First Place:

Swallows

By Sean Thomas McDonnell

The dappled egg we found beneath the walnut tree stuck in my throat. I had to swallow hard. Sammy lost the bet, reluctantly handing over his pearl-handled pocketknife. He almost cried; I wiped my lip. At bedtime, my mother kissed my forehead and asked me how my day went. I told her fine, then coughed up a feather. She laughed. “Did you eat a canary?” 

That night, I dreamt I could fly, and when I awoke, I was in the walnut tree. I cried out for my mother. She came out and banged on a pot with a spoon.

Second Place:

Hope is the Thing with Feathers

By Lily Steinberg

God couldn’t exist because Mother was dead. Millennia of theodicy resolved by a drunk driver. Father felt differently, dragging me to the same decrepit church that hosted her funeral. Numbing wind whistled through its stone walls. Water dripped from rafters like tears. Votive candles failed to banish shadows. And a bluebird nested in the eaves, singing against the hymns. Neither of us seemed keen on praying. One Sunday, its eggs hatched and little peeps peppered the sermon. Then the birds flew away, facing the world’s chaos together as a family. Maybe God couldn’t exist, but Good could overcome entropy.

Third Place:

Hard-boiled

By Sonia Haddad

Through Chanel sunglasses, she views the other leather tanned ladies lounging by the pool while Ahmed serves them cool jallab or rose water. She spots a new girl, still lightly salted, fresh off the Sunny Boat, eyes hopeful. She was like that once, believing he was taking her to paradise as she walked up the gangway, sailing towards a future where women kill time behind the walls of the club while husbands play tric-trac or so they claim. She orders Za’atar eggs, snaps at Ahmed, make sure they’re well done. Her softness has been boiled hard by sun and deception.