“EchoFrame” by Chanice Boyd—Our June 2025 Gold Medal Winner
Chanice Boyd is our first place winner from the contest posted in our June 2025 issue and her story will be published in the September 2025 edition. Congratulations, Chanice!
What the judges had to say:
“...a fresh angle on what it really means to be human in a world run by AI.”
“...a scary image of where we are headed as a society and totally believable.”
“Filled with existential dread yet simultaneously infused with hope.”
Meet Chanice
Chanice Boyd is a copywriter who’s lately been wandering off the brief and into her own imagination. These days, she’s exploring fast fiction and personal essays—short and sweet, and sometimes a little sharp. When she’s not writing for work, she’s writing for herself over on Substack. Come through: @chaniceboyd
EchoFrame
an excerpt of Chanice’s winning story
The sky above her looked washed, like denim left in the sun too long. Rio’s second person lay sprawled over a boulder, limbs slack in a creased green flight suit. Her helmet brushed open, revealing her half-lidded eyes, soot-smudged cheeks, lips parted like she was trying to remember how to breathe.
The trees around her looked like pines, but too thin, too intentional. Rendered, not grown. The rocky hill she’d failed to clear slouched in the background, unimpressed.
“Mission incomplete,” came the AI’s voice, flat and bored. “Vital functions minimal. Avatar unresponsive.”
A soft chime echoed in Rio’s apartment. [SIMULATION TRAJECTORY FAILURE. RETURN FOR DEBRIEF]
She didn’t move at first. Just a sigh. Then she peeled off the headset, blinking against the sunlight cutting through the window.
She pushed herself up and drifted to the kitchenette. The hum of the water dispenser dulled the silence as she filled the glass. She took a sip, holding the rim to her lips like it might buy her a few more seconds of quiet.
“Well,” came the voice. “That was dramatic.”
She turned. Echo, her governing fragment, hovered by the console. “Well flown, Captain,” it smirked. A mirror image of Rio in greyscale. Arms crossed.
“Do you want notes, or just the usual post-failure silence?”
Rio set the glass down. “It’s not silence. It’s recovery.”
“Sure. Let’s call it that. You crashed twice this week. A record.”
“I was trying something new.”
“You were trying to save someone. Again. Noble. Dumb. It’s a simulation.”
“Do you even want to be a pilot?”
Rio dropped into her desk chair, eyes on her fingerprint glowing on the glass. The only real mark she’s made today.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It felt… close.”
“Close to what?”
She didn’t answer.
…
to read the rest of the story, order your copy of the September 2025 issue.
