Short Story
1st Place: Elisabeth Schmeissner, “To Lie Among the Mushrooms”
The anatomy of a mushroom goes as follows: scales, cap, gills, ring, stalk, base and mycelial threads. We start at the scales – rough patches on the surface of the cap that give mushrooms their characteristic warty pattern. I.e.: decoration.
Names are like decoration. We wear them so others can identify us, but they really are a bad system if you think about it. Sometimes too many people share the same name, or you hate the name you were given. Sometimes names have functions – they ward away bad luck and determine what a child will grow up to be. My first name doesn’t mean anything, but my last name does. I wear it like an ugly sweater, something that was forced upon me and I have to keep because it is glued to my skin. Lada doesn’t care about my name, in fact, she never calls me by anything at all. This suits both of us, because I hate sound and Lada hates speaking. Lada takes my hand and we walk through the forest in complete silence. I bend down to pick wild red currants and deadly dapperling, put them in my pants pockets for later. I notice that Lada’s hands are stained bright red.
* * *
Next follows the cap. It acts as an umbrella: protection from the weather and other unsavory things.
Lada and I head deeper into the woods, following a trail of chanterelles that I had found last time. I pick one occasionally, pop the stem into my mouth and suck. They are the color of sunshine and egg yolks, and I can’t help but think of the days before the blossoming chanterelles, when it felt like no color would ever return to the world. Lada found me one day, cowering behind a hollow tree trunk with my hands over my ears and my eyes squeezed shut. She gently tapped me on the back, waited until I opened my eyes, and formed her mouth in the shape of a word – my name – the first time she had ever done so. Her waifish arms then wrapped around me and she held me until the sun went down and the night creatures emerged.
Now we walk past the tree trunk and we keep our eyes straight ahead, ignoring the reminder in our peripheral vision. Lada’s fingers uncurl from my hand, shaking me out of my reverie, and she points to a patch of small mushrooms off the trail. They have formed a ring and are growing in earnest, fed by the lush dead matter in the ground. My guess is another victim, probably left here three to four weeks ago. My mouth suddenly goes dry. Lada looks at me serenely and nods, then walks forwards to do what I am too scared to. She plucks the mushrooms off the unmarked grave, pockets them, and closes her eyes to pray and thank them for the food. This person likely did not receive a funeral, so we give one to them now.
* * *
Now we approach the gills. These are the most important part of the mushroom, as they hold the key to the survival of the species: spores. Spores are dispensed from the slits of the gills to find new areas to populate – preferably areas with lots of decomposing things.
The sun dips lower on the horizon, so dinner must be in a few hours. I still need to get ready; I promised papa that I would look my best for all his important colleagues. My pockets are filled to the brim with all sorts of berries and mushrooms, and Lada carries a handful too. Papa has never gone hungry, and neither do I now, but thriftiness is not something I can easily forget. I slip into the kitchen after Lada departs and inhale the scent of pork stew, garlic, and pepper. I take handfuls of mushrooms from my pockets and chop them up, then sprinkle them around the stew as if it were Carthage, and the contents of my pockets were salt. Next I take the berries and arrange them prettily on a plate, placing holly leaves around the edges. I hope the guests are as gluttonous as they are greedy. When dinner time comes, I am beautifully made up, and have plastered my sweetest, most radiant smile onto my face. I do it for survival. The first important man I shake hands with compliments my hair.
* * *
We have reached the ring. It is a remnant from the veil of the mushroom that has burst to expose the gills and spores to the world. The memory of the beginning.
I sit in a grand hall that is luxuriously decorated, with gold accents on the walls and soft rugs underfoot. This place is as alien to me as Mars – I did not grow up here, it means nothing to me. Papa bought this manor with nonexistent money. Money that he said he didn’t have enough of to pay for hospital bills and nice looking clothes. When I asked him about this, he said it was better for us to look poor for the time being, and then warned me to never ask about his money or job again. Papa is not the kind of man you can disagree with. He has an aura that both pulls you in and warns you to never betray him or you will suffer the consequences. He swallows people, chews them up and spits them out just so he can taste what wealth and paradise are like. Some might call him a monster.
