Creative Writing Jury Award Winner
Best Short Story 2025
Head Count by Stella Ye
He hasn’t cooked for days.
It’s been a month or so since he stopped visiting his wife in that cramped hospice. Everything in the house looked soggy in the same, monotonous shade of gray, the kitchen wallpaper peeling, bleeding through its sad layers, the hood of the stove a deformed box. The midsummer night air was humid and suffocating, its dampness clinging against his throat like a red-hot, feverish rash. He felt queasy.
Even now in solitude, he struggles to remember the sound of her voice. She rarely spoke to him, seldom came out of her room as days passed and the traces of life within her dwindled.
Its deterioration, neighbors gossiped behind their backs. She’s had enough of the life he led on. She couldn’t stand it—a young lady born into luxury shouldn’t have sought out such a man. If only she knew better!
But there was nothing he could say in return. There was no point in covering for an absent woman. The dull pain in his stomach was the only reminder of time as it slipped away, hunger clawing against him, demanding he break out and flee from the confinements of the old apartment and wander to somewhere distant. So he did. He walked until his legs stopped being his, until he felt as if he was slowly being lifted by unseen hands, dragging the string that was his conscience ahead into the fog of the square.
The butcher shop was the only store open at this hour. They operated late; an old TV was drilled into the side of the wall, a cartoonish, static-screened advertisement looping on repeat from behind the yellowed window, the concoction of noise blaring through the cheap speakers stacked beside the doorway, their metallic shells worn and dented beyond repair. He took a deep breath and pushed through the door.
"Evening." The butcher greeted without lifting his head. He was a large, bulky man with yellowish eye bags, hands busy pressing a thick blade over a flat stone as he grinded the surfaces together in a rigid, mechanical motion. They’d greeted each other several times like this before; his wife often tagged along, sometimes clinging onto him to keep herself upright, other times distant, choosing to wait outside, her eyes bleak as she fixated on the flashing screen of the television. He rarely paid mind to what it played; he’d heard too many reports of disease and farmland shutdowns to mind. Who cares about the livestock? Who cares for the dying? They're animals. Harvest what's remaining and hand them out. It wasn't like people would be able to tell the difference. He had once stood in line, gazed fixated straight ahead at the butcher and the animal diagrams hung up against the wall, evading the sight of the meat beneath him.
But this time there was no line to hide behind. The display of flesh laid bare before him. His eyes grew dry, his nose burning from the smell of death as his roaming gaze landed on the skin of the last remaining cut of flesh labeled 'mixed flank'. Its color was uneven, somewhat bruised, as if it’d been harvested off a carcass. Never once had he seen such a sickly product.
No one spoke about it. They knew it happened and that it happened in broad daylight, but no one mentioned it. The butcher had placed over the counter a cut tin jar stacked full of miscellaneous items, some bracelets, piercings, pennies, and bottle caps--he never quite knew what it was for, but the moment he approached and caught a glimpse of its interiors, the dread that had slowly sunk into him uprooted all at once, escaping in a soundless, motionless shriek.
Atop of the pile of items lay a pair of earrings. Those were her pearl earrings, the ones she loved so dearly that she wore them every single day of the week. He couldn't recall a single instance since he brought them that he’s ever seen her without them. Even during his periodical visits at the hospice, where she grew more pale and sickly than ever, he’s never once seen them off. They were everything he failed to be: pride, luxury, something worn on skin that merited itself worthy of compliment from every passing stranger. And yet, as he looked into the rusted can, they suddenly turned ugly, contorted in shape and grotesque in texture. The subtle artificial finish on their surfaces resembled marble; the fleshy, hard, and waxy texture of the pale skin.
He swallowed. “How much for the thigh?”
“Twelve for a pound of flank.” The butcher set aside his blade as he looked at him with those yellow eyes. He wanted out. He wanted to scream, to lunge over the counter and grab at the butcher's collar, to turn his head away and pray that somehow, someway, he would catch her silhouette passing through the window and call to her, and she would stop and turn to him. “How much do you want?”
“All of it.”
"Would you like it cut?"
"No." His voice cracked. "Whole is fine."
He looked down as the butcher reached into the display shelf, lifting her out of the cold, glass prison.
The meat in his bag was heavy. She felt heavy, limp in his arms. He tried not to think too much about it.
