Fiction Fantastic 2026 Winning Story: “Sinking” by Cora Fortenbach

“Sinking,” by Cora Fortenbach, Cal Young Middle School

Second Plaxe, Middle School Level, 2026

Sinking

by Cora Fortenbach

Cal Young Middle School

“I know lockers shouldn’t be this important, but somehow to me it is. It holds my things without yelling or calling me dramatic. It’s something small but something I can still rely on. It’s the only thing that stays where I left it, opens when I ask it to. Even though the inside smells like gym socks and old papers,” was the last thing I wrote when my father ripped the book out of my hands.

“What is this?!” he snapped. I could just smell the aroma of alcohol pierce my nose, like breathing in cold air too fast but with a pungent scent. “Dramatic?! Well maybe if you stop writing stupid poems.”

“Dad!” All I can recall after that was the feeling of tears running down my face, warm against the bruises.

I don’t remember when I stopped believing that houses could be warm. Maybe it was when I was eight, standing outside, waiting at the door with my ear pressed up against the rough wood with peeling paint, listening.

“I never wanted him in the first place!”

My mom’s voice broke midway through. My heart dropped. Little did I know it would never stop dropping, it would just keep on falling. Then came the sound of breaking plates—nothing new.

Since then I have realized my place in this world. I move like I’m apologizing to the air just for existing, like a mouse waiting for the cat to inevitably wake up. I know things that most kids will never understand—how skin goes silent right before it bruises, or how rage sounds though drywall. Adults like to say kids are resilient when they don’t want to face the truth. They say kids bounce back, but they never say how many pieces you bounce back in. Resilient isn’t the same as unbroken.

I’m only twelve, but my bones feel older. My heart feels cold. I realized just how cold the day I sat at lunch eating another soggy sandwich, without a thought in my head. Then I saw a tray crash nearby, sending milk splashing across the table. As I turned to see what caused this I saw her—Mia. The only reason I knew her was because we sat in the same math class. I always thought she was another snaky girl who never repeated an outfit while I wore the same gray hoodie with an old pizza stain on it. Now she was on the ground with milk all over herself, tears reddening her face. I felt nothing, jaw steady, still chewing, my eyes locked on my shoes. One thing I’ve learned is that emotions get you hurt, and emotions other than anger get you hurt worse. Sometimes I wish I could just turn on a switch in my head to be normal, to understand how to feel. I think about how her face looked and how I sat hunched over, eating a sandwich I didn’t even like.

It was seventh period. I was sitting at my desk, staring at the clock, my leg bouncing more than usual, counting down the seconds till I had to go home. It was science, which just dragged on about ecosystems. Pretty boring if you ask me. I flinched as the bell blared, which I always do. Loud noises always make me flinch. That was the main reason I got hit.

“Eli, I need to talk to you,” Ms. Aaron said quietly. My heart deepened even more. There’s a reason I didn’t say my name at the start of this story. I hate my name. All I know about it is that it’s the worst thing that happened. It reminds me of everything that makes me want to hide in a corner; a reminder that I’m still here, still alive.

“Is everything okay at home?” A simple question that somehow always sounded fake, but this time it felt real instead of like someone reading off a script.

“Um, I, I…I don—” My legs moved faster than my brain. I ran. Was it the opposite direction from my locker? Yes, yes it was. But at that moment I didn’t care. All that mattered was getting out of the classroom, out of that school.

That night I was sitting in the shower, thinking about what Ms. Aaron said. “Is everything okay at home?” The words circled around my head, kinda like the water and how it circled the drain.

Instead of saying yes, like a normal person, I ran. I just wanted to yell at the top of my lungs to Ms. Aaron in that stupid classroom. “No! Nothing is ok! I just want to be done!”

That word, done. What did it mean? Done with life? I’m twelve. What did that mean for a twelve-year-old? I felt a tear run down my face. Shame burned behind my eyes—shame for crying, shame for feeling anything at all.

“Get out! You’re wasting water!” my dad yelled, with a gurgle in his throat. I stepped out of the shower, drops of water running down my legs. At this point I was sobbing, the type that you can feel deep in your chest, painful almost, but silent. My face was puffy and red.

As I lay in bed, slowly closing my eyes, a soft tear left my face. But I couldn’t sleep, so I started to write. “I cried, hard, different. I felt weak, but it was hope. I felt. Instead of doing nothing, instead of looking away with no feeling in my eyes, I cried.” I ripped the page out of my journal, if anything it was stupid.

The next morning during third period, Mr. K told us to write a short paragraph about a thought we had never told anyone. Mr. K was odd. No one really liked him. I didn’t either. But writing is a way to live a life never thought before. The words started flowing before Mr. K was done talking. As soon as my pencil touched paper, I was flying.

Sometimes all I want to do is sink. Not into my bed, but just sink. It’s not being done, but being free from wanting to be done. When you sink, you sink into a place of peace. I don’t get to sink to that place. Not until I can find out who I am. Not until I’m allowed to feel. To cry, to smile. To live a life. Until I can be me, I cannot sink.

“Time to turn it in, bell’s in two minutes,” Mr. K said in his normal “robotic” voice. I stared at my paper. I hadn’t thought about what I was writing. I had just let the words flow. I started to breathe heavily. Just like with Ms. Aaron. But I had to turn it in. My face was hot when I was turning it in. I tried to smile, but my face wouldn’t cooperate.

