First Place:

The Postcard That Was Never Written

By Felipe Orleans

They came in the night, silent like the grey elephants raiding our fields. They came before we could run and hide in the forest. They had hard, hungry eyes and angry voices.

They took us.

They gave us uniforms. But no boots. They said we must kill. 

My brother, you said you would send for me, to that far-away land where people are rich and the skies are always grey. But I am a man now. I have a rifle and it is a beautiful thing. I feel its hunger. 

Tomorrow is my birthday. 

I will be eight.

Second Place:

Self-Mothered, Self-Made

By Sarah Hirons

No stamp, just my own handwriting.

Dear you, it says, stop apologising for wanting more. Men will call it madness; it’s only hunger.

I sit on the narrow bed, knees pulled tight, the postcard shaking a little in my hand.

When the heat comes, don’t fear it. It’s not the end. It’s your ignition.

I read it twice.

I imagine her—me—older, louder, untamed, standing in a kitchen lit by morning.

I smile at the thought that she made it there, that she thought of me.

I tuck the card into my pocket.

I can’t wait to meet her.

Third Place:

Anywhere But Here

By Maddie Logemann

Mom mails sun-painted palms and shimmering waves through the slot beneath my bedroom door. Then rolling, red canyons. The Peruvian Sierra next, llama-dotted and drenched in cloudy mists.

Each one’s delivered sans stamp, lying innocuously on the hardwood, scrawled with Mom’s familiar cursive.

Wish you were here!

More and more come until the whole world overcrowds my desk.

The chihuahua in a tacky sombrero is my final straw. I march to Mom’s office, arms full of passive-aggressive postcards, and dump them on her keyboard mid Zoom meeting.

“If you want me to move out so badly, just tell me.”

Fourth Place:

Trust

By Wendy Markel

‘It's just a postcard,’ you said, but it's not, it's a blood-red moon over camels and dunes and ‘wish you were here’ and ‘xxx,’ and why did you hide it in your bag if it's just a bloody postcard, and I thought this was about trust, and you said, ‘why are you looking in my bag if it's about trust,’ and your Egyptian-moon face and my sand-dune knuckles and the neighbours banging on the walls say it's nothing to do with trust, and above your braying cries and the hee-haw sirens, I say, ‘You're going nowhere, xxx.’