We Are More: Keti Shea’s Riotous Ode to Girlhood Wins Our Flash Fiction Prize

This was our third and most popular flash fiction prompt yet! The theme, chosen by the wonderful

Louise Morris

was Air, and we were amazed by the variety of interpretations that came in. Writers explored everything from breath and birds to flight, freedom, memory, and even the invisible weight of things we cannot see.

We loved reading through the submissions. It’s always a privilege to see how different voices respond to a single prompt, and this round was especially rich and full of surprise. Thank you so much to everyone who sent and trusted us their work.

Choosing just one winner was no easy task, but one piece stood out for its energy, voice and unforgettable final line.

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Girls

There’s a feeling in Keti Shea’s flash fiction Girls like the rush of wind in your face as you rocket downhill on a bike—hollering with joy, terror, and power. It’s the kind of story that doesn’t gently lead you in, but grabs you by the wrist and flings you into the riot of wild, dirty, glorious girlhood. Skinned knees like “extra mouths.” Feet hardened by barefoot summers. Stink bugs crushed between fingers. This is not the sweet, rose-tinted childhood of nostalgia but a more truthful one: electric, chaotic, and alive.

From the very first line, Shea’s prose pulses with a visceral kind of energy. Her language is both muscular and lyrical. Each sentence thrums with texture, mud, blood, nettle rash, and defiance, and moves with the rhythm of kids on the run. You don’t just read this piece; you feel it in your bones. The story gallops, just like its protagonists, through backyards and across railroad ties, into moments of mischief, memory, and myth.

There’s no sentimentality here. Instead, what we’re offered is a sharp-eyed reverence for the uncontainable power of girlhood. These girls are rangy, ravenous, and radiant with the knowledge that they are something more. They devour the world and spit it back with toothy grins. They curse, grin, rebel, and build ramps to launch their bikes into the sun. There’s an aching clarity to the way Shea captures that liminal moment right before the tether of childhood loosens, when anything feels possible, and identity still burns wild and undefined.

Molly-Rose, one of the directors of Lemon Jelly Press, described Girls as:

“A delight to read. I loved the vivid depiction of childhood, of roaming free and making mischief… Felt like I was reading work from a natural writer. Fantastic voice and enchanting pace.”

Louise Morris, another director, added:

“This winning piece held such vivid power in every syllable that I felt as though I myself was suspended in mid-air, breath held as I raced toward impact. I landed on that final phrase 'we are more' and took another moment before the exhale—indeed we are.”

And it’s that final line that lingers long after the piece ends:

“We are girls, though for a moment, when our bodies hang suspended, limbs blocking sun, we are more.”

It’s the kind of sentence you return to for the ache it leaves behind.

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About the Author

Keti Shea is a neurodivergent lawyer and writer based in Northern Colorado. Her work has appeared in Reverie Mag, Swim Press, Oranges Journal, Cosmorama, Inside Voice, Tension Literary, Twenty Bellows, Libre Lit, Wild Roof Journal, and elsewhere. Her creative nonfiction piece “Bad Dick” was nominated for Best of the Net in 2024. When she’s not writing or lawyering, Keti and her husband are restoring a 1912 nunnery, which they share with their daughter. You can find her on Instagram and Bluesky @ketishea.

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Read the Winning Piece: Girls by Keti Shea

We stand on coltish legs, our skinned knees like extra mouths. Wispy hair unbrushed, our noses are constellations of freckles. Our mothers call us nasty, and it’s true. We barely chew our food and nip each other’s ankles. All our play is rough. We hop fences for hide-and-seek, wear no shoes until our feet are hard with mud. We get chiggers. We get ticks. We itch with poison ivy. When the neighbor ladies yell at us, we line up and elbow crenellated ribs and say, yes ma’am, no ma’am. Later we sneak into yards and pull laundry from the line in revenge. We pinch stink bugs and toss them through open windows. We rile the dogs by baring our grins. We laugh into fists when someone hollers to stop tramping her flowers. Yes ma’am. Afternoons when the sun is a hot lozenge of fire, we bike over railroad ties and build forts from scrap wood wormed through with bug hieroglyphs. We snort like old broken men, and say, Well now. We put leaves down each other’s shirt backs. We build ramps and sail our bikes high, our taut bodies blocking the sun: We catch air. Hooting like the animals our mothers call us, we grab our crotches and slam down on our seats. Rangy, always hungry. Our small teeth are sharp and white. We are girls, though for a moment, when our bodies hang suspended, limbs blocking sun, we are more.