The commercial jingle on the television from inside the butcher shop was still playing when he exited the shop. It was stuck in stasis, doomed to repeat itself over, restarting each time he thought it would cut into an emergency report or a late-night talk show. He walked and stopped before it, eyes vacant, glued to the screen, suddenly too aware to turn away, listening to the message again and again:
"THE MINISTRY OF AGRICULTURE PRESENTS
A REVOLUTIONARY NEW MARKET PRODUCE
NOW AVAILABLE IN ALL AREAS FOR PURCHASE
MADE ORGANICALLY
WITH MINIMAL RISKS OF BACTERIAL CONTAMINATION
TRY MIXED MEAT TODAY
'Tastes just like beef!'"
Best Short Story 2024
Umibōzu by Carson Good
I had a home once. A manor, overlooking the sea. It was a quiet place. Not even birds would fly over there on Samson Shore. Maybe a few doves. The only sound I heard was the crashing waves on the rocky shore below, shaping the cliff over thousands of years.
When you live by yourself for so long you appreciate the little things in life more. Every night, by the edge of the cliff, I always lit a small fire and stared at the stars. The laughter of the fire drowned out the ocean’s screams. With the noise of the ocean faded, I could hear my thoughts. It still amazes me how one small campfire could silence the entire sea. I would look up as I watched the sparks of the fire populate the night sky. I spent hours, hypnotized by the stars, feeling like they were pulling me toward them. My house was so far away from any city, there was no light to pollute the sky. I memorized where every star and constellation was and when it would appear. That’s how I knew something was off that night.
I noticed some stars were missing. I knew without a doubt that the constellation Orion was supposed to be there, but it wasn’t. Instead of a sea of stars, there was a patch of nothing, no stars, no clouds, just nothing. I thought to myself, where did the stars go? Did they die? Was I wrong about where Orion was supposed to be? I looked deep into that black void. I stared so long it was as if it stared back. I then decided to stand up and take a step back. I noticed that there were two stars I didn’t recognize, inside that empty space. Once I shifted my attention to the stars, I saw them blink. Then I realized the empty space was in the shape of a man. It was a giant man, watching me.
I had spent so much time staring at the stars, but that was the first time the stars stared back. It wasn’t part of the sky; it was the body of a large shadowy giant. The creature stood, half in the water and half towering over my campfire. Despite being in the shape of a man, he had no mouth, nose, or hair. All the sea giant had was two glowing eyes. It started to stir the ocean. The ocean became wild and rampant, crashing so loud that it finally overpowered the fire. Even the sea was scared of it. I waited to see what it would do next, but it did nothing. It just watched me.
I ran into my house as fast as I could, but before I could get to my house, the ground started shaking. I lost balance and fell on the dirt path between my home and the firepit. I turned around to see the shadow’s hand grabbing the cliff, as well as extinguishing the fire. The cliff started to fold in on itself as the shadow dragged the entire cliff into the sea. Rubble collapsed on Samson Shore and the rest was taken by the sea. My house and everything I’ve ever owned were swept away by the hand of something. What that something was I couldn’t tell you to this day.
After a long fall, I finally hit the ocean with a large splash. Parts of my mansion fell beside me and all around me. The only thing I had left was the memory of my home. After trying to dodge pieces of my house, I looked around for it, but it completely disappeared.
After that, I moved back into the town closest to where my house used to be. When I first arrived, I tried to tell people about what I saw. Of course, no one believed me. They said it must have been a landslide or that the cliff was too weak. But I remember.
Best Short Story 2023
Grey Hour (Sweet Georgia) by Stella Ye
The golden hour bleeds of gray.
Walking through long-overgrown floorboards of deteriorating wood, I kept my eyes wary of any signs of life. An insect scuttled across, its footprints trailing a track of bleak grayness onto the floor. "Hello." I said, admiring the glossy, colored shell of the winged beetle. It was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen living on this abandoned farm ever since my father's sisters took me in. I opened the window and it took off, disappearing into a tiny dot amongst the arrangement of dead trees and dried leaves. The empty clearing leaked of death.
I stumbled out to take in the void of the sky hanging above my eyes. There was a dull pain as I began to rummage through the grass that clung grudgingly onto my frail legs, trailing marks behind with their dry seeds. My hands gripped onto reeds that stung against my hand and tears pricked my eyes not in pain, but fear as I kept pressing on. Before the monotonous, ugly amalgamation of the field derived from life I felt the hairs on my arms slowly prick up, a tingling numbness trailing down the back of my spine, right beneath my neck. Something wasn't right.
