"Rain Over Rivne" by James Dick— Our December 2020 Gold Medal Winner
James Dick is our first place winner from the contest posted in our December, 2020 issue and his story will be published in the March 2021edition. Congratulations, James!
What the judges had to say:
“This was a great read. The story kept my attention beginning to end, partly because of the initial hook and suspense, but mostly through the voice of a narrator who is strong, persistent, a real fighter...”
“Themes in this story were profound, and the author rose to the challenge in claiming a wholly unique stance in the telling of the tale. Congratulations. ”
“I want a whole novel based around the story! I simply adore the mother as the narrator. She is strong and competent and so so loving. The setting and motivation are clear and compelling.”
Meet James
James is an actor, writer, screenwriter and director living in Toronto, Ontario. He has written short stories, flash fiction, and novels across the science fiction, fantasy, horror, and speculative fiction genres. His work has previously been featured in the December 2020 issue of Blank Spaces magazine. His short horror-comedy film, "Clucked", was shortlisted as a finalist in the 2020 Toronto 48 Hour Film Project. James is also a full time student in Ryerson University's Media Production Program.
Rain Over Rivne
an excerpt of James’s winning story
image provided by Ronald Zajac
“The safety of the public and our employees is our number one priority.”
I’m glad that sign’s still standing; I needed a good laugh. Call me a bitch if you like but I’m probably not the only one who found it funny. You could also call me a thief; hazmat suits, crowbars, and body bags aren’t my usual wardrobe and accessories. Or, if you want to keep things simple, call me a mother.
The trail through the park ends at the bottom of a street. My street. It looks exactly the same as it did three days ago: grey sky, a little snow, houses lined up straight and neat. All the cars are gone. The only residents are snowmen.
Rust-coloured hydrangeas lie at my feet. I notice them because they’re mine: I planted them this past summer. Russian Hardy. The wind must’ve blown them down from our porch. I take a moment to study them. Flower petal veins always look so beautiful, so orderly, even in death.
Not these ones. These veins are knotted and twisted, as if Mother Nature threw a tantrum and rewired them into chaos. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. There’ve been many times the last seventy-two hours I wanted to do something similar. The accident could’ve been avoided. It takes time for anger to harden into resolve, but when it does, it’s adamantine.
…
to read the rest of the story, order your copy of the March 2021 issue.
