We are always impressed by the variety of the flash fiction entries to our annual contest. This year, we were particularly struck by the emotional power and innovative style of the speculative fiction stories. Judges Kathryn Kulpa and Jae Mazer were pleased to award first prize to the moving science fiction story “Fourth Trimester” by Jennifer Stephan Kapral. Enjoy this tale and learn more about this fantastic writer. We’re sure we’ll be reading more of her work in the years to come.

Fourth Trimester

At 6:00 AM on her fifty-first day of motherhood, Anne asked her robot the same question she asked every day.

“Uba, what’s the count this morning?”

Uba’s eyes revolved with a loud clack. “We lost two. Michael lives. Does Grace need a diaper?”

“No,” Anne said, holding her breath. She let the air escape her lungs, remaining still so she wouldn’t disturb Grace, who laid asleep in her arms. It had been a week since Michael slipped into unconsciousness, the Mary Syndrome carrying him to the last stages of its attack. Michael and Anne both knew it was coming; hours before, he videoed into the isolation chamber with bloody tears in his eyes, telling a cooing Grace he loved her, telling Anne she was his everything.

The Mary Syndrome devastated the Martian colony in only a few months. It was as if the red dust of Mars seeped into the colonist’s skin and ate away at them from the inside out, turning their blood into poisonous pools that spewed from their eyes and mouth. Anne read report after report while Grace slept, the scientist in her constantly scanning for new perspectives, patterns, outlier behavior.

Anne put Grace to her breast and looked around the fourth trimester room, her sanctuary, her cage. Uba sat in a squeaking rocking chair ten feet away, knitting a pink blanket, the needles and the joints of her wrists clicking in a pattern Anne knew by heart, her stay indefinite as to keep her and Grace safe from the Syndrome.

Twice a day, Uba took blood and breast milk samples and set them off to MedCentral, who scanned them for any sign of the Syndrome. Uba’s programming allowed her to change diapers, bathe, and dress Grace. But Anne did everything herself, sleeping in short spurts, spending as much time with Grace as possible. They found joy as Grace smiled, laughed, lifted her head. But a dark cloud of grief loomed over them, growing darker with Michael’s absence, with the news of the deteriorating colony around them. As Anne poured over reports, she feared it was only a matter of time before the Syndrome took over the entire colony.

###

We can save them.

The idea came to Anne as she watched Grace sleep. It was all in the simple way Grace moved her head; Anne could now see how the Syndrome wreaked havoc on cellular protein sensors, how she could modify the tilt of an inhibitor. The compounds came to life in front of her eyes.

She had to make it to the lab to synthesize the injections. She couldn’t rely on anyone else to develop and test the antidote; her colleagues had either fallen to the Syndrome or didn’t have the skills to conduct the testing in the time that Anne could. Not in time for Michael’s life.

Deep anguish ravaged Anne’s gut. If Anne left, they would not allow her to return to Grace until MedCentral cleared her, which could be weeks, months, never. She looked at Grace, imagining her daughter growing up without a father, isolated in a room on a dying colony. She would soon roll over and crawl under clicking eyes. Grace would grab for Anne’s breast but instead find the cold steel of Uba.

Anne kissed Grace’s forehead, running her fingers along Grace’s skin, inhaling her sweet, powdery scent.

“Uba,” Anne said, choking back a swell in her throat. “Grace needs a new diaper. Can you change her?”

Uba picked up Grace and took her to the changing table. Anne left before Grace started to cry.

###

Months later, Anne watched a live feed of her daughter, walking across the floor to Uba.

“Good job,” Uba said, giving a stiff pat to Grace’s head.  Grace ran from Uba to the steel door, banging on it before erupting into tears. Anne videoed in, appearing on a giant screen as she tried to calm Grace, singing songs and speaking to her in a low, soft voice. Grace screeched at the video, retreating to a corner and soothing herself with a pacifier.

Anne’s antidote worked; MedCentral applied it out of desperation, and while it stopped the spread of the Syndrome, recovery was slow. Michael began to recover, but she wondered if he would ever stop crying red tears.  Anne kept her physical distance from Michael and Grace; she couldn’t risk it.

Anne listened from her empty apartment as Grace spoke her first word, the saddest, sweetest word Anne ever heard.

Jennifer Stephan Kapral is a writer of fiction, creative non-fiction, and poetry. Born in the shadows of steel mills in Western PA, she moved to Houston in 2005 and can often be found exploring the bayous or at an event celebrating Houston’s literary community. Her work is published in Daily Science Fiction, Fireside Fiction, The Arcanist, Flash Fiction Magazine, and elsewhere. When not writing, she loves cooking vegan food, practicing yoga, and listening to podcasts. Find her on Instagram at @jenstepkap_writes or jenstephankapral.com