Editors' Prize Winner | July 19, 2023

Everychild 

Alix Christie  

It should have been their senior year. Everychild was seventeen going on a hundred, what with everything that lay ahead. They were pale after months chained to their laptop, pale and blond and exceedingly white, though this too galled them, to be no more than an ally as the world went up in flames. Time to think about college applications, their parents began to chirp in October, Covid month seven. 

“What’s the point?” Everychild’s voice was flat. “We’ll all be climate refugees, and you’ll be dead.” 

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