Lögberg-Heimskringla is pleased to present the winners of this year’s Íslendingadagurinn Poetry and Short Story Contest. Each year, the Icelandic Festival of Manitoba invites submissions of previously unpublished poems and short stories in three age categories: Junior (12 and under), Intermediate (13-18), and Open (adults). Short stories must be 1,200 words or less, and one entry is allowed from each individual; poems have no word limit, and each individual may submit up to three entries. Entrants’ names are masked to ensure that entries are judged on their merits.
The contest is open to all – entrants need not be of Icelandic descent – but submissions that reflect Icelandic culture and interests, especially those that reflect the theme of the festival, are given preference. Winners are not eligible to compete again for the next three years, although a short story winner can enter the poetry contest and vice versa. The Icelandic Festival is currently developing new guidelines for next year’s competition.
The Poetry and Short Story Contest is sponsored by H.P. Tergesen and Sons along with the University of Manitoba Department of Icelandic Language and Literature.
The deadline for next year’s contest is June 7, 2025, and submissions accompanied by complete contact information can be sent to:
Open Short Story Winner
A Winter’s Fall
Author: Emma Sophia Gonzalez Tabarez, La Trinidad Chimalpa, Tlaxcaka, Mexico
Gazing at Geysir, at the very moment in which droplets gain the lightness of steam, Dawn, the three-tailed fox, named after being born in a very second away from day or night, felt, for the very first time, accompanied by another of equal substance.
When the eruption ended, a tiny scar shaped portal, one of those seldom seen by creatures of matter, opened up beneath her tainted paws. Like any other fox would, she mimicked the wining crescent with a hump and jumped right into it, following a single wrench of her ever-praying forelegs.
A fall, lengthier than that of a shooting star awaited her. However, just like the latter, a gift, bestowed upon her by the nuances of a peculiar rear, had already exchanged the frowns of the yielding for the smiles of the coveting underneath her withered cheeks.
Soon after, three glimmering stars forming a line, flickered in perfect unison. On a closer look, she discovered they were shaped just like her tails, and feared having jumped inside of her own, by misfortune alone. But her aching skin, would afoot find out those luminaries stood for an opposite kind of burn to that of her very own fire, as they were droplets, frozen into icicles.
On reaching the middle one, a reflection capable of seeing one’s past, showed her a time out of mind, when every lattice was a gateway and each moor an entire countryside. The mirror then, decided on sharing its nature with the curious beholder in front, and halted her in place, still, as a photograph.
Back then, a single tail stitched a single reality together by the thread of only one instinct, containing ancestors’ warnings and descendants’ qualms laying over an ajar burrow. There, snow was seen as a foreigner in a land of her own, the goddess who visits, but shall never reside.
An island in the middle, far away from anywhere with a North or a conqueror, that's a tiny fox in the wilds; not day, nor night, nor moving, but somehow, dawning.
As often happens with nostalgia, a bit of her soul begun leaking into a container now only suitable for an animal’s shape, the part of herself now less similar to a whole. The rest remained floating, above the ever-purple lavender fjords that just to hold her while resting and to halt her while stomping. Seeing that creature, so akin to its brothers and sisters made her realize her changes weren't a simple growth, but a gathering of many, newer natures.
The insides of the raindrop begun boiling, transforming Dawn’s matter into its liquid state, filtering her through the very bottom of her past and turning an entire memoir into a pour of lavender tea. However, as the chemical reaction burned the insides of the tiny world into ashes, the outside went lighter, and begun ascending, like a hot air balloon would, even with the shape being upside down.
Now frozen in between the two remaining mirrors, her fur had started the dances known and taught by the spirits made out of smoke alone. A similar wiggle was quite characteristic for the elves’ feathered companions, as their reaction to rivalling winds around coastlines. Knowing this, the gigantic raven beneath her, was much probably a detachable limb for the goddess whose left shoulder they had chosen to nest in, since they seemed perfectly able to control the waves in which their feathers said hello as it was nothing but the blink of an eye or the flick of a neck.
