Hidden (1st Place, Judges’ Pick)

By Claire Knight

It smells divine. But for what it conceals, I could devour it myself. Succulent, diced breasts of chicken with lightly boiled carrots and a few new potatoes. Not too many as they don’t suit his digestion.

I call the children to present him with the dish.

“Watch him closely and tell me when he’s eaten it all,” I say to my small, co-conspirators.

Bated breath as he eats hungrily, messily. I don’t care as long as he eats what I’ve hidden.

“Mum! He’s finished,” shouts my youngest.

“All of it?” I ask, hopefully.

“Nah, the worming tablet’s still there.”

Hoax? (2nd Place, Judges’ Pick)

By Lana Younis

Nestled on the sofa, Sarah and I were fixated by the television's glow. 

Geometric shapes zoomed across the screen before the news anchor's voice echoed through our empty, damp room. "Reports confirm no signs of reptilians lurking beneath the city." 

I scoffed, "Can you believe the audacity of their lies?" 

Sarah gripped my arm. "They’re hiding something. What if the truth is more sinister?" 

"They want us to think it's all a hoax," I whispered.

Our skins began to ripple, revealing scales beneath as we exchanged a silent understanding. The real conspiracy, it seemed, is what we’re told to believe.

Whispers

By Sonia Haddad

You watch them huddling, pretending to study. You look away when they glance over, briefly acknowledging your existence. They’re scheming. Another sleepover? trip away?  Last week, you discovered they’d gone to the disco without asking you. It was your birthday weekend. The hurt twists inside until rolled up into a tight ball. No crying, fasten on your nonchalant look. Neither commented on your new haircut, you laughed when they hid your phone. You’re such a good sport! They were only messing. They’re your best friends, passing notes under the table in the library. They whisper, hands smothering giggles. Something’s afoot.

That Rehearsed Response

By Julie Bissell

Lucy knew her parents would be disappointed too. They’d spoken to Mr Henderson last week about her dream to play rugby.

“Mum - he refused to run rugby training sessions for girls.”

“Never mind,” her mother said. “But you could play netball instead - it’s almost the same thing.”

Lucy felt cold. That was exactly what Mr Henderson had said, word for word.

Her father came in from the garage.

“Lucy’s PE teacher won’t let her play rugby,” her mother told him.

“Oh, well,” he said. “Maybe you could play netball instead? It’s almost the same thing, after all.”

Who Stole the Ys

By Lin Whitehouse

Tranquillity in the valley attracted strangers to settle. Surrounded by hills, the climate was pleasantly humid, although it was sometimes foggy. Contrails followed cruising aircraft, criss-crossing the sky. Giant Xs, like streams of consciousness, momentarily suspended before dissipating.

Cossetted by converging air streams, vegetation was bountiful, residents practically self-sufficient. Women were fertile and bore many babies, but none of them boys. Was it coincidence or chemtrails. Theorists claimed gender control, calculated by a force yet to declare itself.

Women wanting sons urged their husbands to depart. In time they all left and the valley, choked by plant-life, was irreversibly lost. 

Control

By Colin Hancox

A billion microscopic particles float through the clear blue sky, refracting rainbows obscuring their deadly purpose.  Chemtrails.  It’s all about control.  It’s the same toxins that are in the vaccine.  We’re just breathing in these chemicals all the time.

It’s all about control.  The truth is hiding in plain sight. Did you know that Disney released Frozen to confuse the search engines when people were looking for information about Walt Disney being cryogenically frozen?

OK, sure, I understand, you’ve got to go.  Good to run into you, we should keep in touch.  Give me your num… OK, yeah, see you.

Mother’s Day

By Kate Figurska

“What time will you be back?” my daughter asked.

Normally, I would simply answer and do everything to be on time. But the hug gave her away - it felt rushed. She let me go too soon.

I’ve heard their whispers whenever I left the room. I’ve seen the balloons and tapes, accidentally left in the wrong drawer.

I’ve noticed the flour and sugar disappearing from the cupboard and bowls changing their whereabouts.

I knew what’s going on.

Yet, I still came home on time, and I did my best to smile as they were shouting:

“Surprise!”

Ides of March

By Séimí Mac Aindreasa

Mist-wreathed alleys hide furtive shapes in the cloak of night. Whispers in the dark carry sinister tones, as plans are laid and a fate is sealed. Knives, honed sharp on secret stones, are sheathed in readiness for the terrible act which they must perform on behalf of their people.