The thing about monsters is that they appear to be human. They have wishes and emotions; they eat, sleep, and die like the rest of us. When people started whispering about his wealth and power, his vicious climb to the top, he lost his sense of humanity. He needed to appear human, so he did what he thought would gain him the most sympathy: make his only daughter appear sick. I did not fit the part of a sick daughter. I was still young, chubby and rosy, so he started skipping my meals. Lunch stopped, then breakfast, and soon I had nothing. I was thin and weak, barely able to move my limbs. The milkman’s daughter saw me one day peeking out of my window, and dragged me out to the forest when papa was away at an important dinner. She was thin herself and looked hungry. By this time, most people were. She showed me all the edible mushrooms and berries she knew, and made sure I knew which ones were poisonous so I would never touch them. That night we gorged on mushrooms, and afterwards, I had made my first friend. Her name was Lada, and she saved my life.
* * *
Here is the mushroom stalk: it holds the mushroom above the dead ground and into the air. It must withstand the toughest of burdens, and keep the mushroom upright.
I’m sorry that I have to tell this story. I’m sorry it came to this. But I must do it, so that I will never forget.
Lada hated the world we live in – the world that subjected her and I to hunger and scavenging in the woods. She hated the bodies in the woods that makes mushrooms grow, hated the fact that we must eat their mushroom gifts in order to survive. She hated my father for what he did to me. She wrote about her hatred, spoke it to anyone who will listen. I begged her to stop, think about what she’s doing: if hunger won’t kill us, this surely will. One Saturday, her voice did stop. Lada, who was so talkative and outspoken, who banged on my front door and risked her life for me, stopped coming. Days passed and I worried that somehow, someone had found out about her hatred and had punished her. The waiting became unbearable.
A few days later, in the middle of a moonless night, the front door was flung open and a girl was dragged in, kicking and screaming. I am ashamed to admit it, but this was not the first time something like this had happened. Before, I had covered myself in blankets to drown out the screams of the dying. Now, those screams sounded all too familiar. I crept out of bed to the top of the stairs, and witnessed Lada lying on the rug, thrashing. The man who shared my last name, who gave me my first, stood over her with a pistol. I wish I could reverse time, could jump in front of him, could save my guardian angel. But I cannot. Instead, I covered my ears and watched in horror as a bullet pierced her stomach, staining the carpet red. She placed her hands over the wound as if she were preparing to be buried, fell back, and didn’t move again.
The next week, a new patch of mushrooms sprouted in a ring near a hollow tree trunk.
* * *
Lastly, the base and mycelial threads. These anchor the mushroom to the ground, suck up nutrients, and keep the mushroom alive.
The men around me now are fat and wear tailored suits that still manage to look like they’re bursting at the seams. Their hair is oily and slicked back, and their shoes are the kind you find in London or New York or some other exotic place. Their wrists sport watches studded with diamonds, and they smell like money – acrid and rusty. They spoon heaps of stew onto their plates, guzzle wine with astonishing speed, and laugh forcefully. I sit at one end of the table, serene and empty. The man who is no longer my father sits at the other end, looking the opposite. He surveys the table like it is his kingdom, his eyes darting around to catch every movement. I think of how I will never need to hear my last name again.
Then, the man next to me laughs far too loudly. His eyes look manic and his hands twitch involuntarily. The man next to him begins breathing rapidly, sweat dripping from his forehead. The temperature rises, the energy in the room boils. A man projectile vomits onto the table. I silently stand up and walk to the door. Through the hallway. Out to the yard. Into the forest. Lada is waiting by a tree, smiling. I nod at her, indicating that it is over. She holds out a flower – a lily – beautifully yellow and unfurled like rays of sunshine. She is thanking me. I take her hand, and we walk into the forest together.
