Fiction 59: High school winners
2018 Fiction 59 contest
Julio met his father three times; a permanent Chinese dragon slithered across his cheek. His weathered mom always tried, but to her dismay the blue and red flashing lights pulled Julio in yet again. He didn’t cry or even think of his father, of course until he saw the unfamiliar dragon in an orange jumpsuit not unlike his own.
Colin Bailey, this year’s first- and third-place finisher, is the real deal both when it comes to Fiction 59—where he’s placed in the top three many times over the years—and when it comes to skating. Both he and his brother, Cedar (see first place in the junior high category), took first in their respective divisions in the recently completed Nor Cal Skate Series, a string of skating competitions across the North State.
For 17 years I’ve waited to hit the distillery; I’m still fermenting. I feel as if the world just wants to stop my shine. I’m the moon, you’ll never see my dark side. I’m talkin’ real talk with them moon rocks. This is surreal fiction with a vision. People can’t breathe around me because I have no atmosphere. Moon$hine.
If you notice a flow and rhythm to Seamus Moon’s fantastical story, it’s no accident. The 17-year-old hip-hop musician loves to produce his own beats and instrumentals (the “Moon$hine” at the end of the piece is his stage name). When asked what he wants to do after he graduates, Moon said, “I just really want to make music and see where it takes me in the world.”
John raked his blonde hair after an everyday shower. Pulling on a scratchy blue atrocity he tightened the federal noose around his neck. He wearily drove his economical car to the bus. Sitting next to the rest of New York’s suits he heaved People Magazine from his briefcase. Fantasizing about gold and silver he hiked heavily to his cubicle.
The Split Second
One day in the woods, Raccoon sprinted to Owl and Deer, yelling that someone was following him with a long and pointed thing. Suddenly, there was a faint sound like someone stepping on dried leaves. Seconds later, Raccoon fell to the ground, lifeless. The hunter picked Raccoon up, wondering what kind of hat he was going to make himself.
The neon pink scrunchie in her hair made my heart do somersaults. “It’s the ’80s!” she said, skating towards me. “So it is.” Our love danced like the lights on the disco floor. She grabbed my hands. Shivers zinged down my spine. We’d skate in circles until the place closed, our speed increasing and our bodies transforming into magnets.
Grey paint crackles in mid July sun, a calm, cool, distracted reptile. A crooked car with metallic sounds hidden deep in its belly. It holds early morning coffee refuge, lacy, velvet moonlit drives home. It holds stocking feet and breakfast to go, crying, and sighing and window gazing, allowing the world to rush past like a melodic slide show.