Flash Fiction Contest - Third Place

In the spring of 2025, Northern Quill Publishing hosted a flash fiction contest in partnership with NorthwordsNWT and UpHere Magazine. The theme of the contest was ‘Edges’ where we asked authors to submit their edgiest pieces. The first place winner was published in the September/October 2025 edition of UpHere Magazine: https://www.uphere.ca/issues/here-sepoct-2025

The third place winner was U.A. Daniels . Here is U.A.’s winning piece:

The Caretaker

By U. A. Daniels

The Caretaker

What Was

At the ragged edge of the map, where cartographers abandoned their quills to rumor, stood a cabin stitched from cedar and quiet resolve. Its Caretaker, rose with the sunrise and slept when embers faded, content to measure life by birdsong.

One damp and cloudy afternoon brought a lean traveler, who smelled of long roads and curiosity. Orryn, a humble chart-maker, searched tirelessly for river sources and new trade paths. Brass tubes and glass lenses clinked in his satchel, tools of an ordinary craft.

The Caretaker waved at the stranger while stirring a pot gently over the fire. “Share my stew. You have veered far from any trail.”

Orryn chuckled softly, wiping sweat from his brow. “Whatever you have over there is making my stomach churn with hunger, thank you!”

The Caretaker filled a cup, offering it to Orryn. “I am delighted you have found this place; it truly is wondrous.”

“I am not sure how I stumbled upon it; this place exists on no map.” Orryn replied, warming his hands on the hot mug, “and, if half the rumors are true, I will wind in circles. Nothing more magical than weather and poor directions, I’m sure.”

The two dined, speaking of prevailing winds, seasonal floods, and a mutual favorite pastime:, counting clouds. After a while, they parted ways with easy smiles, Orryn tipping his hat, believing he had merely enjoyed a kind meal in a peaceful clearing.

Years passed, with seasons folding upon themselves like moss over stone. One misty morning, The Caretaker spotted a bent silhouette at the treeline. The beard, once lush, had thinned to white, yet those eyes, were unmistakable.

Orryn’s voice trembled as he stepped into the clearing, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Impossible… the same face, untouched.”

The Caretaker tilted his head, setting down his basket of herbs. “Friend, you carry decades of stories in your gait.”

Orryn ran a trembling hand over his brow, pacing uneasily. “Stone markers shift, rivers crawl, but you; not even kings wield such sorcery, as if you live on the edge of time.” He stopped abruptly, muttering half-formed theories, faerie bargains, lost hours, a sanctuary where time forgot its steps. Before leaving, he pressed a tarnished pocket watch into The Caretaker’s palm, fingers lingering briefly.

“Wind it,” Orryn whispered urgently, eyes shadowed with awe, “so you’ll know how strange your solitude truly is.” He shuffled away slowly, glancing back nervously, whispering about magic the scholars would never believe.

What Is

Time—unmeasured—passed. On a late summer day, the heat twined with the faint buzz of an electric drone. Through undergrowth strode a man in a canvas field jacket, his dark tinted sunglasses scanning the clearing, GPS flickering green at his wrist. Ink still stained his fingertips; he had traced the clearing’s location from a half-crumbled codex bearing Orryn’s faded sigil.

The newcomer spoke without greeting, irritation creasing his forehead. “Took three faulty coordinates, a busted footbridge, and nearly half my life to get here.”

The Caretaker chuckled, poured spruce-tip tea calmly, eyes gentle yet observing. “Sounds about right. Here, take this my friend. Tea travels lighter than frustration. What’s your name?”

“Jonas,” he replied, accepting the offer mechanically, already flicking notes into his tablet. He glanced up sharply. “You keep no livestock, no wires, no clock towers. Yet Orryn’s journal claims ‘an ageless host.’ That you?”

The Caretaker shook his head lightly, his gaze serene. “I’m simply the caretaker.”

Jonas rolled the cup between his palms impatiently. “Caretaker of what, precisely? Micro-climate? Geological anomaly? Something worth a research grant?”

Jonas paced, tagging trees, dictating lat-long strings into his wrist recorder. “Return point beta… sample core here… cross-check solar alignment.” Though polite, every gesture angled inward—toward data, toward ownership.

Tucking away his equipment, Jonas eyed The Caretaker carefully. “Places like this attract attention once they appear on the right map.”

The Caretaker shrugged quietly, leading Jonas's gaze upward. “I wouldn’t dare leave my home unattended, and the sky continues to require my attention.” He pointed and began tracing the patterns of the clouds carefully, then offered bread for the journey. 

Jonas declined curtly, already plotting his return route, eyes fixed on the glowing wrist display.

What Comes

Dawn cracked like glass, and from the shadows slid a woman in a charcoal coat., Her metallic arm gleamed beneath the fabric. She was escorted by an orb circling above her that hummed colder than the winter runoff. The assessor stood poised, her voice clipped and authoritative. “Property inspection, Forest Consolidated. Old-growth yield: exceptional.”

The Caretaker placed a loaf of bread on the sill calmly. “Share a meal first.”

The assessor’s gaze narrowed sharply. “Transparent. Solo occupant confirmed. Historical artifact minimal. Initiate harvest protocol.”

Machines on articulated legs unfolded swiftly, saw-arms snapping like mantises. The Caretaker stepped before the nearest trunk, palms open, voice steady and protective. “The forest and I are one. Harming it…”

The assessor’s eyes flashed coldly, locking onto The Caretaker’s form. “Obstruction logged.”

A blade flashed. Surprise, not pain, widened on his gaze, as he sank among the roots. As the world around him was swallowed by darkness, The Caretaker lay quietly, counting clouds one last time.

What Remains

Cutters whined., Ttimber fell. Yet, by the next dawn, steel joints bloomed rust. Servo lights dimmed. Saplings, thin as candles yesterday, thrust through cracked housings.

The scars left by the assessor’s blades flaked off bark, that grew thicker by the hour. The cold orb sputtered, its lens fogged thick with grime and dirt. Inside the ruined cabin, the pocket watch ticked on, relentless.

Foresters would later speak in whispers:; equipment that died overnight, roots that swallowed chain links, the faint smell of spruce-tip tea on the morning air. Profit edged away, and the map regained its blankness.

At the cabin’s former heart rose a cedar straighter than the rest, bark smooth, unblemished., As though time, brushing past, had paused long enough to plant a memory and move on.

Author Bio: U.A. Daniels moved to Yellowknife over a decade ago for work, but it was during the pandemic that a new passion emerged; storytelling. With little formal writing experience but a heart full of creativity, Daniels began studying various writing styles and perspectives. Since then, the author has written several short stories and is now in what they hope are the final stages of a 150,000 word fantasy novel. With no back round in publishing, this short story marks Daniel's first public submission, shared with the hope of sparking curiosity, conversation and above all else, bringing enjoyment to the reader.