"All Over, Anyway" by Gabriel Munro— Our September 2021 Gold Medal Winner

Gabriel Munro is our first place winner from the contest posted in our September, 2021 issue and his story will be published in the December 2021edition. Congratulations, Gabriel!

What the judges had to say:

“Readers are transported to another time and place with this telling of the image provided. The author brings visceral sensations to a tale that pushes readers to consider their own mortality. Very well done. ”

“I am stunned by how much was packed into this short story, an entire world inhabited in a brief moment.”

“Vivid and beautifully written, full of sorrow, frustration, yearning, and love. ”

Meet Gabriel

Gabriel is a writer and composer living in Regina. His writing has appeared in Literally Stories, Haunted MTL, and Sisyphus Quarterly. He’s the Creative Writer and Producer for a country radio station, and also the Director of Communications for Amarok Society, where he works to ensure the accessibility of education overseas.

All Over, Anyway

an excerpt of Gabriel’s winning story

Its halogen eyes glowing above exhaust-fuming nostrils, the stag lowers its steel antlers to where Brett crouches on the highway.

“So senseless,” its voice is mismatched to its words, tinny like a radio. “So tragic.”

“Please,” Brett whimpers, as the twisted antlers pin him in place.

“But it will happen again. It will happen again and again, forever.”

Jessica scrambles up the highway’s steep ditch, her boots and hands slipping back with every step.

“Leave him alone!” she screams, though neither the stag nor Brett take notice.

“It will happen to you.”

And then it’s the noise she expects: the roar of the speeding SUV, its radio blaring country nonsense. She hears the tires screech, hears Brett scream, but her legs give out and she tumbles back, her body sacrificing itself to spare her eyes.

“Brett!”

* * *

Jessica wakes beneath the highway sign, issuing its unheeded warning: “Fog – next 6 miles – reduce speed”.

Brett crouches beside her, shaggy hair spilling from his ratty hoodie.

“Ready to go?”

She curls away.

“It killed you,” she says carefully, as if her words could tiptoe by without waking her sobs. “It held you down.”

“I don’t remember,” he says, like it’s comforting.

“You never remember! And I always do!”

He pulls off his jacket and drapes it over her, like there’s any warmth left in the world.

“We’ll try again,” he murmurs, “there’s got to be a way to kill it.” It’s tired logic: kill the deer before the car hits it, prevent the crash. “Then we can stop.”

…

to read the rest of the story, order your copy of the December 2021 issue.