Longlist – 2026 Gooseberry Pie Annual Writing Competition
by Patrick Quinif
There is no civilization hidden on the dark side of the moon, far from the prying eyes that pulled themselves endlessly up from the seas over centuries, restless and hungry for anything, everything, above and below, and now we have proof, seen with our own eyes, the truth. Is it so much to ask for a crumb of magic, hidden high in celestial bodies we still strain so hard to see amongst the migrainous gnashing of the humdrum buzz of the bubblegum pop, fizzling fissures amidst the ruinous membranes we’ve programmed into plastic over all of these monotonous epochs? So what’s one to do when they see something, say something, anything, everything, all of it, all at once, all in one place, a dream space of ones and zeros hammering out our thoughts in rapid fire succession, perfectly packaged obsessions, its too much to bear it alone, so we grow when the light of the life within any given one of us, any given Sunday, or Sabbath, or all that is Holy just see and acknowledge that all of it is valid and do what we must to keep afloat in the high tides, rising, and perhaps craft a raft for the rest. We rocket forth, thinking, prepping, building, launching, upward, outward, free from the shackles of gravity, navigating the endless abyss amidst the crumbling wreckage of a world that once wanted nothing more than to love one another and can once again if we see just how small we all are in the grandest of schemes. From caves where we dwelt in our solitude, latitudes, longitudes, separate spaces carved in the hillsides, treacherous cliff dives of poisonous thought forms worming their way through our consciousnesses, vicious, unconscionable stats of stalactites dripping, twisting down a stalagmite grimace to all who aren’t cut from the cloth of the similar hole in the fabric of space time from which we climbed. Yet, here we are, amongst twinkling stars, gazing back on all that has been, all our friends, all our kin, we all hoped, at the end, for something, someone, anyone outside of the long, cold nights that hammered and sculpted a species so bold as to use all the tools at their disposal, to rip themselves up off the world and turn around to see, our saviors, us, you and me.
Patrick Quinif writes as the sun rises over the hills of Tennessee, every morning, dreaming every evening, and loving all that walks between the two.
Photo by Daniel Klein on Unsplash
