Hallelujah
Winner of the 2026 Tennessee Williams & New Orleans Literary Festival Very Short Fiction contest.
~ by Té V. Smith
Candace Ebujo trembled beneath a honey-colored Akwete cloth, burrowing into her husband as the anchor’s voice cracked with breaking news: yet another man had leapt to his death. Shadows trembled across the living room as Josh snatched the remote. The TV erupted in light. The anchor’s voice cracked as he strained to sound empathetic, but the words rang hollow. Good evening. Breaking news tonight. Numbers continue to rise: men across the country are climbing buildings and leaping to their deaths…
“I can’t believe this shit,” Josh muttered, his voice laced with despair, eyes locked on the screen as if it might offer an answer.
Candace shook her head. “I’m praying for the families,” she whispered. “First was the pop star, then the Fuenters, and the Podcasters.” Her stomach flipped—each title sounded like another domino falling, another shadow at their door. “Three pastors, a dozen priests, a councilman… even a handful of gay men. All gone. Robert from accounting jumped this morning.”
“Creepy ass Rob?” Josh asked.
“Creepy ass Rob,” she confirmed.”
Josh’s phone buzzed. He slapped it face down. Candace saw. She said nothing. The screen cut to downtown. Sunlight flashed yellow across the room as the camera panned over a small crowd—faces etched with shock, curiosity, dread.
The reporter on the scene stood at the center, microphone ready, and continued, “In related news, officials are warning of increased security measures in the wake of this yet unknown epidemic. So far, no clear motives have emerged. Authorities are asking for anyone with information to come forward.”
The reporter’s voice stayed unnervingly calm as the camera lingered on the widening pool beneath the body. He rattled off city names in a monotone while the crowd pressed against police tape, watching the blood spread wider across the asphalt. An older woman in a worn purple jacket squinted against the sunlight and shouted, “The Lord’s vengeance is here!” She pushed into the frame, eyes blazing beneath her leopard-print bonnet. “It’s raining, men!” she shrieked into the camera.
Candace shivered and gripped the blanket tighter, tracing the designs woven into the fabric. She exhaled and rested her head against Josh’s chest.
The reporter continued, his voice clipped with professional detachment. “Witnesses saw two men scaling the sides of downtown buildings earlier this evening. They reported that they climbed the stairs, calmly, as though some invisible force compelled them. Within moments of reaching the top, they stepped into the empty air.”
Josh’s eyes fluttered, desperate to banish the sound. Candace’s gasp split the silence. The news hung in the air like smoke, choking them. Her chest clenched—not grief, but guilt. She still had her father, her brothers, her husband. The comfort throbbed in her throat like a swallowed scream. The comfort felt obscene against pundits branding it an Apocalypse Against Masculinity. Already, whispers tied the Leapers to scandal. Already, the bonneted woman was going viral, christening her ‘Mother Nature.’
Josh turned to her, his eyes searching. ‘What can we do?”
“We can donate,” she said, pulling her knees against her chest, her voice firm despite the tremor in her heart. The news ended. They sat in silence, the images lingering. Candace mumbled a quick prayer when they rose and walked to the kitchen, a tacit promise hung between them—a flicker of resolve in Josh’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he said, placing his phone on the counter. Josh took his wife’s hand, kissed the inside of her wrist, and linked his fingers through hers. “Let's do that.”
They stood in silence. Then Josh’s phone lit up. A red heart flared, then vanished. Candace’s breath snagged. She waited for him to explain, but Josh only stared at the screen, his face drained of color. The silence swelled, the single message slamming down like a verdict. Candace slumped. Her brow furrowed as a nervous flicker crossed her face. His gaze held hers, dry and vacant.
“Josh?” she murmured, his name breaking in her throat.
He pulled his fingers from hers, and she felt distance open like a chasm between them.
A woman? What was the rest of the text? How often did they text?
She remembered the hushed phone calls behind closed doors, the endless “business trips,” the queasy nights alone. She remembered the sour perfume clinging to him when he finally came home, the lavish gifts pressed into her hands like bribes. She’d trained herself to make love an act of forgiveness.
He shot her a terrified glance, shook his head, and silently walked away. Candace listened as his feet marched up the stairs, past the guest room, their bedroom, and the bathroom. She squeezed her eyes shut, her cheeks scalded by tears. Above her, metal screeched. The ladder snapped into place. His footsteps pounded overhead. The Akwete blanket—once a tender gift on the first date—slid from her shoulders and collapsed at her feet as his footsteps pounded above.
Candace placed her hand on the counter. The marble burned with its chill, as though punishing her for standing still. She counted the creaks of the floor above—each step heavier, slower, as though the house itself was ushering him forward. Candace took a deep breath and dragged the phone across the marble. “Josh?” she whispered one last time, though she knew he couldn’t hear. Candace wiped her face dry, gripped the counter for balance, and listened to the dull thuds of Joshua Ebujo dragging himself toward the attic window.
Té V. Smith
Té V. Smith is a Nigerian-American educator and writer. His fiction appears in Tin House, Blavity, The Dillydoun Review, Griffel, and elsewhere. Té is a Rhode Island Writers Colony Fellow, a Disney+ Reimagine Tomorrow Writer in Residence, a Lambda Literary Fellow, and a Tunnel Vision Poetry Prize Awardee. He lectures and facilitates workshops on creative writing, education reform, interfaith studies, and healthy masculinity. Té lives in New Orleans, usually writing, revising, or lost among books.
Note from the judge, Addie Citchen
I found “Hallelujah" cheeky, humorous, and morbidly delightful.