HONORABLE MENTION, SUMMER 2022
THE SCREW TURN FLASH FICTION COMPETITION

BY JANICE EGRY

“Here, Mommy,” the child says. “The flowers are for you. I picked them.”

“Thank you,” I say and accept the bouquet. But I am not his mommy. I do not have a son. He is a cute little boy, but not mine.

I don’t know how I came to be here in this field of daisies. I look in all directions. There seems to be no end to the acres of blossoms dancing in the wind. How do I get out? I turn in all directions, searching. Just searching.

I remember walking down a dirt road. Where is it? Where is that road? I see no perimeter to this field nor any path through it. I recall dust rising up, disturbed by my hurrying feet, and the faint song of a solitary mockingbird slicing the hushed air. I remember that tears streamed down my cheeks, stinging chafed skin, and I picked up my pace to a trot. All of that comes back to me now.

In my hand, the blooms wilt on their sturdy stems. I wonder whether to keep them or toss them away. I turn in circles trying to decide where to go, which way might take me to that road.

The boy is gone! Where did he go? How could he have disappeared? His blue bib overalls would surely stand out in this expanse of bright white and yellow. He was taller than the meadow growth. I should be able to see him. But he did have a yellow shirt. That might blend in.

I seem to be the only moving creature in this place. No bees visit. No ants crawl beneath the thick flora. There are no trees here to provide respite or residence for birds. I do not understand, but I finally pick a direction and begin walking, letting the tired plants in my hand drop to the ground.

Funny. I have no sense of time. It must be the sameness of scenery along my way. Have I walked for hours? It seems so. Like treading through an expanse of butter and untinted oleo, a monotony of motion and color numbs my mind.

Oh, look! A sandy strip in the distance lined with mammoth shade trees. The road I’ve been searching for. Hooray! My feet burn, my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, I cannot swallow, but I made it. Now will my memory return, and can I find my way home? [continue reading…]

HONORABLE MENTION, SUMMER 2022
THE SCREW TURN FLASH FICTION COMPETITION

BY TIMOTHY BOUDREAU

“These plums look like the dusty balls of a dead dude,” Eucalyptus said. She bit one, licked at a bead of clear juice in the corner of her mouth, tossed the plum across the yard. Charley watched it roll into a pile of wet leaves.

Charley remembers the blue veins on the inside of her chubby wrists, delicate ankle bones, smoky taste of her teeth, what she said about his aunt’s plums. When he’s with her it’s eternal autumn, the last time they were together. Sparse leaves, chilling rain. He doesn’t know about her winters, her summers, if she still wears her grandmother’s wool scarf when the real cold comes, or swims drunk in a t-shirt in the river.

Back in the day they sailed on a single Oxy all afternoon. Two dropouts, girl in a baseball cap with an oval pink face, boy in a hoody with a double chin. “Ha fuck, look at this, hey shit it’s a Frisbee.” Eucalyptus flipped a round piece of wood at a blue jay. Charley followed close, along the river path, past pale ghostly leaves on fragile rippling trees.

What it feels like to be dead: chills, fog, ache of sleep deprivation. Charley lingers in the sun streaming through her grandmother’s window—but it’s not warm at all.

“They’re from my aunt’s tree,” he told her. “She thought you and your gram might like them.” [continue reading…]

HONORABLE MENTION, SUMMER 2022
THE SCREW TURN FLASH FICTION COMPETITION

BY MEG JOHNSON

Windex gets stains out of carpets, if you get to them soon enough. If you need to get blood out of a sheet, wash it in cold water first. Those awful brown paper towels that tear up bleach-dried knuckles are perfect for cleaning mirrors without leaving streaks. The trick to folding a fitted sheet is that the corners are not where you think they are. You can unclog a drain with vinegar and baking soda. 

Aubrey ran through all the things she wished she’d been taught her first day so she could pass them on to the newly hired housekeeper. Hair slipped out of her ponytail and into her face as she scrubbed her ninth toilet of the day. She tried to move it aside without touching it, so as not to get toilet water in her hair. There was probably already toilet water in her hair. She sprayed the shower with the foamy bleach that would sting her eyes and stain her clothes and linger in her nostrils. She wiped the plastic walls in an accustomed rhythm, in tune with her thoughts.

She would fill her in on the customers too, most of them regulars.

The men in 107 are hiding weed in their dresser. The couple in 103 is married—but not to each other. The woman in 207 is going to stain the towels with mascara, just like she does every time she drives from Canada to visit her boarding-school basketball star. Clean 106 first, even though it’s not first on the list, because if you’re not done before he returns, he’ll make you listen to his karaoke recordings. And you’ll have to smile and say it sounds nice. 105 has a dog, even though no dogs are allowed. But he tips well, so he doesn’t have a dog. 110 is going to a wedding. They will come back drunk. You will be cleaning up vomit. Do not go in 209. They will come to you if they need towels. They will need towels.

Aubrey hung a shower curtain with a practiced motion, sliding each loop onto a hook and each hook onto the rod. She positioned it just so and left a tiny, perfumy bar of soap on the edge of an intricately folded towel.

When you clean 212, there will be long black hair caught up in the vacuum when you’re done. No matter how much we clean we still find more. It’s happened since the girl overdosed in bed and the whole hotel woke to her sister’s screams. Rachel says in 211 you can hear laughter sometimes even if no one is there.  [continue reading…]