PRISM international is proud to share the work of our three winners!
First Place
“No One Tells You Outright Grandma is an Asshole” by Erin MacNair
People don’t tell kids the truth. They say things like sex and drugs can destroy you but never these things can be profound. There are so many things you’ll have to figure out on your own. Like when your grandmother force feeds you apple seeds so you can learn to swallow a goddamn aspirin, what’s wrong with you. Later, you will discover apple seeds are poisonous and aspirin never has a barbed edge. No one explains that when she gives you a broken-necked hummingbird in a warped box of cotton––like it’s a jeweled present and not a monstrous, glittering thing with mites in the eye-holes––she’s given you death to play with. No one says a word when she calls you fat and lazy (she’s said these things to them, too, and look how tough they are).
You will have to see for yourself when she screeches off the highway to a roadside attraction in a shark-like Chevy Impala, what awaits up the long ladder leading to a platform over a circular pen. No one warns you she might try to buy your love with a last-minute chance ride on a baby elephant. You think it’s a baby; it’s big but not so big. You are placed on a red tasseled seat on its back and told you can go around in the small circle only two times. You lay your chest on the baby elephant’s thick shoulders and listen to its breathing, one hand reaching for the dark, broom-like bristles on its head as you feel the baby’s sadness ease into your bones. When you leave, you will cry in the hot pleather backseat and Grandma will once again ask what is the matter with you?
Erin MacNair (she, her) lives in North Vancouver on the unceded territories of the Squamish, Musqueam, and Tsleil-Waututh people in British Columbia, Canada. Her stories are published or forthcoming in The Walrus, Grain, EVENT, december, and others. She’s working on a collection of short stories. More info at www.erinmacnair.com.
Second Place
“The Eye of the Beholder” by Chidera Anikpe
“How do you say ‘I love you’ in Igbo?”
You were sprawled over the soft mattress in Udoka’s apartment when you asked the question, nude except for the carelessly thrown duvet that covered very little of your lower body. In the light of the evening sun, your skin, normally a pale white color, gleamed golden.
You watched as Udoka turned to you from where he stood against the balcony of his apartment in Princeton, the golden rays of sunlight caught against his fine earth-colored skin, slicing through him in a luminescent dance of light and shining Melanin.
He smiled; a gentle stretch of his full, dark lips that made him look -in a manner that you could not wholly fathom- more beautiful than he ordinarily did.
“There are no specific words for ‘I love you’ in Igbo. The closest we have is ‘afurum gi n’anya’ which loosely translates to ‘I see you’ or ‘I behold you with my eyes’.” He laughed after he said those words; a gentle, self-abiding sound that carried into the air and colored everything around you with a beautiful resonance.
I behold you.
Months after his death, on one particularly sunny day when you walked down the streets of Trenton with your hands tucked into the pockets of your jean, you envisioned him -that man who looked very much like celestial light- and you realized that there had been no better way to love him than to fully witness him in the entirety of his iridescent quality. No better way to be loved than to be beheld by him.
Chidera Solomon Anikpe (he/him) is a twenty one year old, queer Nigerian storyteller. He is the last of nine siblings and the self-acclaimed ‘rainbow sheep’ of his family. Chidera can be reached via email: chideraanikpe@gmail.com or Twitter @Chidera_Anikpe.
Third Place
“At World’s End” by Hannah Siden
At World’s End
I tell Johnny I love the rain now. I sing to him from Pirates. Heave ho, thieves & beggars, never shall we die. The horizon’s lost to fog, a single bobbing sailboat the only indicator of sky meeting ocean. Two crows perch on a bare tree. No one’s on the seawall but us & runners in spandex battling the downpour & themselves. We’re two black umbrellas, holding hands. I can walk for ten minutes now & be upright for twenty. The beach is five minutes away by car & so each day that Johnny can take me I beg to go. I sit in the passenger seat like a dog with a cone whenever anyone has to drive me such a short distance but the world is worth these small humiliations. Today on our drive Wonderwall came on the radio & we didn’t even listen ironically. We just enjoyed it. I know too much to be anything but sincere now & so I want to tell you: I love Wonderwall & the rain & I didn’t used to love either. I love the thick moss carpeting the rocks we walk by & the yolky daffodils spilling into the storm-grey morning. I love the gluten free cinnamon bun Johnny picks up on our way back while I lie flat in the car seat, waiting for my headache to calm. I love that I see more of the sky this way. More things sing to me now & I love that I am listening, like I never listened before.
Hannah is a writer and filmmaker living on the unceded territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh Nations (Vancouver, BC). Her poems are published/ forthcoming with The League of Canadian Poets, Bed Zine, Metatron Press and others. Find her on Twitter @hannah_siden or at https://www.hannahsiden.com.