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The Robert Watson Literary Prize Poem SOME SUNLIGHT

Loneliness prances by like an invisible bull
where I loll at the overgrown rodeo.
You would’ve loved it.
I dribbled orange juice all over the bleachers.

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The Robert Watson Literary Prize Story WHAT CONSUMES YOU

Casey Guerin

Mornings, Saba prepares two eggs. She fries them in olive oil that heats her stale apartment with a mineral scent. When the yolks have just set, she slides the eggs from the pan to a plate and with a knife wielded like an X-Acto blade, separates the crispy-edged whites from the mounded yolks. Those she spreads on toast like butter and eats first.

KILLERS

Isabel Geary Phelps

We all play a game sometimes, when we get too fucked up.
It’s a game of predator and prey—of boy and girl.
Huge cabins hang on the mountain—empty all year.
We come on the first of December, let out early on our names. Our bags are packed for us; flight reservations are booked. When we all arrive, someone’s already been there.