First Place:

Pinion

By Maddie Logemann

Our secret hides on the rush-blanketed hillside, tucked beneath a birch nesting fledging chicks.

I stand sentry, arms spread wide in a palisade against imaginary eyes.

When his throat clears, I whirl around.

He’s shed the awkward, ill-fitting down of a tee and mesh shorts for swan’s plumage—a strawberry print sundress. Blushed fingertips twist the fabric.

I’ve always been shorter than him, down closer to hell; there’s sin enough in me for both of us boys. I rush to my toes and flurry blasphemous kisses across his face until the insecure crinkles turn smiley and his laugh takes flight.

Second Place:

Baskets

By Jay McKenzie

Sixteen is too young, they said, pressing my palms between theirs, sandwiching my prayers between their own. Jochebed laid her own boy amid the rushes, they said, and this sacrifice saved a nation. They pressed a pious pen to my fingers: sign, they urged, so that he can be raised by the vicar’s daughter. Though her womb is broken, her spine is straight and she wears the light of a thousand candles. 

When the waters rush from my body, more verdant than those of the Nile, I wish that Jochebed had taken the basket cradling sweet Moses and ran. 

Third Place:

Some Kind of Magic

By S L Jones

At five, I watched as Mum whispered to the wind, sending leaves skittering, rushing into spirals. 

At ten, dandelion tea and a murmured tune eased my fever. 

Fresh lavender guarded my dreams. Salt circles ringed the doorstep — “To keep the bad things out,” she’d said.

"Are you a witch?" I’d asked, hopeful. She’d only smiled.   

At fifteen, I called her a weirdo to her face. 

After she died, I found a note: “My sweet Anna, it wasn’t magic. If you felt safe, I did my job.”

 I had.  

A rush of warm air swept the room. Or maybe my imagination.

Joint Fourth Place:

The Morning After the Apocalypse

By Simon Antony Clarke

The morning after the apocalypse she packed a bag and made for the coast. The trains were cancelled of course. She thought about hitchhiking but her mother had always taught her that it wasn’t safe. Instead she set off to walk. After all, there was no point rushing. It was a bright, crisp morning. Perfect October weather. A line of cars stretched along the highway. Traffic was at a standstill, but she made good progress on foot. At last, she topped the brow of the hill and saw the sea. It was on fire. What a rush, she thought.

Joint Fourth Place:

Silent Dawn in April

By N. Modipane

My mother won’t die.

The night before, I will make her rooibos tea. Maybe if I don’t rush, she’ll take more than one sip.

“The water didn’t boil,” won’t be her last words to me.

When blinding-white headlights wake me up just after midnight, she’ll be sitting inside the ambulance with a warm fleece wrapped around her shoulders, hand steadying an oxygen mask. 

I won’t just stand there mute, I will swallow the jagged rock in my throat.

At dawn, the phone won’t ring, no blood-curdling shrills, she’ll rush through the door and I’ll only be late for school.