In the land of the Lotus Eaters, it’s easy to lose sight of what’s important to us because we spend so much of our lives in support of responsibilities which, let’s be honest, are nothing more than means to an end: money. In pursuit of the almighty Dollar, we become impatient, irritable, anxious, despondent, and weary between commercial-like bouts of presence and euphoria, passively consuming to get by. Each of us finds ourselves in the thick of it most of the time—five days a week on average—during which time we’re caught up playing some part in a narrative dreamed up by employers and lawyers and the likes. You can bet they don’t have our best interests in mind, not really. Some of them, sure, bless their hearts, but, for most of us, the American Dream has been reduced to a daydream at best—another red herring keeping us going. The only question is whether to eat or buy our dopamine today.

In this new bohemia of thankless demands and heart wrenching efforts not for profit, it’s hard to make time for art without feeling like we’re on the clock—or, worse, feeling like we’re wasting our time. In this way, creative catharsis is undermined by the rat race of our lives. Meanwhile, the menacing tendrils of the blighted American Dream creep ever further into the realm of art. Sure, there are more publishers and writing contests than ever, but after a while it starts to sting shelling out hard-earned dollars for form rejections and signing contracts for unpaid publication.

And yet, real Art—even lower-case-a art, even writing—shouldn’t be and isn’t about making money. For creative people, the process itself is the reward. We do it because we must. Because it helps us be sane. Because it heals us. When money comes in, it should serve only to sweeten or affirm the process. No, it’s no big secret that baring your soul isn’t very profitable, but what a shame that is because, hey, girl’s gotta eat.

The Dead Herring Prize is awarded annually to a staggering work which slays real-world red herrings in our day-to-day lives. All accepted stories, poems, prose, comics, notes, doodles, whispers, and whimsy published by Skipjack Review during the calendar year are considered. Without further ado, here’s this year’s winner:

“Generational Wealth” by Sarah B. Cahalan

Sarah will receive $100 big ones! Well, $100 little ones, I guess, but, hey, $100 is $100! That’s $100 right out of our own shallow pockets—albeit less than we wish we could award such fearless art.