by Rio Oba
2nd Place Winner – Flash 405, February 2026: “Oops”
Fiction
My boots squelch into mud through dark beads of sand. I wear thick rubber gloves, and in my belt a handful of knives. The view out to sea is a wall of oyster-gray fog.
I scan the ground for rocks that look like rocks, but don’t: with a thick foot binding it to another rock and upon inspection, a strong hinged mouth. I hunt for oysters. Today is lucky—it takes only minutes to find, pry, and slurp the first one.
I wander, stepping cautiously, and find four more oysters. Shuck, slurp, toss. My stomach is sated with salted flesh. As I turn to leave, my foot catches. Instantly I ache at the knee, butt, elbow.
I grumble, cradling my bruised joints. The wet sand muck seeps cold into my pants so I get up, grumbling more. I look down to see an impossibly large oyster had edged under my foot and tilted me onto the rough beach and it still lay there, crusted in barnacles.
Spitefully, I pry it open. Inside is a frilled, fist-sized behemoth that I refuse to eat. It’s in a shell so brilliantly opalescent lavender that it radiates through the fog. It glitters behind the meat of the oyster and I shiver, certain I cannot leave this behind. Ecologically, legally, I have to leave this shell on the beach. But surely this one malevolent oyster would not be missed?
I take it. I lob its abnormally large flesh into the tide and hobble back to my car, I drive home in a daze of periwinkle. I glance over at it every few minutes, its unreal shine and color like a gemstone. I show it to my partner and they frown, saying, “Aren’t you supposed to leave the shells there?” and flick their eyes between my clutched hands and shining eyes. I say “But look at it!” and they smile. I place it in the middle shelf in the bathroom so the light hits it just right, and the walls shimmer in purple.
The lavender light of the world lives behind my eyes as I go to work, eat dinner, breathe. A week later I’m still bruised from my fall, skin blossoming violet. Two weeks later. The month passes with my bruise spreading impossibly further; my skin is so tender I can hardly move. But what do I have to move for? I can see the oyster shell from bed.
Judge’s Comments: The sensory descriptions lend so much depth and texture to this story, and this piece builds such a delicious tension from the first line. I found myself wondering what would happen, and the payoff at the end was both devastating and satisfying.
Rio Oba is the pen name for Ripley Olesko. They were told as a kid that they had “pianist fingers” and decided that meant a keyboard instead. They have a BA in creative writing and have been published in Zaum. They love science fiction, fantasy, magical realism—really anything that brings whimsy back. They can be found on Instagram as @paper_incensed where they seldom post and frequently lurk.
Photo by Ben Stern and Tasha Kostyuk