WINNER, Winter 2026
The Screw Turn Flash Fiction Competition

BY RALPH WALES HUNTLEY

She stands in front of the fountain at the foot of the steps to the museum. The water droplets are flung to and fro, catching the sun in dazzling arrow-shots of crystalline light. She turns her body and stops mid stride, radiating balletic poise, the fountain mist behind her a luminous halo which glorifies her lithe figure, her high cheekbones, the delicate pout held on the silky petals of her lips. Does she hold back a smile? Are there words of love and beauty waiting to emerge from behind those coral-painted masterpieces? Ancient wisdom? Heavenly comfort? Surely her ivory teeth and elegant tongue are mere gateways to the secrets of the universe and beyond. She slowly swirls through the air, and her mystery deepens.

Click click click click.

A crowd of fresh faces surrounds her, phones upheld, thumbs flicking furiously, cameras capturing the curve of her back, the strong line of her jawbone, the elegant nose, the eggshell white of her glowing skin. Her head turns in nonchalant arcs, her stylish mirrored shades now reflecting her posse, now reflecting the fountain, now reflecting the burning blue of the sky as she looks up for no apparent reason.

Everyone around her looks up as well.

“I love her jacket,” remarks an adolescent girl to her friend. “So cute. Kind of flirty but not slutty. I’m sure they don’t make it in my size.” Her face fills with color, and she whispers: “God she’s pretty.”

An older man walks by, gawking at the slim legs covered in the tiny black-and-silver tights. His sudden intense longing feels like nausea.

A young couple stops for a moment, smirking.

“So dumb,” says the man. “Look, those people taking photos aren’t even using professional equipment.”

He can’t take his eyes off of her breasts.

“I know,” giggles his girlfriend. “So silly.”

She’s always wanted to try stiletto heels. They look dangerous. Powerful. A deep sadness settles into her heart, and she squeezes her boyfriend’s hand. After a moment, he pulls it away.

Click click click click.

Each gesture is preserved. The tilt of her head. The crinkle of her nose. The flick of her delicate wrist.

Each impossibly important moment is captured. Bending to gently pet a puppy. Tucking her hair behind her ear, a tiny smile curling her lips. Raising her arms in angelic triumph while balancing on one breathtakingly skinny stiletto heel.

These gestures and moments are uploaded, downloaded, sent into the world through the air and down the invisible tubes which connect everything that lives and breathes and yearns to be shown what perfection can be.

She swings her arms to the side.

The adolescent girl swings her arms to the side, inwardly cursing her own fat fingers and pudgy elbows.

The older man moves his arms too, and looks away sharply, his loneliness merging with the painful lust which will slowly destroy him as the day drags on.

The young couple walks away quickly, swinging their arms for reasons they can’t quite pinpoint, her hand searching for his, as a bead of sweat drips down his temple.

She is an enigma, and the crowd knots itself trying to unlock her exotic perplexities.

She is a force of nature, and the crowd sways in her seductive maelstrom.

She is bewitching, and the crowd reels with intoxication, admiration, and envy.

She is timely, and is the perfect companion to the present moment. The crowd lets out a collective breath of contentment.

She is timeless. She will not be forgotten.

Much later, she is in a small unfurnished room. Bare floorboards, pale walls. A window is open, and city sounds leak into the room. Car horns, a siren, the slam-slam of a large truck driving over cracked streets.

She takes off her mirrored glasses first, revealing two holes in her face which lead nowhere. She turns, and the fading light from the window shines through her head—two weak shafts of light which briefly illuminate one bare wall of the room.

She pulls off her luxurious wig, and there is a chasm where the crown of her head should be.

The jacket and blouse fall to the floor, and the room becomes a little airier as light shines through the vacant space where her torso might have been. Her nothing arms are neither dainty nor delicate. They are simply more air, more space.

The leggings drop, revealing long slim shafts of evening stillness. As the shoes come off, the feet are gone, were never there. One disembodied gloved hand reaches up and wipes the makeup and powdered base from the glamorous face, each swipe erasing skin and bone and muscle until there is only a void.

One floating glove is removed by the other, leaving the final gloved hand suspended in mid-air. Through a complicated set of small acrobatic maneuvers, this glove contorts and shifts, fingers bunching and straightening, moving itself up and over, and finally, as the last rays of sunlight are disappearing behind the tall buildings across the street, the glove hits the floor with a soft smack.

The sun disappears.

Darkness seeps into the corners of the empty room. From the window the sounds of a radio drift on the night breeze. Then the silence takes over. The absence of light. No shadows are left. Only a deep, dark gloaming.

Emptiness.