Editor’s Note: Welcome to Issue 2, Resurrection, our very first award edition, showcasing the works selected for The Green Sheaf Flash Fiction Prize and The Green Sheaf Poetry Prize, 2024. Congratulations to Sam Nimmo and Nic Casanova, who won first place in their respective categories. Sam’s story, Mantis, and Nic’s poem, Glimpse, wowed me with the visceral quality of their writing. Their works were poetic, yet immediate. From beginning to end, each work grounded me deeply in the body and took me on a journey that led to a powerful end with dramatic implications. These works can stand together confidently, and if Pamela Colman Smith, a vocal suffragist, were alive today, I imagine she’d enjoy these fierce writings.
Regrettably, no finalists were chosen, mostly due to having to disqualify entrants whose submissions did not follow guidelines. We read some exciting works, and were disappointed to have to reject them for the aforementioned reason.
We are grateful for every submission, and look forward to receiving more in the future. In the meantime, if the following pieces excite you, please share widely. We thank you for reading The Green Sheaf.
Winner of
The Green Sheaf Flash Fiction Prize, 2024:
Mantis
by Sam Nimmo
It was not pretty.
Then again, becoming rarely is.
The girl stumbled, swayed, stretched aching arms out towards the tree line. The air was fresh and clean out here, but she couldn’t remember how to fill her lungs. Salty copper slid over her tongue, slipped down her throat, scorched her nose. She could not tell if she was ripening or rotting, only that she was softening like the ground beneath her, gravel giving way to moss.
Sun spilled through a swaying ceiling of green. Soil dampened soles. She had been wearing shoes, she was sure of it, but they were not there now. Fabric sloughed. Skin split. The sun sought out sweat-soaked flesh.
When her knees buckled, it did not feel like falling. It felt like a welcome, an embrace of earth, ferns and foxgloves folding over her, whispering finally.
She remembered running, but not what from. Or what to. She remembered hands and mouths and tender softness dented and discoloured under the press of them both. There was none of that here, none of that now.
She might have screamed, or she might have sung, the two sounded the same. A howl, a war cry, a sob of relief.
It was both a rupturing and a rebirth.
Tendons tore, muscle melted, bone twisted and grew. Her torso stretched, ribs wrapping around the bleeding heart and bruised stomach, hardening like a shield. Her skull shattered, a mirror fracturing under a fist, eyes closed as her jaw unhinged, creaking like her old bedroom door. Vertebrae flexed and turned, a new hinge between the head and slender thorax.
It hurt and it healed, over and over until, suddenly, it stopped.
The crown of spines atop her heart-shaped head, sharp and proud like thorns, came last. A trophy to the transformation, proof of persistence.
There were twigs and whiter, starker slivers surrounding her where she crouched in wet dirt. No, not twigs. For when she moved, they moved, swaying and stretching as she stood. Six of them; four beneath her bearing her slight weight and two thicker, sturdier limbs mimicking arms; reaching skyward with ridged spines. A prayer, an appraisal.
This was not her body. No, that wasn’t right. This was more her body than her flesh had ever been. This was unsteady, untrained but untouched.
She pried open her jaws, mandibles that extended sideways, wide and wanting. The moult had left her starving.
The forest cradled her as the movement of lesser insects made her antennae twitch. Mere morsels that would be so easy to catch with quick claws. At her size, such creatures wouldn’t begin to fill the cavernous hollow beneath her rich green shell. She would not prey on such defenceless snacks.
She was a hunter now, after all.
Regal and ravenous in the wake of resurrection, the mantis went in search of her mate.
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Sam Nimmo (she/they) is a Scottish mum, writer and editor. With a Masters in Creative Writing and experience working both with indie authors and traditional publishers, Sam works as a freelance developmental editor, writing coach and ghostwriter. They love coffee, sarcasm, and being labelled "loud and argumentative" for refusing to stop using her words to fight for what she believes in. Sam can be contacted at samnimmoediting@gmail.com
Winner of
The Green Sheaf Poetry Prize, 2024:
Glimpse
by Nic Casanova
Do you remember power,
dripping from your feral feet?
To be renewed with seismic nectar
tug the cord, drop eyelids
and imagine you inhabit a man
You penetrate with unspoken gaze
Unearned permission
Air of untouchable
Your voice lauded
Every gesture applauded
Your assertion attended with YES
Untousled spirit in a well-worn stead
In my dreams, I am him
I resurrect languid and loose
Rising on a glimpse
of worthiness, at rest
in my revered shape
My blessed breath
beckons possibility,
without sorrowful sighs
for the woman I carry.
She, constantly under fire
for uttering her whims.
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Nic Casanova (she/they) is a Latine, neurodiverse somatic and narrative therapist and a multi-passionate artist, working in mediums of poetry, installation, dance and embodiment. Nic guides women and gender-diverse leaders in male-dominated spaces to reclaim power and meaning in their life story. She currently lives in Melbourne, Australia with her partner and child. Nic can be reached at nicole.jacqueline.casanova@gmail.com