First Place:

Float

By Jay McKenzie

It heals, they say. But we are past healing.

Dawn arrives as a gentle pink stripe underlining the night, and I make a raft of my body so we can float. Marlowe settles into my shoulder in that neat, jigsaw-piece way. I wonder if he sees us as we have been: the imprint of his tiny paws in the sand, those bounding years with sticks, salt-splashes and spindrift coating skin, fur. 

The sea laps and our hearts thudthud together. 

I catch his last, warm breath in the shell of my ear, where it will remain. The sea, our lovesong.

Second Place:

The Siren Call

By Holly Sissons

There’s no warning sign, the road just stops and anyone not paying attention falls into the sea below. There’s half a pothole, still outlined in yellow, that not many believe the council will get to first. The rest think it’s probably the only one they’ll do, something else that’s no use to anyone, just more debris for the sea. Debris like numbers 28 to 30, which all disappeared last year. Mrs. Davis from number 29 is already building again on the plot next to 36. She knows the sea will claim that too but says it already has her soul.

Third Place:

Another Disenfranchised Youth Takes a Nap in my Cave

By Lydia Morsman

Writhing seaweed tendrils welcome me home. Squelchy. Foamy bubbles pop between my toes. Stinks like fish piss.

Oh, Christ, graffiti on my chalk wall: ‘Rufus woz ere.’ It’s a dog’s name is Rufus. 

Woz ere? 

He’s moved in. The track-suited toerag slumps, comatose, on my bed. Can’t blame him. It’s comfy—bottles, polystyrene, driftwood… all knotted up with fishing rope. The westerly wind howls; it whips up a chill, and he stirs. Alive. Corpse-like, with blackened-nose and fingers. A yellow spray can clatter-rolls on the rock floor.

Air, eau, sol… as if lungfuls of life on the beach weren’t enough.