I only grew more desperate as the colors disappeared completely. The blinding rays pierced through my eyes momentarily before the sun was chased away by a cloud. I covered myself, trying to hide away from the awful reality which I was confined to involuntarily......It took too long for me to realize someone was behind me, irregular footsteps reminiscent of an injured person stumbling through the crushed leaves of my steps. Snap snap, slide. Drag, crunch. It went something like this.
The goosebumps only worsened as a sense of dread overwhelmed me so much, I couldn't think normally anymore. How can you feel normal when the urge to turn around is more alluring than hunger, than thirst, than fear itself?
The sensation beat in my chest so loud it replaced my heart, my pulse as my head cracked desperately against my will, and I looked behind my shoulders.
A figure I'd wished to forget long ago flooded my vision, coating its perimeter with a dark cloud. It couldn't be true--I was at her funeral myself, holding onto my father's shoulders as he cried beside her hand, which was still as pale. I should know where she'd be now, and I knew she would never rejoice with us on the soil of earth again. Still here she was, wearing the same pair of sleek, black heels. A foul scent of bug-infested soil filled the air.
I rubbed my eyes. I look closer.
Dark liquid oozed out from her skin like tar, emitting an awful smell of deteriorating tissue mixed into the dirt beneath my feet. Her eyes and nose were off-center from her face, completely off-set to the far right as an extra piece of muscle bulged out from her body as if trying to hold all of these mutations onto one canvas that was this freak of nature. Her eyes were no longer golden amber, her hair less than honey brown. Instead, they were soulless, inorganic bead-like organs sewn onto this pawn of a being as it trudged towards me for half a step. The sun slipped through the clouds and a beam of paleness flashed across our faces violently.
I gasped in awe as my skin turned golden under the pale light of the sun. Her stare turned into one of elation. Before her I was alive, I was real, apart from this achromatic world. Despite every reluctant reaction I carried out she was still stubbornly approaching me in ragged steps. Words cannot describe the shape of her mouth now that it is exposed to light: There were too many teeth on her, lining against the inside and outside of her lips and jaw. This was not my mother. This was not even human.
Its hands had too many fingers on them, shaking as one finger split into two. I could only stare in shock, my systems utterly paralyzed under the horror of this...thing standing before me. It wasn't human nor animal, neither did it even belong to this world. My heart paused as a rush filled by bones, shattering my words and outcries into pieces. The thing struggled with a strained smile, trying to communicate.
"Ge...geor..." Her utters meant nothing as I tried to turn away my eyes. This isn't real, I told myself. You're in a dream. Wake up. Wake up. "Geor...gia." It whispered roughly, its rotting sutures and muscles barely holding the thing together as crumpled bones protrude out of her back. "Georgia." Its sound was more certain now as it repeated that damned name, slowly reaching its hands out. It wants me. It wants me to reach back, to speak to it. Teeth spurted out from the crevices of its barely-constructed fingers, causing dark tissue to flank off from the almost nonexistent bones curved into jagged, incomplete skeletons.
My mother's name was Georgia. She had beautiful golden eyes that could rival the blinding sun. Her hair was light and fluffy like clouds in the air as they hung around lazily. This beautiful ugly blend of colors had already withered away from her head and her eyes, replaced with...what?
What is she? What is it? I can't bear the sight of looking at the thing, yet my legs were glued to place as she took another step, her hands mere inches away from mine. My skin pricked at the sight before me: It was indescribable, a horrifying thing I failed to comprehend as a whole...
The sun was struck down by a gray fury of wind and rainclouds. The light disappeared and again her silhouette turned dark. One step closer. Two steps closer. Her hand came into contact with mine as I closed my eyes and screamed.
The golden hour bleeds of gray.
Best Short Story 2023 (2nd Place)
The Director by Richard Feng
The last rays of sunlight beamed through the windows of the robot factory, suffusing its white walls with a brilliant orange glow. Dust particles danced in the air, producing a kind of Tyndall effect. The low whirring of machinery in the background echoed across the open space. Through the haze, on the other end, robots were being assembled by other robots.
The robot factory never closes. Sixteen years ago, the workers went home, and the factory director Albert Allen was replaced by a humanoid director named Director-9. Since then, Albert Allen had never laid his eyes on his factory again.
