Somewhere on the Western Front (WINNER, JUDGES’ PICK)

By Lesley Christensen Morillion

Christmas Eve, 1914.

A tear tracks down the stubbly cheek of the shivering German soldier. Homesick, he consoles himself by singing his favourite Christmas carol.

Echoes of “Stille Nacht” drift across No Man’s Land to the English trenches. They settle softly on the sleeping soldier, wisps of the haunting tune wrapping gently round his dreams, stirring memories. He wakes. The guttural words are strange, harsh, but the melody of “Silent Night” is so familiar and soothing. Strangely comforted, he begins to sing.

Two voices, merging in the mist: mortal enemies tomorrow, but not tonight.

When a Dirty Thief Steals Your Daughter (1st RUNNER UP, JUDGES’ PICK)

By Lisa H. Owens

The truck coasted downhill, stopping alongside the barn. Tonight, that sumbitch’d learn a hard lesson.

He snuck in through the calving stall and climbed toward the loft. He’d steal some hay, then start Plan-B (iffen he could remember). He forgot stuff these days.

The barndoor opened and the light flipped on, surprising the thief.

“Christ almighty, Pops. Lilah and me’s been a’married forty years. Give it a rest, will ye?”

“Well, boy, some thangs can’t be put to rest.”

“Sorry you feel that’away. Now, climb on down afore ye get hurt. See ye in church tomorrow?”

“I reckon,” Pops shrugged.

The Pride of Churan

By David Klotzkin

He’d stolen my lady with lies, taken my youth with tales that had me imprisoned.  

Eventually, I found him.  

“What do you want?” He’d grown plump and satisfied as an old cat.

“Vengeance.”  

“After so long?”  He smirked. Perhaps he thought I joked.

“When your wife and I were together,” I said,” we once shared an apple, the most delicious one we’d ever tasted.  She devoured her half in a moment.  I saved mine, and planted the seeds, and now my orchard is the pride of Churan.”

He stepped back, hands shaking, face the color of his fine gray hair.

Traitor

By Mikaela Brown

It was like when they were young and she tattled on him for not doing his chores. Had they not grown up since then? The sirens and lights testified that nothing had changed. The one he thought he could trust had betrayed him. 

He’d been trying to fix it, going longer between doses than he used to. But the handcuffs around his wrist meant that he might not ever get another high. It wasn’t about what was good for him. She’d always been the bossy older sister. 

Ignoring her tears, he spat as the police led him by her.

Enemy Mine

By Robert Burns

Tommy Clinton shouldered the leaden weight of generations as he rode the late-night subway crosstown.

Anticipation had been his constant companion for months, but tonight the war between the Clinton and Albemarle families would finally end, at least for him.

The station was deserted too. Tommy descended and walked two blocks through the velvety black quiet to the Albemarle house.

"Sheila!" he whispered up, urgently, from the lawn.

The casement opened. Tommy’s love climbed out, falling the last foot into his arms. 

"I've missed you so," Sheila cooed.

They kissed, then ran hand in hand uptown into their future.

Venomous Ink

By Caroline Jenner

We never really knew Uncle Daniel, until he popped up one Christmas laden with exotic gifts and unusual parlour games.

“Here,” he said, handing out sheets of inky script. “It’s sugar paper, an ancient game from the rainforest of Borneo. It’s called an erasure performance. Read your words then eat your script.”

Enchanted by his unconventionality we threw ourselves wholeheartedly into the eccentricity of the performance. 

‘Tranquility,’ whispered my sister.

 ‘Mellifluous,’ I murmured.

‘Nemesis,’ said Uncle Daniel as we ate our words, slid softly, silently to the ground allowing him to slip out the back door with the family silver.

Own Worst Enemy

By Ann Struck

Friends loaded.

My head in the toilet

spewing Tequila Sunrises.

I drove thru a red light at a four-lane intersection

side-swiping a steel utility pole.

Car totaled.

Mum said, “You’re your own worst enemy.”

Snorting rush on the dancefloor

drivel dribbling from misused maws.

Beds reeking of filthy feet and excrement.

You’re your own worst enemy.

Powdery snowflakes mounded on the kitchen counter.

