Pleiades: Literature in Context is pleased to announce that former fiction editor Jennifer Maritza McCauley and current editorial staff have chosen the short story “Maestro, Hold On” by daniel barrios as the winner of the 2025 Kinder/Crump Prize.
Excerpted from “Maestro, Hold On” (download the full story below):
Maestro had gone at least ten days without a shower, his skin sticky with sweat and resin. Farming didn’t suit him, but that wasn’t new—nothing ever had. He hadn’t known he needed boots to stomp out mice and snakes until he saw Yordan do it without hesitation. His Vans were useless out here, just like him. He thought about Staten Island, about the life he had abandoned—a wife, two babies, a past he refused to claim. If anyone asked, he said he was from New Jersey.
“Agua, agua!” Yordan shouted, his voice cutting through the thick smoke.
“No hay, patrón,” a farmhand called back, shaking his head. “El pozo está seco.”
Yordan swore under his breath and turned to Maestro. “Take the quad to the market. Get water”
Maestro didn’t move. He didn’t take orders—especially not from his maldito twin brother. His hands stayed in his pockets. “I’m not one of these trimmigrants.”
“Yes you are,” Yordan said, his tone flat, matter-of-fact.
The farmhand let out a short laugh, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Somos todos trimmigrantes aquí, hermano,” he muttered, shaking his head. Then he studied Maestro for a beat, his smirk fading. “Sabes el camino?”
Maestro held his gaze but said nothing. He didn’t know the roads, didn’t know which dirt paths led back to the market and which ones twisted into the hills, dead ends swallowing lost men whole.
The farmhand sighed, dropping his gloves onto a nearby crate. “Voy contigo.”
Maestro clenched his jaw. He didn’t need a babysitter. He didn’t need another reminder that he didn’t belong. But before he could refuse, Yordan spoke for him.
“Good,” Yordan said. “Make sure he doesn’t get lost.”
The farmhand nodded, already walking toward the quad. “Vamos, Maestro.”
Maestro lingered, resisting. Yordan didn’t even look at him, already turning back to the burning fields.
With a sharp breath, Maestro followed.
The green Can-Am quad was the farm’s workhorse, a country version of a golf cart but built for rougher hands and rougher roads. It had two worn seats up front, cracked at the edges from sun and sweat, and a rear bed meant for hauling bundles of freshly cut flowers, rusted tools, and the occasional trimmigrant hitching a ride. The tires were thick with dried mud, caking the treads like layers of old wax, and the front steel bumper was crusted in dirt, resembling a chocolate-covered strawberry left too long in the sun.
The Can-Am rumbled to life, its engine coughing like an old smoker before settling into a steady, throaty purr. When the farmhand twisted the throttle, the quad lurched forward, spitting up dirt as it clawed at the uneven ground. The suspension groaned under the weight of the ride, bouncing them hard as they tore through the hills, each bump jarring Maestro’s spine. The wind hit their faces in dusty bursts, carrying the scent of pine sap, burnt earth, and skunkweed.
Humboldt stretched out before them like a forgotten frontier, wild and untamed. The hills rolled endlessly, patched with towering redwoods that stood like sentinels over the lawless land. In the distance, the ghostly silhouettes of abandoned shacks peeked through the trees—old grow houses, raided and left to rot. A coyote howled somewhere in the thickening dusk, its cry long and lonesome, answered by another farther up the ridge.
Then—pop pop pop. Gunshots.
Maestro flinched, his grip tightening on the side of the quad. The farmhand didn’t even blink, just kept one hand steady on the throttle. “Hunters,” he muttered, though the way he said it left room for doubt.
The dirt road twisted like a rattlesnake through the hills, leading them deeper into the belly of the county. The sun had dipped low, setting the horizon ablaze with streaks of orange and blood-red clouds, the kind of sky that made you feel like the world was on fire even when the flames weren’t licking at your back.
daniel barrios (he/él) is Dominican/Puerto Rican writer from Staten Island, New York now living in Dodge City, Kansas. barrios has an MFA in Fiction Writing from Southern New Hampshire University where he received a residency scholarship. barrios’ debut collection of short stories, A Good Impression, is forthcoming from the University of Wisconsin Press- Stevens Point, March 2028 (Cornerstone Press imprint). His collection was a finalist for the 2025 EastOver Prize for Debut Short Story Collections and a 2025 finalist for the Black Lawrence Press Immigrant Writing Series. He is the winner of The Brooklyn Review’s 2023 Fiction Contest: This Time It’s Personal! His writing appears in The Brooklyn Review, Latin@ Literatures, Latino Book Review and elsewhere. He has been supported with residencies and fellowships through PREE Writing Studio (Kingston, Jamaica), Abode Press (Virtual), PERIPLUS (Virtual), Under the Volcano (Tepoztlán, Mexico), Sundress Academy for the Arts (Knoxville, TN), and Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing (Virtual).