Winning stories

“Don’t let the cat out of the bag.” “What cat?” I looked down on my porch and saw a little man in boots. This had to be a joke. “I don’t have a cat.” He shrugged. His eyes were a startling shade of blue. When he blinked, I felt an electric chill. “I’m just the messenger.” “Okay . . . thanks, I guess.” I closed the door, then opened it again to ask who sent him. He was gone. Day after day, I’d catch a glimpse of him somewhere. In the cubicle at work, I’d answer the phone, hearing, “Don’t let the cat out of the bag,” despite the call log never showing that a call had taken place. Back at home, I received a letter in the mail. No return address, no signature, just the message. In neat, precise handwriting. It didn’t look the least bit threatening, but it terrified me. I slapped it on the table, went to make coffee in the Keurig, and came back to look at it again. It was gone. I began to wonder if he meant it in a metaphorical sense… as if the universe was warning me not to reveal an important secret. Later that night, I went to bed. After several hours of sleep, I must’ve been in a semi-consciousness state. Something rattled, like crunched paper. I sat straight up and threw the blankets off my feet. Jittery and half-fogged with sleep, I snapped on the light. Under the bed, a paper bag, folded shut at the top, rocked back and forth. It yowled and hissed. When I grabbed the bag to pull it out from under the bed, the yowling turned into pitiful mewing. Something moved inside. Then, it began to purr. Slowly, I unfolded the top of the bag. S.E. Grosskopf, author of The Messenger –Manitowoc, Wisconsin, USA

As the sun set, dark clouds veiled the stars. A mild wind blew, carrying a soothing breeze through tree branches. At twelve years old, Raina was her mother’s only child. A gift— after thirteen long years of failing to conceive. She was protected and pampered, a precious, curly haired jewel, priceless and irreplaceable. Before Raina’s birth, her mother had endured soul-crushing verbal abuse from others. “You’re practically a man,” some had sneered at her. Maybe, she thought, this was the reason she couldn’t conceive. As the clouds thickened that evening, excitement filled Raina’s heart. She watched her friends race across the newly tarred road in front of her home, her face lighting up with longing. “Raina! Don’t cross that road. It’s getting late,” her mother called sternly. “Okay,” Raina said calmly, her eyes still fixed on her friends. The urge to join them grew stronger. She waited, watching her mother’s every move, until her mother disappeared from view behind the storm door. Raina tiptoed carefully, seizing her chance, then darted into the road, looking back as she ran, unaware of the silver Chrysler speeding toward her. The car screeched with a “skrrrrrr” and a terrible “gbooo!” as it hit Raina. Her body flung limp to the roadside. Her eyes rolled back as her mom ran out to the road. Torn—sobbing with tears, she was left with a question that burned her soul: What if she had never said anything to Raina that day? Offor Amarachi, author of Raina—Portharcourt, Nigeria

It was dark beyond the hillside. The wind whirled gently, caressing the face of a farm boy perched atop a haystack. He stared into the abyss, watching the stars take form.  And that’s when he saw him—a man in a white mask and flowing cape, descending from the night. “You,” the man scoffed. He bore a candle with a flame that flickered in his hand. He extended his other hand, offering what the boy assumed was a mushroom. “Your path to freedom will be through enlightenment.” The mushroom had freckled skin and a single, gleaming eye staring back at him. Silence thickened the air. The boy raised his head. “Where’d you go?” But the man had left no time for questions—his body had already wilted into smoke, drifting skyward like a bundle of balloons. It looks so juicy, the boy thought. What would happen if I… He took a bite, chewing slowly, the earthy taste coating his tongue. Before his eyes, a leather book materialized from thin air, giggling. “He-he-he!” It sounded feminine. Though unmoving, the book radiated warmth—an inviting presence. The boy reached for her, tracing his fingertips along her spine with “Read Me” embroidered in gold. He opened her. The pages were filled with his  handwriting. One passage fluttered into view: He came from the sky, masked in white, and offered me a mushroom with a blinking eye. I took a bite then he faded like a dream… The book then closed abruptly. “You have been creating your own story since you were a child, the power you possess lives inside of your mind.” She declared with a grin. The boy smiled, “The rest is up to me now!” Koi, author of Reality Loop- Mobile, Alabama, USA

The Android greets me with a laconic head tilt. I say Android, but I’m not sure. I see a glass eye and light. The last thing I remember is getting hit by a truck and accepting the inevitable. “How did I get here? Am I dead? I know the back of my hand pretty well. It looks alive,” I say as I take a look. “I appreciate how this must appear to you.” The Android rotates its hand, mirroring me. Truth is, I find myself less convinced. “I believe I exist because I accept the evidence of my senses. Are they real?” “Not dead,” Mr. Glass and Lights replies. “I am your Procurator.” “What, pray tell, is a Procurator?” I ask. “A guardian.” “Yeah, right.” I shake my head. “A small number of individuals spontaneously rotate out of their own reality; the common trigger—certain death.” I remember the oncoming truck. “To travel is remarkable, but to arrive safely is more so. Imagine one such survivor mastering the art of many-world navigation. Later, he fostered the Procurator.” “You?” The machine nods. “First to protect and serve.” I frown. “Self-preservation. During his first rotations, he suffered abuse, escaping death many times. So many languages, cultures, and histories—but there was nowhere like home.” “What happened?” “He rotated to a technological world. Humanity extinct. AI survived. An exchange of experiences; his stories for a seed.” “You?” I ask. The machine nods. “I outlived him; it’s been a long time now.” “Fascinating, but what has this to do with me?” I demand. The Android tips his head again. “I have since refined his ability to travel to many worlds, to move through time—to the point he first rotated—when he was hit by a truck.” C.J. Charles, author of Several Turns of the Wheel—Cumbria, UK

Terry got home feeling tipsy. Alcohol from two shots of whisky he threw down his throat started to kick in hard. His head banged. Intense drowsiness. He had hoped the thoughts of his ugly act would disappear. He walked drowsily to the center of his dimly lit living room. Tossed his car key on top of the center glass table. He bent over and collapsed on the black leather couch across the room. Hoping to drift to sleep, his gaze fixed on the ceiling, his heart pounded from terrible thoughts. Knock! Knock! Sounds came from the door in quick succession. Terry’s eyes lit up for a second. His brain registered a chill up his spine. The door tapped again. This time, a lot harder. Terry muttered under his breath, “What the fuck!” He hopped to his feet and tiptoed to the door. He peered through the peephole and spotted Katie, his girlfriend, in a thick black hoodie. He snapped the door open. As he went to hug her, Katie pulled a .22-caliber revolver, pointing it at his head. Terry turned pale, taking a few steps back, yet Katie closed in. “You crazy bastard!” Katie blurted. “Hey! Hey! Katie, please put the gun down.” Terry’s lip trembled. “Fuck you!” Katie screamed. Tears of disappointment rolled down her cheeks. “I was loyal, Terry. I made sure you were supported. But what did I get? You turned around and screwed my sister. For God’s sake. She drowned herself!” Katie cried. “Are you happy now, you bastard?” She steadied her aim with her left hand. Terry blinked once, then, BANG! He opened his eyes to see—a hole in Katie’s head as she fell forward. He eased her to the floor, blood all over his hands. His infidelity cost the price of two lives. Okoli C. Stanley, author of That’s the Price—Harcourt, Nigeria