2nd Place Winner – Flash 405, August 2026: “Quake”
Nonfiction
A noise like pebbles rolling around on ice turns into the clip of hooves over concrete. On the way to the train station, I brace my body against the buffalo stampede, jiggling in the backseat, bouncing up and down, hands glued to the railings of this auto-rickshaw. The herd of water buffalo nearly veers into us, their sweat-soaked flanks dark and smooth as velvet. Dread moves through me, pricking my skin with the sensation of burrs.
Animals weren’t meant for these roads.
“Some farmer is herding them this way,” says the driver.
“But there’s no sign of a farmer,” I say, stunned. I usually go into the world prepared—seatbelt, helmet, mint gum. But not today. Today I am raw, unprotected, my destiny left to the fates.
Everything inside of me is disordered. My guts, usually so steely, have come loose. My viscera might be permanently rearranged. The body likes a jolt now and again, a way out of its conditioning. Not today. The buffalo are cantering ever faster alongside us, the clatter of their hooves reminds me of children gleefully tottering around in their mother’s high heels. One animal crosses our path. He freezes, eyes pooling with terror. The buffalo’s fear mirrors my own. Hitting him is like smashing into concrete. As he swerves, we’re scooped up into the air. I shriek, squeezing my eyes shut. Everything slows down, time pours through a sieve. I am made of soft flesh, soon to be torn apart. The auto flips. I tuck my chin down as if this could save my brains from spilling out. We have rolled over, safe and bloodless teetering on top of the metal canopy. A flurry of bystanders stream toward us. I once read something about how the brain manages time during traumatic events, slow then fast. Several men tip the auto back onto its three wheels. The driver jumps out unscathed, gesturing excitedly: “Lady, are you alright?” he says. I emerge from this tin can on three wheels—crumpled, dirt-streaked, like the walking dead. I’m shaking uncontrollably. And yet my skin prickles with newness. Is this rebirth? The scent of buffalo abounds. Our dazed victim wanders around like an old drunk. Trotting over to him, his mate nuzzles his rump, nosing him in the direction of the dry, brown hills.
People are kind, offering me cold soda.
The glass bottle is cool and heavy in my hand.
Judge’s Comments: Strong attention to sensory detail, and a particularly striking last image, make this piece come alive. The author understands how to manipulate time in the narration to demonstrate the speaker’s experience of the traumatic event, and the resulting rebirth feels earned.
Juliana Rappaport’s fiction has appeared in the journals JMWW (hybrid) and The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts. She was a finalist for the de Groot Foundation’s First Pages Prize. She was also a finalist for the Tobias Wolff Award for Fiction hosted by Bellingham Review and shortlisted for Fractured Lit’s flash fiction award. Her novel-in-progress is progressing! Juliana is based in Berkeley, California, where she lives with her family.
Photo by Getty Images