First Place:

A Mundane Monday Morning

By Lisa H. Owens

Citizen Curtis’ hands were a blur as they organized the silencers. “Line’s longer than usual today,” he said while releasing the shackles on each tiny lock.

“Another Saturday Upheaval… damn traitors.” Nurse deftly sterilized the piercing gun and folded makeshift compresses.

The Ushers, recent converts, hummed in agreement.

The bell chimed and Usher-One rushed to grab the first agitator by her scrawny arm. She struggled for a moment. Recognized sadness in her captor's red-rimmed, hazel eyes—tears threatening to spill. 

“Will it hurt,” she whispered and Usher-One nodded, the silver padlock sealing his swollen lips gleaming beneath harsh fluorescent lighting. 

Second Place:

Pont de Chaussure

By Ed McConnell

The Pont des Arts in Paris  

straddles the Seine  

and offers panoramic views  

of a city built on romance.  

It was weighed down by  

700,000 locks left by lovers until

it collapsed under the weight of

expectations.  

The High Level Bridge in Maidstone 

slumps across the Medway  

and from it you can see  

TK Maxx and Asda.  

One couple has attached a padlock 

a throuple has, too.  

But mainly people have hurled shoes 

onto a felt shed roof below.  

The bridge stands strong  

but the roof has caved in  

owing to the weight of lonely loafers

Third Place:

Birdsong

By Kelli Johnson

The hens are restless; I hear them scratching, thumping their bodies against the double-doors. Storm after storm, and now another. Midway through the last, they’d broken through—run amok in muck, shrieking with each lightning-crack.

Nonna told me her first husband once locked her in a closet for two-and-a-half days. She traced fingernail-grooves on the inside jamb. 

Said, his death had been birdsong.

The hinges shrill. I clutch the rusted padlock. Tomorrow, there’ll be eggs aplenty, shat out in blind fear. My bumper-crop. Sliding the shackle into the latch, I wonder, who am I to expect chickens not to rage?

Fourth Place:

Charles and Lydia

By Morwenna Rogers

Every year she creeps out of the hotel room before dawn, runs to Lovers Bridge, and searches the thousands of padlocks for the shiny new one, inscribed the day before with his special marker pen: Charles and Lydia, squished between a black heart. Every bloody year they return, Charles limping and bloated with wealth, purple-faced and panting as he searches the railing for it. Even his disappointment grinds her nerves.

Unlocking it with the secret key, she casts it into the Seine with a frustrated howl and the same wish she makes every year. Oh why won’t he just die?