Stained Asphalt, Winner of the 2017 prize for fiction – by Anthony Madukwe

If you gripped my shoulders today, shook me hard and yelled at me to say just one thing to my younger self, I would laugh at you and tell you that I had nothing to say. But if you insisted, like really insisted, I would take two deep breaths and tell you to tell a young Peter that he should laugh more. That the time he spends looking down at the earth and hating life was precious time wasted which he would never get back. That laughter was something to be stolen with brave rebellion, not gifted, and that he should be one proud thief. 
I’ll tell him to eat more beans, especially the kind made with potatoes and lots of onions and to release a dozen farts that will spoil a room’s mood. I’ll tell him to make sure he didn’t chuckle when everyone was looking for the guilty party and to make sure no one ever caught him for farting. I’ll also remind him to improve his general skills at avoiding capture, at maintaining an unwavering gaze when he was accused of doing something  ‘wrong’, because Peter you will need this skill. Do you hear me. You will need it like a body needs air because people will suspect you and your body of many things that you thought they shouldn’t care about. 
These people will not be kind to you because they were never taught that kindness is a property people like you deserved to have in their bags. You will discover that the definition of love, in churches and in mosques, had a dozen caveats, clauses that allowed the joy of the Lord to be paused when you and your kind enter the conversation. I am warning you, Peter. You must learn to keep a straight face when they ask you why your waist swings a little when you walk. You must not blink when they accuse you of loving boys. 
Tell Peter also – the younger Peter that is – that he should understand early the importance of music. He should know that there are escapes available for him when the noise the world makes about his choices become too loud. If he wanted me to suggest, I would recommend artists like Sia and Birdy. I would advise him to swim with Lana Del Rey’s melancholy and to not be scared to have songs on his music playlist that mirror his disagreement with the world. But, he must be careful not to let the music create sadness for him. He must understand that it is important to remain happy because there are many people who will like his sad face, people who are sure he should not be burnt with the bright rays of ecstasy especially if it is not their kind of sun that does the shining. For this singular reason, he must find happiness – as a message of defiance. 
Have I mentioned that these people will not be strangers. That they will be family and friends, human beings that he grew up with. Who loved him for everything, loved him utterly and mindlessly until they discovered the kind of lips he preferred to snuggle up to in the dark. 
Tell him also not to expect protection from a government, or a police that swore sometime in the past to protect everyone. Tell him that his survival depends on his ability to hone his perceptive skills. To grow an ability to sniff friend and foe from miles away and to do it long before they got too close, because Peter, you will die if you let them near. You will die. 
But, I know Peter. The young Peter, that is. He is stubborn and foolish and will not listen to me. He will expect people to understand, to give him some kind of privacy to show love exactly how he has always known. He will trust friends who have a problem with accepting him. He will watch too many Hollywood movies and begin to think that there is a place for heroes in a country of withering cowards. And this will be his mistake. He will find out a little too late that hate is a stronger emotion than love and he will grow up to one day lie on hard asphalt, the smell of burnt rubber in his lungs and two firm hands shaking his shoulder and yelling at him to send a message to his younger self. 

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STORY NUMBER 4, Winner of the 2018 Prize for Fiction - By Elizabeth Johnson

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                     In the corner to the left of the entrance of the cheap fast food joint, two friends, both female, sat facing each other sharing a bottle of coke. They were seated in what could be described as the dirtiest looking […]
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