“An Inch Below the Surface” by Nicole Schroeder — Our December 2025 Silver Medal Winner
Nicole is our second place winner from the contest posted in our December 2025 issue!
What the judges had to say:
“Captures the passion for freedom of youth and the nostalgia for what has been lost. Well done.”
“The author understood that grief for someone who changed you fundamentally isn’t something you get over, and they wrote that truth without flinching or apologizing.”
Meet Nicole
Fuelled by coffee, chocolate milk, and the grace of God, Nicole wakes each morning ready to chase twin 11-year-old boys, laugh wildly with her husband, and search for her car keys. Catch up with her on Instagram @little.raki
An Inch Below the Surface
the unedited story by Nicole Schroeder
I don’t have stories. I have experiences. And my greatest experience was you. Even 20 years later, the 18-year-old you still calls to the wildness of my heart the clearest.
We owned those high school hallways. You with your backwards cap and thick silver chain. Me with my books and ponytail. Your smell of last night’s cigar smoke and leftover whisky mingled with my wannabe expensive perfume, and together, we radiated chaos. Mr. Chow tsked when we passed his classroom, and Ms. George never said a word when I let you copy yesterday’s homework. Life wasn’t a game; it was an experience and you sure as hell weren’t going to be sidelined by anyone. And for some strange reason, you brought me along for the ride.
I don’t remember you choosing me, I just remember what it felt like to be chosen. You made me your prey and your predator all at once. You always knew where I was, and I could always find you. Your power and your threat consumed me. Once your red-streaked green eyes found mine, there was no way out. My wildness relished in you and it would have no other—not then, not now.
Sara told me that I had become a different person because of you. But that wasn’t true.
No.
I had become unleashed because of you. You unleashed me.
You saw behind the books and ponytail. You found familiar scars lurking beneath my shiny exterior, and you weren’t afraid. The growing pressure in my chest, all the silent screams once buried, were awakened and called to the surface. Once something becomes alive, you have to kill it to make it dead. And there was no way you’d ever let my wildness die.
The problem was, you wouldn’t let me keep yours alive.
It’s hard to explain when someone goes from a life-force to a ghost, and just because it happens gradually doesn’t mean it happens painlessly. Sara never understood that the cigars and whisky weren’t your wildness. They were your attempt of containing it. Your wildness was bold and cunning and adventurous and gentle and wise. When containing it became too big a task, cocaine and recklessness became your extinguishers. And eventually, not even my wildness could reignite yours.
I will never forget the night when we parked at the clay-cliffs. Sitting on the hood of your car, I thought your soul was on display and I was the chosen one who got to see. I remember your cloudy eyes slowly seeking out mine—as if waiting for me to challenge what you were revealing. I kept my gaze steady so you would know I was unafraid. I thought this moment would set us both free. Now I understand that this was only an inch below your surface, and that the depth of your pain was too vast to show all at once. So, it consumed you slowly instead, and nothing I did could stop it.
When I got the call, I didn’t know what to do. Most people said it was only a matter of time. Mr. Chow encouraged me to refocus on my studies, and Ms. George let me sit at the back of the class. Sara wouldn’t look me in the eye as she held my hand. The hallways were missing your prowess, and I was alone in my grief.
I left town once school ended. I moved to a new city, and explored new territory. It didn’t matter that I was alone. You were my unleashing. All that was contained before you would never go back again, and since you I’ve tried to live my life in way that helps to awaken others. I want no one to stay bottled and small when they were called to be big and brave.
Even twenty years later, your wildness has a fierce grip on my heart. Whenever I catch a hint of Captain Black or Japanese cherry blossom, my wildness howls and I am reminded of a tall, lanky 18-year-old dominating a high school hallway simply by being there.
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