My shoulders pinned, torso and pelvis crushing sofa cushions.

“Did you think this was free?”

You’re your own worst enemy.

Recovery by the Sea’s double-doors clunked shut.

“This way to your room, Miss—” 

“Own-Worst-Enemy.”

Post-Invasion Survival Advice

By Cecilia Maddison

Above all, never lose your temper. Remember what happened to Thirty-Nine? 

We were all exhausted, all smarting from the Manager’s electric shocks. But we kept smiling. 

Thirty-Nine flipped though. She battered her fists on the fragile circuit boards, scattering resistors. “Shock me again and I’ll smash your ugly, metal face!” she yelled.

The Manager fixed her in a blinding beam, reversing the current of her rage. “Anger is forbidden,” it announced.

That’s when the drones swarmed in. With nowhere to run, their whirring blades disposed of her in seconds.

Moistened by the crimson mist, we smiled so hard it hurt.

High walls make for good neighbours

By Nikky Olivier

It began with the leaves – complaint after complaint about how they were defiling your lawn. Constant nagging about my beloved, ancient, tree and how it ‘shed’! 

Well, you won.

The leaves, the tree, and the birds it housed are all gone now – your victory written boldly on your face as you smirk at me while taking pains to maintain your perfectly manicured lawn.

Just you wait!

They say that high walls make for good neighbours, but low walls make it so much easier to slip weed killer into your irrigation system at night!

Meet George

By Pauline Milner Pike

Meet my Albatross, George. We have been together for years, though during my sleeping hours he disappears, the only time we are completely separated.

However, he tends to wake me up early, one of the worst of George’s qualities.

I know that some friends can see George, while others are oblivious. He makes my life miserable, but that is, mostly, our little secret.

Several professionals have met George and they do not give him high grades, always searching for the right combination that will make him go away.

George’s name is just a pseudonym. His real name is pain.

Trouncing the Bully

By Deryn Pittar

Our last meeting ended in a screaming match and the sight of him makes the hair on my neck stand up. I tip-toe closer, stepping with care, avoiding the crackly autumn leaves.  I pad silently along the veranda.  I’ll teach the neighbourhood bully a lesson while administering revenge for my damaged ear.

He sits, fat with indulgence, leaning against a cushion, his stomach lolling over his legs, his eyes closed as the sun warms him. I creep closer, then scream and aim for his nose. His flesh gives and blood spurts. I run. 

Once home I purr with satisfaction.

Where Weeds Grow

By Rosemary Lux

Amy settled back in her chair, hearing Aunt Elsa rattling teacups. It always felt so cosy here. 

“So, how are things?” she asked Uncle Barry.

Cloudy eyes gazed into hers.

“It’s the weeds, you see,” he spoke conspiratorially, “they’re taking over.” 

“How do you mean? The garden looks fine.” She responded, confused.

“They’re overshadowing everything, they’re my enemy now, suffocating things, I fight them all the time.”

He tapped his head. 

“I can’t see who you are. Can you pull them out for me?”

Amy held his hand, watched the tear roll down whilst wishing for the cosy feeling back.

Book of Solomon

By Holly Grover Brandon

One little book, two tiny boys

Who shared all their blocks, 

Their balls, and their toys. 

They shared the same clothes, 

And shared the same room. 

They shared the same face 

For they’d shared the same womb. 

One little book, two stubborn mules.

They cried and they screamed 

And they yanked and they pulled. 

Both equal in strength, with two equal prides,

Ripped one little book into two equal sides. 

Each one held his half 

As they gave matching grins. 

That’s one way to share

Just one book with two twins. 

The Writer's Foe

By Scott Fisher

They flap and fly away from me, these old enemies of mine. They scatter as I glance at them, and settle out of reach.

I hold my thin, trusty weapon in my hand, its glistening point ready to pin my adversaries to the parchment. To watch them shudder and still, one after another.

I light a candle, and for a moment I think I have them. 

I am wrong. 

Out of ideas, I pinch the wick and concede defeat. Time to end this unsuccessful evening in pursuit of the writer’s foe; those most elusive words remaining just beyond my grasp.