2nd Place: Evan Warner, “The Room”
He tried to budge; his wrists locked into place against the metal table by handcuffs. They were his prison. Cold to the touch, and blank with a story -- emptiness. He felt stuck. Not a stranger to this situation, yet now it bothered him.
“Feeling at home?” A figure emerged from the shadowed corner of the room. “You seem...” he suddenly stopped. The man first glanced towards his wristwatch and then towards the door. “...Nervous,” the man finally finished. “Are you nervous?” he continued. No response. Dressed in a tailored suit, he walked slowly towards the table. His leather-heeled shoes echoed their taps off of the linoleum floor, bouncing sound towards the plastered walls like heels in an empty school hallway. “Kilhorn. Rick Kilhorn. That is you, correct?” A low grunt of agreeance was all that was returned to the man. “Good, we’ll begin shortly,” the man said. He spoke softly, but carried a menacing tone to his voice, sliding back into the darkened corner of the dimmed room.
The door opened. In walked two plainclothes detectives.
“Alright Kilhorn, let’s get started. I’m Detective Pearce, this is my partner Detective Berket.”
“So who’s the other guy?” Kilhorn said, in a low, rough voice.
“What other guy?”
“The one in the corner. He spoke to me first.”
“Are you on something Kilhorn?” Detective Berket said, interjecting into the conversation. Drawing his sidearm, Detective Pearce activated the flashlight accessory, pointing directly at the corner where Kilhorn had been nodding towards. Nothing. It was an interrogation room after all. Besides the table and chairs in the center, there were rarely any other objects.
“Nice try,” Pearce said as he holstered his weapon.
“I swear he was there.”
There was a knock on the door. Another officer peaked his head through the small opening, motioning the two detectives into the hallway. Kilhorn tried leaning back towards the door as far as his metal restraints let him, attempting to make out what was being said. No avail. He quickly leaned forward once more facing the back wall as the door opened again.
“We’ll be right back,” Detective Berket said as he closed the door once again; this time with force. Rick looked back at him as he nodded.
“Hello, again.” Whipping his head back around, the man appeared directly in front of Rick. Attempting to call for help was no use. His body ran cold. The low, steep voice he carried with him was nowhere to be seen.
“What do you want from me?” Kilhorn squeaked out, as he choked on his own words.
“The truth.” Silence. The singular sound was the rhythmic beat of the man’s wristwatch. Tick. One heartbeat. Tock. Another heartbeat. “It’s 5:23. You won’t make it past six o’clock if you don’t confess. This is your only warning.”
“Confess to what?” Kilhorn said, continuing to act oblivious to the crime that he committed. The man once more checked his watch.
“5:24” was all he spoke as he backed into nothingness. It was like a bad magic trick, where the audience knew exactly where the magician was. Except he wasn’t there. Tricking them all for what seemed to be a cheesy, comical trick.
The door handle rattled as it opened. The two detectives walked in again. What followed was standard interrogation procedure. The bluffing of crystal clear evidence placing Kilhorn at the scene of the crime. Back and forth argument between the two sides. But Kilhorn would not confess. He didn’t have to. He knew that all they had was someone that somewhat resembled him placed in the area.
“You clearly have no bulletproof evidence that says I committed a crime,” Kilhorn said, frustrated at this point. The two detectives shared an unfortunate nod of agreement, as Detective Pearce nodded towards the frosted door. Berket walked over as he motioned for the Officer standing outside the interrogation room. Kilhorn was unshackled from the table, being led back towards the door. He quickly turned around.
“What time is it?”
“A minute ‘till six,” Detective Pearce said, looking disappointed that he couldn’t pin the murder yet. Kilhorn chuckled to himself as he was escorted out of the door.
As he walked through the door, all that waited for him on the other side was the same room. He swung his head around, thinking he’d see the same room behind him. To his confusion and anger, he only saw the narrow hallway.
“Is this some sort of sick joke?”
“Excuse me?” Detective Berket said. The officer who led him in sat him down in the metal chair, shackling him to the desk.
