Torn Trophy by Fiona M. Jones

I laugh to think how hard we fought over the Titanic. How carefully I’d mustered confusions, mists and timing; how Cyrin, late on the scene, gave that iceberg one final tweak of speed and direction, and reckoned the shipwreck hers. The long hours that followed, while we ripped it apart and snarled across the intervening seafloor. How certain we were that no other trophy could ever come close.

Who knew that the Land-People would respond by building bigger? I have my eye upon one now: a mountainous confection of music and colours and unsuspecting people. This time it’s mine alone.