First Place:

If you see one

By Jay McKenzie

We’ve row rowed it up the stream, down the stream, gently first then faster, faster, chopping the water into tattered streamers with our oars. We’ve remembered to scream at the crocodiles that leer toothy invitations from the depths. 

Now, the waters are smeared-mirror still. My finger snags on a tendril of kelp and I wait. I’m not sure how long crocodiles can breathe underwater. 

I’ll be the crocodile, she’d said, diving under the thinning bubbles. 

I prod her with my shampoo-bottle oar. 

If you see a crocodile…

It’s just one scream our mother hears ricocheting off the bathroom tiles. 

Second Place:

Brine and Bourbon..

By Farheen Faisal

The glass brushed my lips— cinderfire, spark.
The ship swayed softly, waves sighing dark.

Strings soared from a distant gramophone.

I blinked. Ballroom shimmered, blurred.
Gilded chandeliers to rust interred.
The walls wept brine, the woodbone stirred.

I exhaled, steadying the glass.
The deck stretched wide, wind gnawed the mast.
A storm convulsed the far-flung sea,
Sails snapped; sinew roared plea.

Another blink.

Iron grips. The chair. The hull.
The scent of rot, the damp, the lull.
Water dripped—its dirge set free,
The keel moaned, the timbers' decree.

"Again," a voice rasped, low and dire.
The bourbon lingered—smoke, salt, fire..

Third Place:

Irreconcilable Differences

By Alice Shaw

The sisters sang in harmony as the red sails ballooned above. Dropping anchor, they dove for mussels, the water silky on their skin, the darkening clouds and the rattle of the rigging ignored. 

Homewards, the jib yanked down; the mainsail reefed, the bow slammed into ever-enlarging swells, spray shooting skywards. The eldest gripped the helm, leant into the wind, and rode the waves, eyes alight. The other lay huddled on a bunk below, retching bile into a bucket, every slam an insult. 

The skiff slipped into harbour, equilibrium restored but the crack became a chasm as the years passed.

Fourth Place:

The Swans of Lake Ontario: I Dream of Them Still

By Laurie Swinarton

Remember that rain-washed summer when the Toronto Islands flooded? Our lives were pressed tight and flat under the aquarium sky. I got my period, mom got a job delivering Marlboros, and dad left us.

Then the swan boats escaped into Lake Ontario. So, we sat on damp logs at Cherry Beach and peeled away thin slices of bark and memory. Like skin from salmon. We scouted out the fugitive swans with dad’s binoculars. They looked like ice cream floats. Up until their paint cracked and algae bearded their necks. 

I guess watching them was our consolation for a bad summer.