“Alright Kilhorn, let’s get this started. I’m Detective Pearce, this is my partner Detective Berket.” Rick Kilhorn sat in absolute silence, trying to piece together what just happened. As the interrogation reset itself, Kilhorn sat through the presentation of the lack of evidence once more, as he denied any connection to the crime. Upset about the denial of the crime, the two detectives let themselves out of the room, giving Kilhorn time to think about his answer. In reality, it was for them to quickly look for any other clues or evidence that could link their suspect.
“Did you think I was one to joke?” Kilhorn recognized the voice, as the figure appeared again.
“What the hell is this?”
“A loop. A never-ending loop of this very room. Forever,” the man said as he smirked back at Kilhorn. He sat dumbfounded, chained to the table. It truly was his prison now. The man began to turn around. “See you soon.”
The detectives returned shortly, still empty-handed with new evidence. After back-and-forth questions leading to nothing, Kilhorn once again asked for his release.
“It would be a shame to let this perfect night go to waste,” he said to Detective Pearce, still sure that the loop was a fraudulent joke. As he was escorted out once again, he asked for the time, to which the answer was still the same--5:59. And as he walked out of the room, he walked back in. As he was cuffed into place against the table that he came to know well, Detectives Pearce and Berket entered the room.
“Alright Kilhorn, let’s get this started. I’m Detective Pearce, this is my partner Detective Berket.” Kilhorn twitched in indescribable rage. He was going to go insane. The madness of sitting in the room for any longer scratched away at his brain--clawing for freedom. Once more, the two gentlemen left the room. And once more the man emerged from the black abyss.
“It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Kilhorn.”
“Alright! You win. Just tell me how to get out of this,” Kilhorn shouted. The man stopped walking towards the wall.
“I always win,” he said, glancing back towards the distraught criminal. “Confess your sins and the loop will break. Continue the denial, and this room will be all you’ll ever know.”
“What are you? The devil?”
“Of course not. I’m something much worse,” the man said as his figure left the view of Kilhorn.
Before the two detectives could even present any more evidence, Kilhorn broke down.
“I did it!” he screamed, breaking down into long sobs. “I did it. Just please get me out of here!”
Glancing at each other, Pearce and Berket shared the same shocked, confused look. After a few seconds, they both shrugged their shoulders, as they were glad to accept an easy arrest. As Kilhorn was escorted out of the room, he frantically asked for the time. It was 6:01 in the evening. As a heavy sigh of relief fell over him, Kilhorn looked back, only to notice the man standing by the steel desk, glancing at his watch one final time.
3rd Place: Tate Flicker, “A Fraud Among Giants”
The phone had been ringing incessantly all morning, but Jenna couldn’t bring herself to care. Ms. Martin had been hysterical all week about the color of her new sofa. Apparently when the old woman had agreed to an off-white color scheme for her living room, she didn’t realize that the pieces would be, well, not white. This was the part of being a work-from-home interior designer that Jenna hated.
But there was one bright spot that was bound to make this dreary day more bearable: Jenna’s package had arrived.
Two weeks ago, during an auction held over the dark web, Jenna had dared herself to bid on a “mystery box.” She did it not because it was something that Jenna Branch would do, but because it was something that Tulpina Harris, international collector of curiosities, would do. Tulpina Harris was a regular at these auctions. A legitimate buyer, if you asked the shady figures at the other end of such deals.
None of them had to know that Tulpina Harris did not exist.
Jenna Branch set aside her work as Agnes Green, interior designer whose business was conducted entirely through photos, software, and phone calls, and turned her attention to the plain manila envelope sitting on her desk.
“Jenna, honey, you really shouldn’t open that,” her mother shouted from the galley kitchen. Mary Branch was the sensible one, but she was also an enabler. Though perfectly aware that Jenna liked to step into other identities as if they were different pairs of shoes, Mary had never tried to stop her daughter. And she had certainly never reported her to the police.
Jenna thought that her mother secretly admired her little escapades.