The mirror in front of her had chosen to display a young woman, concealing elegantly, by a gentle caress, how a tip of one rebellious ringlet had decided to beat her lips in the race for that milky cup of tea, in which her friend was bathing, according to the strange perspective’s sense of humour. Yes! That was also Dawn. In a reflection with a completely different shape, but a much more faithful countenance. Suddenly, she'd begun recalling.
Around those times, she changed the inclination of her starlight canon a bit to the left and a bit to the north. The new island she was heading for had a reputation of finding augurs in tea leaves, instead of traditions, of which she’d grown more and more tired of.
A satellite in the sky, far away from any life, and careless about the certainty of death. That’s a demigod on the moon, becoming night and day, where those words have no meaning at all. Just like certainties.
Her motifs overwhelmed her surprises as her mission became a bit less hazy. The second tail came along with a second stomach, but instead of nutrients this one seemed to be reserved for anxiety only. Whenever she transformed into a woman, however, that extra stomach had scarcely any use.
Therefore, she decided to remain a lass, and with one stomach only, always attired in skirts or dresses, foraging for distinct flavours of so many different fumes. Her peers, however, back on that second island couldn't understand why remaining as someone could be even desirable with a talent to become anyone.
Therefore, once with an outline, she lacked only someone to fit right in. Someone capable of naming a creature neither this, not the other, a substance similar to so many, it would be contrasting to any single one. Humans tended to look for those in a husband or a wife, but since Dawn’s only constant seemed to be renewal, the search for a mother, could only feel logical.
One last spark in her heart finally snuffed out the very last flames of a longevous fur. Just like local foxes, but in reverse for the winter calling, her outsides changed colours, and her anatomy turned into that of a lady, with glowing, charcoal skin. A sudden wrench of a sleeve from her new turquoise dress provided the very last usher, with which her new mother called her to lay on her summit-wide lap.
Anon, certain fire had made sand into ashes instead of into glass, and the birds of each kind where confused about whether to rise or land. The raven had chosen to take flight and the brand-new smell made Dawn take such a breath her breasts rose almost as high up as her brother’s pitch-dark wings. The following exhalation bargained air for satisfaction.
Aiming less than half a degree to the northwest for her second trip, she’d found the perfect mother. A goddess with a skin of ice and a soul of lava with a daughter hereafter, cuddling in the middle of the oddest, therefore perfect, kind of balance.
Intermediate Short Story Winner
The Warrior Frozen in Time
Author: Perryn Cote, Dallas, TX
There is a legend, passed down through generations of Icelanders, the legend of the warrior frozen in time.
Deep in the hostile pine forests of Björnlandet, a hiker rubs his hands together over a healthy fire. He looks to the heavens, attempting to piece together how the story was meant to start. He collects himself, turning to face the five others gathered around the campfire.
“The legend goes that back in the time of Hrothgar, the wild pine forests of Björnlandet were far smaller, sparsely occupied with rolling fields of fertile land. Having fought alongside his chieftain against the Norse raiders, Hrothgar had gained the respect of his peers, along with a healthy chunk of land along the outskirts of these fields, bordering the wild forests.
It was on this land Hrothgar raised the great cattle common to the area. Of course, cattle are difficult to care for with such a dangerous forest nearby, so he decided to get a bodyguard of sorts, his Brother. Nobody knows the name of this Brother, only that he had a beard almost as massive as that of the cows, coupled with the strength of a bear.”
The fire dims, and the wind begins to scream through the branches of pine forests.
“So for many years, Hrothgar’s Brother patrolled the crude fence keeping the cows in, warding off evils such as roaming packs of wolves, great lumbering bears, and feral wolverines. Hrothgar’s Brother was a great guard, vigilant in his duties and fiercely loyal, guarding through even the most hostile of winters, far past when any sane man would have retreated into his longhouse.”
The cold begins to bite into the backs of the unsuspecting hikers, soft snow collecting in the folds of their synthetic parkas.
“Hrothgar was a good man, but he was a warrior. He had fought and killed dozens, if not hundreds of Norse raiders in his career, and was known as one of the greatest warriors in Björnlandet. But even the greatest warrior cannot kill a dozen men unprepared.”
The fire has sunk to nothing but a hot bed, but the light still provided by coals frames the hiker’s faces with an orange glow. “On one of his nightly patrols, Hrothgar’s Brother, lantern in one hand and sword in the other, hears a startled bellow coming from Hrothgar’s longhouse. He looks toward the house, barely piecing out the shadows of several moving forms entering through the door. He begins to run.”
