, a halo of death?

Marcellus is no longer smiling—he is paralysed, screaming at these stupid slime-heads who can do nothing more than gawp. I snap my fingers. The fire envelopes him. Intestines and blood and bits of teeth and bone rain down upon us.

Confetti for the new year.

Kit Karlsson (that’s “Kit, like the chocolate bar,” as she explains it) is a general contractor and aspiring writer from New Jersey. Her hobbies include: writing (of course), playing the harp, eating brownies, cuddling with her dog, and reciting dark creepy poetry to the people who call about her car’s extended warranty. 

Kit says her prize-winning story was partially drawn from a fantasy/sci-fi manuscript that’s currently sitting on the back burner. It was mostly written between the initiatives of a three-hour Dungeons & Dragons session. The title is taken from the song “Invincible” by Muse.

You can stay up to date with Kit by following her on Instagram.

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2nd Place

Peter’s eyes popped open at the sound of the rooster crowing. He immediately sat up in bed and changed the ring tone to his playlist and found Edvard Grieg’s Morning Mood. He clicked the light switch and the contraption he rigged to look like the morning sun coming through the wide wooden blinds he’d found at a thrift store. Peter felt the top of his head and looked through his sheets until he found the long-pointed sleeping cap that matched the heavy gown he now wore to bed and pulled it over his head.  He knocked the cap’s little puff ball out of his face, yawned and stretched mightily, smacked his lips rapidly and mugged at the soft full spectrum lighting, “Good morning, morning! Heh-heh.”

He donned some slippers that he’d modified to squeak with each step and made his way to the bedroom door and called behind him, “C’mon, Scraps, rise and shine!” The twelve-year-old Chihuahua/Yorkshire terrier mix yawned and blinked his one good. It had no teeth on the left side of its jaw and its tongue hung out about an inch and a half. Scraps pulled himself out of his nest of blankets with his front legs. The little dog was paralyzed past his lower spine but had no problem dragging his back end around the hardwood floors of the apartment until Peter put him in his tiny chariot-like dog wheelchair. Peter had adopted the tough little mutt six months before in his preparation for his New Year’s resolution. He treated the animal like a beloved housemate rather than a pet or child.

He stopped at a small table in the hallway to press play on the small speaker and mp3 player setup. Upbeat, jazzy big band music filled the apartment. Pounding on the wall of his living room followed by some creative language reminded Peter that it was well before dawn – his resolution required him to be an early riser. “Golly, some people are grumpy in the morning,” he mock-whispered to himself.

In the bathroom he prepared for the day, brushing his teeth, then teasing his hair into a fluffy brown pompadour. Finally, he added some subtle freckles on his cheeks. He had an appointment next Wednesday with a tattoo artist for some permanent ones. Back in his closet he went through his wardrobe, eight identical sets of blue jeans with a patch on the left knee, a bright yellow long sleeved turtleneck, black suspenders, and brown Doc Martin boots that were a few sizes too big so he could stuff the toes and make them look more bulbous. It was still a bit uncomfortable but when you resolved to live a more cartoonish lifestyle, you had to make some sacrifices.

In the kitchen Peter started the most time-consuming part of his day, breakfast. With the archaic soundtrack in the background, the young man set to work, 30 pancakes, 30 waffles, 4 pounds of bacon, 3 dozen sausage links, a gallon of oatmeal with fruit, a pile of toast and two pitchers, one with milk and the other with orange juice. He sat down to a small bowl of cereal and a banana and desperately wished he could consume the entire layout in physics-defying fashion. But a near fatal incident on January 1 forced him to subsist off a more modest diet.

Upon finishing, Peter stood up to clean his dishes and promptly slipped on his banana peel. He landed as the video on the internet had instructed and he had to admit he was getting better; he barely felt a thing. He knew he couldn’t be so irresponsible as to make all this food and waste it, so he set about making separate plates from the smorgasbord, a word he used much more often now. He placed the meals into boxes and stacked them atop one another in what looked to be a haphazard mess, but with practice he made it look effortless, though watching him carry this bundle made people stare and hold their breath. People stared at him in general these days, but Peter couldn’t be happier. He was feeling more like a cartoon every day, and folks were already coming to accept him.

