"Ten Years of Bravado" by Cheryl Skory Suma—Our March 2023 Silver Medal Winner

Cheryl is our second place winner from the contest posted in our March 2023 issue!

What the judges had to say:

“... evocative of Stephen King’s Stand by Me: very engaging and atmospheric.”

“I very much enjoyed the detailed descriptions... The descriptions of the characters was well done too, making each of the four friends unique in terms of their personalities, which was also expertly carried across through their dialogue. ”

“ Although brief, the story is heartwarming and the camaraderie between these friends is distinct and believable.”

“Great build up of tension in this story. The characters are believable and the author avoided a cliché ending. Great use of description to create atmosphere!”

Meet Cheryl

Cheryl’s work has appeared in US, UK, and Canadian publications, including Barren Magazine, Reckon Review, National Flash Fiction, Exposition Review, FatalFlaw Literary Magazine, Longridge Review, SFWP, SugarSugarSalt, Sonora Review and many others. A multi-Pushcart nominee, her work placed in thirty-eight competitions since 2019, including: shortlist, Five South’s 2021 Short Fiction Prize, shortlist, Blank Spaces Magazine’s 2021 Fiction Anthology Contest, Runner-Up, 2022 Pulp Literature’s Flash Fiction Contest, Honorable Mention, Exposition Review’s 2022 Flash 405 Contest, shortlist, Solstice Magazine’s 2022 Literary Contest, and shortlist, 2022 International Amy MacRae Award for Memoir. Cheryl is Flash CNF Contributing Editor at Barren Magazine & a staff reader at Reckon Review. You can find her on twitter @cherylskorysuma

Ten Years of Bravado

read Cheryl’s unedited story

The bunker had been dug into the side of the hill decades ago, an underground hideout intended for military men, for war’s desperation and clandestineness. Camouflaged by neighbouring trees and plants, the surroundings provided a dense, rooted mesh to cloak the cave and its secrets. The doorway to the bunker was overgrown with vines and forest ferns. Several masonry stones had failed, pieces crumbling, scattered across the forest floor. Its mouth sat dark and beckoning, an enticing mix of mystery and danger.

* * *

“I dare you.”

Ransom, always living up to his unique name, gestured to the gaping entrance to the bunker. Although just ten, he already sported a belly worthy of his father, a symbolic gesture waving at laziness and a lack of future ambition. Despite his sedentary demeanour, he always managed to rise to the occasion when adventure called for provocation or bullying—these traits sat easily in his wheelhouse, and he never failed to deliver. Not a man of action but certainly one to call others to it.

“Why don’t you go in?” Jack retorted, our most steadfast and practical fellow. He shifted nervously on his bike, fingering his glasses before leaning down, pretending to find forest leaves in his spokes.

“I’ll do it.” I was as surprised as my three friends as soon as the words left my mouth.

“Really, Anthony, you’re going in?”

Michaela, the only girl in our quartet of grade-five misfits, furrowed her brow before dropping her backpack to the ground. Laying her bike beside it, she stepped closer to the gaping mouth of the bunker. “Are you sure? Who knows what’s down there. Maybe a raccoon. Maybe snakes. Maybe a dead body!”

Ransom, Jack, and Michaela all stared at me. Waiting for me to flinch. To renege.

“It’s just an old bunker. Probably full of rotting leaves at worst. Sure, I’m going in.”

I stepped toward the dark, gaping entrance. I didn’t turn around but held my breath, waiting for one of them to follow me. To stop me.

“Well, do it then! You’re the man, Anthony! Bring us back a souvenir!” Ransom’s voice betrayed his shock at my uncharacteristic bravado. I imagined him taking a step back. Distancing himself from the responsibility for inciting this turn of events.

“Anthony…”

I turned back toward them, but not until I’d pasted on a brave face for her benefit.

“It’s fine, Michaela. It’s just a stupid bunker left over from the war. Someone has to call Ransom’s bluff. I’ll be back in no time.”

With that, I stepped toward the shadowy entrance, but not before pulling my bike lamp off my handlebars. No reason not to light my way. It’s just a bunker, it’s just a hole dug in the ground, it’s just a foxhole in the side of a hill. I incanted these words over and over to myself as I made my way deeper into the bunker.

Within minutes, I felt the dampness, the heaviness in the air. My nose crinkled at the unexpected rot of it all—I tried not to think of dead things, of soldiers’ corpses. That led me to think of things that lived underground, of creeping creatures, of spiders, worms, and rats. Stop it! It’s just a bunker.

I forced myself to step further, lifting my bike light above my head to illuminate the cavern I’d entered.

That’s when I saw it. The pile of bones. The abandoned oil lamp, lopsided and rusted. The blanket laying across the base of the bones—across the legs? The feet? I took a deep gulp of the humid air and forced myself to step closer.

I couldn’t help but startle when my foot brushed a pile of remains. No, not remains—papers?

Leaning down, I shone my light on them. “Journey’s End—Act 2,” the top sheet read. I reached out, touching one of the bones. I picked it up. Just as I’d guessed, I felt its smoothness, its hollowness. Plastic. It was then that I noticed the other artifacts. A broken lighting pole, a coffee cup.

When I emerged from the bunker, Michela, Ransom, and Jack were all waiting breathlessly at the entrance. They took a step back, their posture relaxing at my uneventful escape.

“Well?” Ransom asked half-heartedly, his regret over not being the brave one already clinically apparent.

“What was it like? Was it creepy? What did you see?” Jack’s enthusiasm for this adventure, now survived, was inviting.

“I think we were the first people to ever explore it—since the war,” I said. I leaned into my story, wanting to tell them what they craved. “I don’t think anyone has gone in there for a long, long time. You can tell it was a great hiding place, a shelter, during combat. I don’t recommend going in—it smelled horrid. There was one thing, though….”

“Yes?” Michaela leaned closer, her breath hot on my cheek.

“This!” I brandished the leg bone, shaking it widely in front of me. My three friends shrieked, then mounted their bikes, tearing off into the forest. Dropping the movie prop to the ground, I mounted my bike.

Never too late to claim the bravest. My tenth year was going to be awesome.