Piercing howls of wolves carry from miles away through the forest, an orchestra of savage cries pointing towards the full moon.
“The snow is almost up to his waist, but still he sprints at the pace of the deer, imbued with the power of the elk, the determination of the boar bringing sweat to his forehead, despite the sub-zero temperatures. He sheds clothing as he sprints toward the longhouse, never stopping for a moment as his brother’s agonized roars ring through his ears. He bursts through the door of the longhouse with just enough time to see the blade of a Norse battle axe streaking through the air towards Hrothgar, who is being held down by four warriors.”
The speaking hiker has begun to shout, his deep voice carrying miles, bouncing around, distorted and spread farther by the fresh snow.
“The battle axe is impossible to stop. A lethal slash to Hrothgar’s chest ends his fury, but only increases his Brother’s. As Hrothgar’s Brother thunders towards the Norse murderer, the only thing crossing his mind is the idea that he has failed. Failed his job. Failed his duty. Failed his brother.”
Branches above the hikers creak and sway with the wind now tearing through the canopies, howling in a frenzy. “Hrothgar’s Brother easily dispatches one man, and another falls with a sickening crunch. But as the other ten men in the room fall upon Hrothgar’s Brother, he is forced into a corner, slicing and blocking with his sword and lantern, both literal and metaphorical fire blazing in his pupils.
“His leg is struck with a glancing blow of a battle axe, and Hrothgar’s Brother falls to one knee.”
The muffled sound of snow being disturbed somewhere nearby is overpowered by the shouts of the hiker and the howling of the wind, every hiker riveted to the story, eyes locked on to the once-in-a-lifetime presentation.
“The blunt head of a mace quickly ends Hrothgar’s Brother’s fury, and he watches as his body slumps to the ground, his spirit carried through the roof of the longhouse by an ancient Valkyrja. ‘Congratulations warrior,’ she says, ‘you will come to me, Óðinn would like to speak with you’. ‘My duty shall not be slain as I have,’ Hrothgar’s Brother replies. With that, Hrothgar’s Brother turns and headbutts the Valkyrja. She drops Hrothgar’s Brother in a startle, and he begins to plummet back to earth, hundreds
of feet below.”
Small branches only ten feet behind the campground creak and snap as a large form, unnoticed by the hikers, gets steadily closer.
“Landing deep in the forest, Hrothgar’s Brother shouts to the sky, ‘Tell Óðinn I shall feed his ravens, and fill his halls with the cowardly souls of my brother’s killers.’ As Hrothgar’s Brother sets off towards where he believes his brother’s farm lays, the cold is unnoticeable. As Hrothgar’s Brother comes to the conclusion he is totally and completely lost, his lost spirit sets off on a journey, trampling through thousands of square miles of wilderness, frozen in time as a relic of an ancient Scandinavian past, searching for his brother’s longhouse, cows, and body for the rest of eternity.”
The splintering of a small tree’s trunk betrays the presence of the disgraced protector. The eyes of a half dozen hikers shoot towards a massive shape, the form of a powerful warrior, matted hair cascading down his naked torso, the last coals of the fire fully lighting the terrifying sight.
Suddenly, the smoke of the fire and the howling winds attacking the canopy are too much for the delicate branches dozens of feet above. With a crack, the leaves of the pines give out, dumping a hundred pounds of fresh snow onto the embers, obliterating the fire and plunging the hikers into darkness. The hikers scramble for headlamps and flashlights in a panic, the freezing
cold of the snow and fears of a battle-crazed warrior bearing down on the unarmed hikers quicken their movements.
Within only a few seconds, the flashlights have been activated, powerful beams of light piercing the darkness, illuminating-- nothing. Nothing but trees and tents surround the hikers. The man is gone, merely a figment of their collective imaginations. Merely a story to tell in another expedition, to another set of curious listeners, another generation of Scandinavians to pass the timeless story, of a warrior, frozen in time a thousand
years before.
