2015 FICTION WINNERS
Elizabeth Breazeale’s “The Supernova of Irwin Edwards” from Tupelo Quarterly
Sarah Domet’s “That Year People Floated” from Burrow Press Review
The memory's dust sifts through the fingers of a man at his wife's grave and mimicks the shape of her lips: we met in Greece, we toured an empty volcano, isn't it reassuring how the earth dies just like we do?
Alexandra Kleeman’s “You, Disappearing” from Guernica
We were afraid. On sunny days, we could see clusters of feet hanging like malformed clouds. Toes wiggled and ankles flexed. We tried to pick out the feet of those we loved.
Joanna Ruocco’s “The Face of Things” from Threadcount Magazine
Nobody thought the apocalypse would be so polite and quirky. Things just popped out of existence, like they had forgotten all about themselves. Now when you misplaced your keys, you didn't go looking for them.
Kimi Traube’s “Selections from After Any Number of Things, What’s One Thing More?” from Print-Oriented Bastards
I knew this but I still thought of the fungus as my uncle. It's hard to love things that don't have faces, and my uncle was the face of the fungus. I loved him a lot.
Chelsea Laine Wells’ “The Contents of Her Stomach” from Cease, Cows
The Underworld lay between them, and the farther they moved, the tauter it grew, hauling like fishing line on the twin hooks of their hearts. How could they understand that the same weight which hooked them, the weight which pulled their tongues through their tracheas, was love?
You are in bed in a dorm room with a boy, the narrow twin mattress collapsing towards the center like a book closing so that you fall into each other. The room is dark and you sting inside, a high ringing ache. You are not yet used to sex, you don't know what you want or how to express it, so you get hurt in small ways.