Leaving his apartment with his packages blocking his view, he stumbled and weaved his way down the stairs and to the street and headed for the homeless shelter nearby. Whistling a tune, he listened for the hellos from the people in his neighborhood and made pleasantries in return.  Suddenly an incredible force knocked him to the ground, and he saw stars, then little birds, then nothing. From darkness he heard voices, “What happened? Is that a piano?!”

“Yeah, it fell on him, but look, there’s nothing up there, and who the hell drops a piano out a window?”

At the word “look” Peter opened his eyes and sat up. The man and the woman standing over him jumped back.

“How the hell is this possible?” said the young woman who looked to be in the middle of a run. She was looking at a middle-aged man in a flannel shirt and jeans.

“Hey, buddy, you okay? Don’t move, I called an ambulance, they should be here soon.” Indeed, the sound of sirens could be heard approaching.

“Golly, you folks sure are helpful but I feel great! A little dizzy but that’s all.” The couple backed further away as Peter got to his feet.

“Oh my god, what is that on his head? Is that a lump from where the piano hit him? How the hell is this possible?!”

With a four-inch contusion growing from the top of his head like a spike, Peter gathered up his burden, said, “Have yourselves a fine day!” and turned away from the speechless pair. He continued on his way, whistling to himself. No doubt about it, best resolution he’d ever made.

Clark “C.S.” Shedden is an amateur writer and veteran of the US Navy. He has a love for horror, comedy, and Dungeons & Dragons. He currently resides in Florida with his wife Carol and their dog Mulder.

Be sure to follow Clark on Instagram so you can see what’s in store for him next!

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3rd Place

I was sitting in the quiet stillness of the doctor’s exam room under bright fluorescent lights trying to wrap my mind around three life changing words …..”You have cancer.”

Once the words were spoken out loud the dark shadow of dread shredded my hopeful heart and the room seemed to dim around me. I was only aware of my hand resting in my best friend’s hand. I was reaching for support, acceptance, and reassurance all at once. Bev has been my strength when I had no will. Bev has been my hope when shadows closed in. Bev has been my voice when all I could do was cry. Bev and I are walking the walk together, only now I am the patient and Bev is the caregiver.

I am an RN and I was working for Hospice while I went through the many chemo treatments. Getting weaker as I watched every drop of that healing poison going into my veins. A teardrop fell from my eyes in rhythm with the intravenous fluid. I lost every strain of hair over my body. I lost feeling in my fingertips and toes (neuropathy). I lost energy, some days too weak to get out of bed. The chemo affected my brain. I could not process simple forms or daily nurse’s notes. I finally had to retire early in my nursing career. I volunteered with the same company for one year. I took each client a quilt from my quilt guild and I completed a friendly visit.

After completing three months of my six-month chemo schedule and losing my hair, I had the wonderful chance to go to DisneyLand. For three solid days I was able to forget I was sick. I forgot I was a cancer patient. I did not focus on the fact that ovarian cancer kills. I was living in the moment of having fun. In the middle of a tight hug from Winnie the Pooh I was celebrating life.

Surgery took the cancer away. Chemo is killing any leftover cancer cells. Prayers and friendship are putting my shredded hopeful heart back together and bringing laughter back to my eyes once more.

My New Year’s resolution is: I am going to celebrate life!

Wilma-Maria “Willie” Conway is a retired RN who has lived in New Jersey, Michigan, and now South Carolina. Her story is based on her real-life experience with ovarian cancer. After ten cancer-free years, she was diagnosed with mucinous carcinoma on February 2nd, 2022. If her story is any indication, however, she’s staying positive and living life to the fullest. She says Bev is still her roommate and will be with her this time too. “Another journey, another story,” she says.

Willie Conway can be found on Facebook. You can support her ongoing cancer treatment by contributing to her GoFundMe page. Our love and prayers are with you, Willie.