Open Poetry Winner
Gudrid Goes to Gimli
Author: James L. Hargrove, Winnipeg, MB
Amma Gudrid sailed to Gimli in 1362,
Took passage on a long-boat with helmsman and a crew.
She brought her girl-child, Hallfrid, and ankle-biter Snorri too,
And they sailed away through Skuggifjord in 1362.
Gudrid had sailed from Iceland, to Groenland in the west,
And met her husband Thorfinn, of all Norse men, the best.
But he went hunting walrus tusks, and never more was seen,
Her bed was cold, her kids grew old, and downcast was her mien.
Those times were bleak in Groenland,
Many a farm had failed.
Summers were short, nights were cold,
The land with fog was veiled.
In discontent, some leaders
Gave up the faith they had revered.
They closed their farms and packed their goods
And left the land that they had cleared.
King Magnus sent Sir Paul Knutson
To seek the vanished settlement,
For Groenlanders who’d gone away needed to repent.
Gudrid vowed to help those Norse wave-crossers
And find Thorfinn and his walrus-hunting crew
So away they sailed, together, in 1362.
At first their steep-hulled longboat sped to Labrador,
But the tiny tykes grew restless, the little ones got bored.
It was, “Snorri, get off the rigging,”
And “Hallfrid, climb off that rail!”
With nary a soul at Leif’s summer camp,
Their sea-mission seemed to fail.
Sir Knutson steered the coastline northward
And came to Skuggifjord,
Home of cloud-murk and giants,
It never had been explored.
Walrus hunters would never bypass such a bounteous bay,
The searchers sailed its shores, seeking along the walrus way.
The men began to mutter, too long away from home,
But Gudrid nodded sagely, she was not afraid to roam.
For Thorfinn was hard-headed, this is just what he’d have done,
Chasing walrus up Skuggifjord, leaving her and the kids alone.
They found a lonely trading-post, tended by a skræling man,
With signs, he told of plenty walrus, longship and hunting-clan.
He’d warned, wide water-ways lay ahead,
But could not sway them from their stead,
From their sea-quest for ivory;
Thus answered Sir Paul’s inquiry.
So Gudrid the far-farer, with her ship and crew
Discovered “Hudson Bay” in 1362,
Never mind that Henry Hudson and his men
Chanced upon that wave-washed bay in 1610.
But vainly did Sir Knutson scan those rocky shores
For any sign of men or ships or sails or oars.
They came upon a river-mouth,
With waters flowing from the south,
And saw, rising from a gravel bank,
A runestone, which could not be a prank,
With chiseled words, “We went south.”
Sir Paul and Gudrid sailed into that river-mouth.
Each day they wandered on their fool’s-quest
Until evening signs put their minds to rest,
Sometimes a cold campfire, sometimes a mooring-stone.
They came upon a camp of Cree, and no longer sailed alone.
The Cree told of sailing men who’d come on whale’s backs,
And in their hulls were walrus tusks, piled high in stacks.
The Cree met Thorfinn during snow-fall, he needed a place to rest,
So they told him of Lake Winnipeg, for winter camp the best.
Gudrid said, “Let’s find Thorfinn,” and they sailed into the lake,
Along the shore, heading south, the goose-road they would take.
And so they came to Gimli, and the walrus-hunters’ fires,
And all wanted to head homeward, the goal of their desires.
The journey home was faster, down-river to the bay,
The sails filled with breezes, small waves sped them on their way;
And when they came to Groenland, they barely paused their boats.
The settlers there had gone away and left their sheep and goats.
Thorfinn gladdened to be with Gudrid, and so overflowed his joy,
When they finally got to Iceland, they had another boy,
To purchase land for farming, Thorfinn sold his walrus-hoard,
For home and hearth and family were his quest’s reward.
No more Norse would come to Gimli
For about five hundred years.
Until an Iceland Reserve was made
To welcome pioneers.
When Olaf cleared his field one day,
Runestone markings made him stoop,
But they looked like chicken-scratches,
So he laid the stone outside his coop.
Gudrid’s story was lost, and no soul was the wiser,
That she had come a-sailing so many years before,
Then home to her land of steam and geyser
In the far-flung days of yore.
In Iceland, Gudrid was a founder
And Amma to half the land,
A Fjallkona from the mountains,
And high peaks of Groenland.