The manila envelope was easy to tear open and appeared empty at first glance, though after a few shakes it coughed up a small piece of expensive black cardstock. It was printed with silver lettering and bore a logo that Jenna had never seen before: A silver coffee bean enclosing a curly letter “O”.
Ten years ago, we introduced the world’s first synthetic coffee.
Today, our company is stronger than ever.
Join us to honor ten years of Onyx Coffee and witness the launch of our next game-changer. May 10th. 6 O’Clock. Gotham Hall.
Interesting. It had been far too long since Jenna had been to a party. “Mom, I’ll be going out tomorrow night,” she called, a grin on her face.
An updo, some red lipstick, a designer black gown “borrowed” from the specialty dry cleaners nearby, and a set of diamonds won in a sketchy online poker game were all Jenna needed to shed her current self and become Jacqueline DuBois.
Jenna Branch was a nobody.
Jacqueline DuBois, however, was a powerful real estate mogul. She was beautiful, elegant, wealthy, and ambitious. She had her own Wikipedia page, but was otherwise a ghost on social media. And like Tulpina Harris and Agnes Green, she was entirely fictitious.
Jenna grabbed a vintage clutch, a remnant of her mother’s days as an assistant to New York’s wealthiest businessmen, and slid the invitation inside. Her patent leather high heels were already digging into her feet as she left her apartment, but she knew the discomfort would be worth it. Nothing compared to the rush, the escapism, of becoming someone else for a night.
The room was dimly lit, carpeted, and chandeliered. The hum of small talk spread throughout, the partygoers reduced to a sea of gowns and tuxedos. Hors d’oeuvres and champagne drifted in and out of view, and Jenna helped herself to a glass as a waiter passed by with a tray.
She took a moment to scan the faces around her. Some guests were recognizable from features in magazines and newspapers. Others were unknown to Jenna but exuded wealth all the same. Her eyes eventually fell on the person she was looking for.
Phoebe Grant was the wife of Argus Grant, the man who had founded Onyx Coffee. Phoebe herself was entrenched in the world of fashion, famous for sitting in the front row of every runway show that mattered. Her blonde hair was always perfectly blown out and her skin was always glowing. Everyone in New York either wanted to be Phoebe Grant or meet her.
Jenna approached Phoebe, who was in the middle of a seemingly unbearable conversation, without hesitation.
“Phoebe Grant.” Jenna held out her hand, smiling. “Jacqueline DuBois. We met at the gala last month.” Fake it ‘til you make it.
“Jacqueline! It’s so good to see you.” Phoebe ignored the handshake and instead planted air-kisses on both of Jenna’s cheeks. “Thank you so much for coming.” Oh, Phoebe was a pro. She feigned recognition so convincingly that an onlooker might assume that she and “Jacqueline” were old friends.
Jenna laughed. “I wouldn’t miss it!”
Phoebe leaned in. “And thanks for rescuing me from Phil. He’s insufferable, as I’m sure you remember from that gala you mentioned.”
Phoebe was onto her, Jenna realized. But the other woman didn’t seem to care. In fact, she chatted with Jenna for far longer than she probably should have, turning away the other guests who were clearly trying to get closer to Argus.
“It’s silly of me,” Phoebe said, turning to Jenna with a second glass of champagne in hand, “But I don’t remember putting you on the guest list.”
Jenna reached into her clutch and produced the invitation. “It’s funny you say that. I didn’t expect to receive this either, but here we are!”
Phoebe gave her a long look before flipping her hair and downing the rest of her drink. “Here we are.”
Jenna noticed Argus Grant making his way across the room. Their eyes met for a moment, and Jenna watched his eyebrows crinkle as he drew a blank. He was probably wondering which friend of Phoebe’s she was.
He came up behind his wife and put a hand on her shoulder, his grin showing off shockingly white teeth. “Phoebe, you haven’t introduced me to your lovely friend.”
Phoebe raised her eyebrows at Jenna, her eyes betraying a spark of excitement. The mystery of Jacqueline DuBois was as much an adventure for her as it was for Jenna. “This is Jacqueline DuBois,” Phoebe told her husband. “We met at a fashion show last season. I believe she was there to...”