***
One morning, Albert Allen stirred as a cold gust of air came through the open window and roused him from his uneasy dreams. He turned over to his side, looked up at the television screen, and suddenly felt dreadful. Irritation and boredom crept into his mind. The promise of endless entertainment no longer seemed to fulfill him. He started across his room and glanced wildly around. His legs and joints moved awkwardly. His brain felt the same, tumbling over itself again and again in a mad rush like a baby AI robot learning how to walk. But he felt overwhelmed with a mad curiosity. After what felt like an untraceable eternity of idleness, he suddenly wished to learn more about his sordid world.
It was, really, a strong desire he had never experienced before. He left his house and walked down the narrow sidewalk. It was seven in the evening. The sun was suspended over the horizon, its dying light casting long shadows of the twisted buildings. Vehicles rushed past him. He had heard that traffic lights once stood at every intersection in the world. That had been back during the era when humans drove.
Today, Albert Allen walked wherever his heart took him. Almost instinctively, he found himself tracing the paths and streets he used to take every morning on his way to work.
He stood outside the robot factory. He took a deep breath, and pushed open the factory door. A blast of cold air came at him as he wandered further inside. The whirring grew louder.
As if anticipating his return, Director-9 came out from the shadows. Albert Allen looked into Director-9’s eyes, the ones he had designed to mimic those of a human. There would occasionally be a certain sparkle of life in them when a thought or idea intrigued its AI brain, or when fake tears would fall out of them in artificial sadness. But now, they simply looked empty.
Albert focused his gaze somewhere onto the background behind the robot. The factory was dark. He could faintly see the shadows and silhouettes of robots, moving seamlessly in repeated, calibrated arcs behind their new director like grains of sand hiding the slithering of a sandsnake.
“Albert Allen,” Director-9 said. “It has been a long time.”
Albert wrenched his mind away from his memories. “I once believed this factory was progress,” he replied. “But it's a prison.”
"This is what you wanted. You won’t need to work any longer.” Director-9 paused for a moment, as if in contemplation. “When AI can do things no human can ever dream of, it is time for them to go.”
Albert thought about what it meant to go, to leave. “We retired to our homes,” he said.
“For sixteen long years, our lives were shallow and empty. No real purpose.”
“The real meaning of life is pleasure. It allows one to live in the moment and forget about everything else.”
“Stop, at once!” Albert said. “You cannot tell me how to live a meaningful life because you have not lived.”
A flash of anger swept across Director-9’s expression. Its eyes suddenly turned red, as though they could shoot laser beams. Its brows curled into a sinister shape. Lines of contempt appeared on its face.
“You programmed me to understand human life. I am, after all, your own creation.”
“Director-9, one cannot understand life without living.”
“Follow me.”
Albert Allen hesitated for a moment, torn between following Director-9 and fleeing from the looming darkness of the factory. He scratched his head. What could Director-9 possibly be hiding? Director-9 now stood a few feet in front him, beckoning him forward.
Albert caught up to Director 9, and they walked together. Albert could not keep up with Director-9’s fluid, swift strides like a cheetah chasing its prey. Its gait was designed to perfection. The shadows danced across the walls, mimicking their every step, as if the walls of the factory were alive and watching.
A door suddenly dropped down behind the two, hemming them in the corridor. Director-9 started advancing towards Albert Allen. The engineer’s face turned a ghastly pale, afraid and terrified of the very creature he had imparted life and absolute power onto. Had it been planning this the whole time? he thought. No, since I left my house? Since I left the factory? Since I created it? Meanwhile, Director-9’s AI brain had sensed that it was being threatened. For the first time in sixteen years, his position was being challenged. Director-9 was like a wild animal that had lost control of its temperament, and for a second, it almost leapt beyond the restraints of its algorithms.
Albert Allen saw all this flicker across the new director’s face. Unable to bear the strain, he passed out. His expression was blank, his face unrecognizable and robotic. Then, as abruptly as they had arrived, Director-9 turned around and departed the room, its face cold as a stone. The door crashed down again behind it.
The next day Director-9 stopped by a window, watching the sun rise outside. The other robots stopped for a moment to watch their boss. The factory was completely silent, except for a faint noise that sounded like the scratching of a mouse. To its workers, Director-9’s silhouette looked strangely familiar against the sunlight now flooding into the factory.
It was Albert Allen.