First Place:

The Carol That Won’t End

By Johnson Matandi

They say we sing to keep it asleep.
Sleep now, sleep now.

Each Christmas Eve we gather beneath a paper star, braiding breath into the same carol, same key. Candles tremble. Bells keep time.

When old Mara coughs, the note thins.
When Jonah falters, the harmony devours him.

By the third verse, mouths move, sound gone.
The song carries itself—bright, obedient, unholy.

Outside, bells choke mid-peal. Snow leans in.

We end smiling, throats flayed.
At dawn, the carol is still singing.

Not to soothe it.
To consecrate its return.

Second Place:

The Belly Slitter

By Sarah Turner 

“Beware Frau Perchta!”

I squeal as Papa slices at my belly with the soft pad of his thumb.

“Now sleep,” he implores.

The belly slitter comes tonight when all the world is dark. Silver coins for good children, and a sliced stomach for the bad. 

Tomorrow, I’ll find ice-cold coins atop my blankets and carry their dull weight to town, stomping my feet when it’s time to part with them. 

The door creaks; I close my eyes so Papa thinks I’m asleep. But Papa is laughing in the other room, and the finger at my belly is hard and cold.

Third Place:

Oh Christmas Tree

By Caroline Mckenzie

Darkness came in with the tree.

Later, we heard something struggle as it bumped across the floorboards, toward the chimney. 

We called to each other for comfort but one by one, the voices fell silent. 

And then there was only the sound of my own voice, accompanied by the rolling of baubles and that soft dragging across the boards.

I fell asleep despite myself, lulled by the oddly wet rasp of vocal cords outside. Carols, I assumed in my near slumber.

Awaking on Christmas morning, the tree was bare.

The others were gone.

The scent of earth and iron lingered.

Fourth Place:

A Desperate Christmas Wish

By Lisa H. Owens

Shattered windows and the kitchen’s skeletal remains invite winter’s frigid breath to enter our scorched cabin. Sissy reads Ecclesiastes; I scoop ashes over Mama and Papa’s charred figures.

We persevere.

Food dwindles. We eat less. Firewood grows scarce. We layer-up in Papa’s flannel shirts, gathering fallen branches.

Christmas Eve, we dismantle Mama’s heirloom furniture feeding it piecemeal into the firebox. Pinecone wreaths, crafted; stockings, knitted. Our hopes hang on Santa. Just one wish—sated bellies.

We light the final candle. Sing Happy Birthday, Jesus, sharing the last can of peaches. 

Hunger gnaws. My mouth waters.

 Little Sissy…

She looks delicious.