“To get a feel for the building, actually,” Jenna finished, holding her hand out for Argus to shake. “Real estate is one of my many passions.”
Argus looked her up and down, frowning before he took her hand. “Huh. Nice to meet you.” He knew Jenna was a fraud. Somehow, he knew.
“I’m excited to hear that big announcement of yours. Onyx has been doing so well.”
“It has, it has.” Argus let out a long breath, looking over his shoulder. “Speaking of which, I’m thinking we should make that big announcement now. Excuse me, ladies.”
Argus made a beeline for the front of the room, leaving Jenna and Phoebe standing alone among the increasingly restless partygoers.
“You’re wondering why I didn’t tell him,” Phoebe said, fiddling with her empty champagne flute. There was a smear of red lipstick on the rim. It looked like blood.
“Not really,” Jenna admitted. “I figured you were just having too much fun playing along.”
“Playing along,” Phoebe murmured, her eyes downcast. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She looked straight into Jenna’s eyes, her own grey gaze sharp despite the alcohol. “I don’t know
anything about you, Jacqueline DuBois, but I know that you can be whoever you want, whenever you want. You have more freedom than I will ever have.”
Jenna said nothing, becoming increasingly intrigued by this woman. This woman who seemed to have everything, who was a regular in the tabloids and had her interviews published in Vogue.
Phoebe smiled joylessly before gesturing toward Argus. “We should probably pay attention to my husband. He’s about to begin.”
Argus Grant had taken his place behind a sleek mahogany podium. Behind him was a curtain, presumably obscuring whatever big surprise he had planned. He spread his arms and the noise died down, as if by magic. “Ladies, gentlemen, coffee drinkers of all ages!”
A laugh rippled through the crowd, and Jenna had to resist rolling her eyes. These people would laugh at anything in order to suck up to Grant.
Argus smiled, basking in the glory of his wealth and influence. “Ten years ago, we introduced our synthetic coffee. No beans, no bitterness, but higher quality than any coffee on the market. Today, we change the world again.”
The curtain behind him dropped, revealing tables piled high with glass jars, the contents of which seemed to be a dark powder. A gasp echoed throughout the room, though no one yet knew what they were looking at.
Argus paused for effect before continuing. “Onyx Coffee is proud to introduce our new line of synthetic chocolate. The same high quality, without the hassle of harvesting cocoa beans. Beanless, beautiful, and more delicious than any chocolate you have ever tried before.”
Jenna could not help feeling a bit disappointed as applause broke out around her. Synthetic chocolate was all well and good, but it was predictable. She hated predictability almost as much as she hated using her real name.
She and Argus locked eyes for a moment, and his eyes narrowed. She watched him signal to his security team, point her out, whisper something into the ear of a burly man who was more than capable of removing her by force.
Time to go. Phoebe started to say something, but Jenna was already weaving through the crowd. She passed a waiter wheeling a golden cart filled with mini jars of synthetic chocolate toward the front of the room. Jenna bumped into the cart and apologized profusely to the man pushing it while her hand darted out and grabbed one of the jars. She deserved a party favor, she thought.
Feeling the security team at her back, she quickened her pace until she stepped out into moonlight. The night breeze smelled like success as Jenna walked along the sidewalk, glancing over her shoulder to confirm that she wasn’t being followed.
She stopped only when she had made it around the corner, breathing in fresh air and clutching the jar of synthetic chocolate to her chest. She wondered how much a jar of Onyx chocolate, not yet released to the public, would go for on the dark web. But there was no need to look for the money in everything. The chocolate would make a nice treat for her mother, as well.
Jenna Branch, carrying an evening clutch containing a business card for Agnes Green, a driver’s license for Sophie Page, an invitation acquired as Tulpina Harris, a phone registered to Emily Goldstein, and a lipstick worn by Jacqueline DuBois, could not keep the grin off her face as she hailed a taxi.