In the cold light of day they appear, resplendent in finery denoting their high standing. As they walk, crowds part before them, as shoals part before the coming sharks. They mount the steps to the Curia Pompeia and gird themselves with the words: they come to kill Caesar, not praise him.

Reaction

By Holly Grover Brandon 

My desk is a minefield of pecans. 

“Guys,” I say to my third grade class, “do I need to remind you again that I’m allergic to nuts?”

This is the fourth time this week— hazelnuts in homework, cashews in the calculators, pistachios in the pencil box. 

“Did you touch them, Mr. Hester?”

“Should we get the nurse?”

The nurse. 

New. Attractive. Single. 

Twenty-two sets of eyes blink at me, a pretense of innocence. 

I shake my head, then pluck a pecan from my desk. 

There are worse ways to meet women. 

“Tell her to bring her best epi-pen.”

Spinning a Yarn

By Robert Woods

‘The man is a cheat!’

Janet’s eyes roll, the knitting needles not missing a beat.

‘His foot was over the line, clear as day. The ref didn’t see that, of course, but when it’s my turn, he’s watching like a hawk.’

Janet grits her teeth. The needles click-clack louder.

‘And then he’s polishing his ball every bowl. I think he’s greasing it. Or the ball’s weighted. The ref should be checking these things!’

The needles stop suddenly. The incessant moaning falters.

‘…Janet?’

Janet turns with her eyes blazing.

‘He’s not cheating, Peter! You’re just useless at bowling.’

The Last Loose End

By David Klotzkin

My father was there when Kennedy was shot.

He didn’t speak of it until his deathbed, when he said another bullet ricocheted from the limousine and rolled to the curb. He’d grabbed it.  “It was covered in gore.” 

“Impossible.  They’ve accounted for all the shots.”

“Leave it alone,” were his last words.

In his files was a handgun bullet, caked with gunk. 

Not Kennedy, I thought.  Oswald used a rifle. It couldn’t matter now, anyway.  I sent the gunk to 23andme.

Instead of results, black-suited men came and took the bullet. 

“The last loose end,” one said, “except for you.”

Somebody’s Watching Me

By Martin Barker

I’ve heard a rumour they’re using satellites to monitor our every move. That they listen to our phone calls and watch us through our television screens. I’m not sure who ‘They’ are, maybe the Russians, the Americans or the Chinese.

I feel a little sorry for whoever’s watching me (it must be pretty boring) so today I did a little dance in the train station. Yesterday I ran figure eights in the park and now I’m watching ‘Eastenders’ wearing a sombrero.

There’s a black van parked outside. It hasn’t moved in three hours. I’ve stopped wearing the sombrero.

Sleeper

By Deborah Thompson

My friend Wade is as batshit crazy as they come. Chemtrails, cancer-causing cell phone towers, shadowy cabals. The New World Order. Covid developed as a bioweapon. And don’t get him started on Roswell and alien invasion. I don’t mind. People think I’m odd too, ‘cos I don’t walk and talk right. He’s my only friend. 

One day he looks at me funny. “Hank” he says. “You’re one of them aliens in disguise, aintcha? Like a sleeper. You’re just waitin’ for the call. Then, boom! Invasion.”

So what could I do, except bite his head off? 

Pity. I kinda liked him.

Christmas Conspiracy

By Teodora Vamvu

“What about that new computer game?”

“Shouldn’t we at least try to encourage his playing outside more?”

“So you still want to get him a bicycle? You know they are really expensive.”

“I know, but it’s Christmas, Jeff.”

Caleb tiptoes back to his room, careful not to disclose the secrecy of his eavesdropping. As covertly as they try to conduct their arguments, he knows his parents are up to something.

But this? It’s too much. He flattens the blank piece of paper and begins scribbling furiously.

Dear Santa,

Be careful! I think my parents are trying to steal your job!

The Burden of Proof

By Corrie Haldane

Wallace crossed the newsroom, scowling. “You called me at two a.m. for aliens, Quinn?”

“This time, I’ve got proof.” Quinn touched his camera, shuddered. “They looked like people, but then they… took off their skin.”

“You’ve got pictures?” 

Quinn nodded. “Good ones. Front page material, sir.”

Wallace smiled. His lips stretched wide, until the skin pulled away along his hairline, and around his eyes and mouth, exposing a flash of gelatinous green beneath.

“Here’s a headline for you, Quinn.” The creature advanced, tugging his features back into place. “‘Veteran Reporter Found Dead’. Like it?”

Jimmy opened his mouth to scream.