In seventh period Ms. Aaron luckily didn’t say anything about yesterday.

The next day Mr. K gave back the papers. I got an A- on mine. I never understood why there were minuses along with pluses. It never looked right to me, don’t know why. He didn’t even look at me when he gave me the paper, which in some ways I was glad about but in others a little mad. I didn’t even get a “Good job, Eli.”

Fourth period brought new seats. All I thought was, great. Now I have to hear another disappointed groan from the person who’s going to sit next to me.

Ms. Taylor started again, interrupting me mid-thought. “Starting with the front row, Eli, and right next to him will be Mia.”

Mia didn’t groan or even acted annoyed. Sometimes when I’m sitting in the courtyard she will sit right across from me and try to peek at what I’m writing. I just hope she doesn’t remember that lunch and how I ignored her when she cried, not even acknowledging what was happening. She didn’t get mad. But she never seems like she gets mad. All she seems to do is click her pen a lot. It should be more annoying, but somehow it’s not.

It was now Thursday, and I almost broke in front of Mia. She slowly slid into her seat.

“You okay?” She said it in the tone that makes your stomach twist because you don’t know what to do with it.

I shrugged. “Yeah, fine.” My voice cracked at the end.

She watched me for a second, like she could see me quietly breaking inside, even though I was trying to cover it.

“You don’t have to pretend all the time, you know.”

I felt something tighten in my throat. I didn’t want her to talk to me like that. Not with softness. Soft things just break easier.

“I’m not pretending,” I snapped through my clenched teeth. “Can you just…not?”

Her smile faded, but she didn’t leave. “I’m just saying I get it. My house is loud, too.”

This time I looked at her, really looked at her. I looked at her eyes, tired like she went through things most adults would never get. It scared me. Not because she was lying, but because she wasn’t. I grabbed my notebook and stuffed it into my binder.

“You don’t know, just don’t talk to me,” I muttered, trying to not let her see the tears forming in my eyes.

Mia put her hands in her pockets. For a second she looked hurt. Then she nodded. “Okay. Sorry.”

I tried to tell myself that things were better off this way. Friends just make you open up to take it away from you. But something about her about her—her eyes—told me everything.

I wrote again that night. “Eyes say more than any voice ever could. How they redden at the sight of something sad. Or how they look when they are hiding a secret.” I ripped the page out again, but this time I didn’t throw it away. I slid it in my pillowcase and went to sleep. That night I didn’t let it leave my side. Something about it gave me comfort, I don’t know what. But it just did.

I was replaying a moment in my head on my walk to school. The moment had to have been a month or so before I ever talked to Mia. She laughed at something someone said. But it didn’t fully reach her eyes. I wonder how had I never noticed that about her. This time my chest hurt in a way that didn’t feel like anger.

The day after I had snapped at Mia, school felt louder. Not literally, just—louder in my head. Every voice sounded sharper, every hallway brighter than the previous. Mia didn’t talk to me in math, she didn’t even look at me. I pretended not to notice or care. She stopped clicking her pen like morse code. Just quiet. Now the silence felt heavier than any noise.

At lunch I walked toward my table, saw the soggy sandwich waiting for me, and something inside me said no. I couldn’t go there again, pretending I was made of stone. I didn’t want to walk past Mia either. So I turned around before anyone could notice I was even there and headed down the hall. That’s how I ended up at the library doors. The library felt like the only place in school that didn’t want something from me. No yelling, no bells blaring, no teacher staring too long. Just the soft hum from the librarian while she organized the shelves.

I picked up a random book, I didn’t even look at the title, just started reading. But before I could even start I heard the clicking of a pen. I was about to turn around and tell the person to please stop when someone sat next to me. I didn’t want to fully look, but before I could even think, I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Eli, I know you don’t want to talk, but—”

I cut her off before she could finish. “Mia, you need to know when to stop. You need to know when it’s time to quit and let someone just exist without your help.” The words were messy, and so were my feelings. I put my stuff away and tried to leave before she could say anything.

“I want to know how to quit!”

My head moved in confusion. “What?”

“The main reason I got in trouble was because I didn’t know when to stop.”

I sat back down, trying to understand the words I had just heard.

“I know I’m pushy. But you seem like you know. You know what it’s like to hate your own name. You know what it’s like to want to sink,” she said sorely.

“How do you know that?” My tone was shaky.

“Remember when I fell next to you and you did nothing?” she said, not mad, but curious.

“Yes, and I’m sorry. I didn’t, well, I don’t know, but I can say that I’m sorry.” I couldn’t quite articulate the right words.

“I saw your eyes, and it reminded me of myself. How I was and still am scared to show my feelings out loud.”

I might not remember what I said next. But I do remember the happy tears falling down my face this time. I still feel shame when I cry, but less than before.

Mia and I are friends now. We talk about deep things. The type of things that make your chest sting. But when I’m talking to her, I feel safe, like I matter.

At the end of the year, Mr. K told us to write about our thoughts and if they had changed at all. I wrote softly this time, making sure every word, every letter, was taken care of.

I am now sinking. I have not made it to peace just yet. But I’m done wanting to be done. I have found myself. And all I needed was someone to see who I can be. I might not fully be free, but I am me.

I got an A+.