The second time Carlos Condit spars, he hits twice as hard. It isn’t out of malice or frustration; it’s still morning, and the day is just beginning. Condit is merely picking up the pace. It’s early November, and the 28-year-old welterweight fighter—compact, intense and pouring with sweat—is preparing for the fight of his life. In two weeks, he’ll face Georges St-Pierre, one of the best pound-for-pound fighters in Ultimate Fighting Championship history, in the welterweight world championship.

The second installment of SFR’s annual writing contest features the winners in the nonfiction and poetry categories. With a nod to one of 2012’s biggest news stories, we asked the nonfiction writers to expound upon the subject of drought—literally, metaphorically or however they could envision it. Poets were asked to use the phrase “It’s a trap!” as their starting point, and the three winners (as poets are wont to do) offered us no shortage of imagination.

It’s become a well-known fact that, when it comes to our annual writing contest, SFR makes Santa Fe’s many talented authors jump through a few hoops. Fiction writers were allowed to write about any subject they wanted, but with one caveat: They had to include the words “Susana,” “howling lampreys” and “insidious” somewhere in their stories. In the nonfiction category, with a nod to one of 2012’s biggest news stories, we asked them to write about drought—literally, metaphorically or however they could envision it. Poets were asked to use the phrase “It’s a trap!” as their starting point, and the three winners (as poets are wont to do) offered us no shortage of imagination. SFR will publish the three winning fiction stories this week, followed by the winners in nonfiction and poetry categories next week.

It all started with Kevin Costner. One night a few years ago, Saif Samejo was at home in Jamshoro, Pakistan, watching The Postman, the actor and director’s 1997 futuristic epic about one man’s struggle to rebuild civilization in a post-apocalyptic America. But it was the film’s soundtrack that caught Samejo’s attention—particularly the song “Almost Home.” The artist? Santa Fe musician Jono Manson.

Back in February 2010, Carly Fiorina—the former CEO of Hewlett Packard and, at the time, Republican candidate for one of California’s seats in the US Senate—released a low-budget campaign ad characterizing her primary opponent as a “demon sheep.” More than three minutes long, the ad featured ugly clip art, melodramatic voice-overs and a man crawling around on all fours, sporting a poorly designed sheep costume and glowing red eyes.

Anna Moss, 20, sits cross-legged in the center of a large couch, nervously twirling one of the silver rings that adorn her fingers.

“I don’t know where to start,” she says, but then launches into the story of her life: “I have post-traumatic stress disorder. I grew up with a mom who was bipolar and schizophrenic. I moved around a lot. I spent three years being homeless between the ages of 10 and 13. When I was 13, I was raped.”

It’s a crisp September morning, and Gerald Valdez’ house looks as tranquil as the rest of his southwest Santa Fe neighborhood. A U-Haul van parked in front of his doorway is the only sign of the turmoil within. Inside, it’s a scattered mess of boxes and half-full energy drinks. Valdez, a bulky, middle-aged man, has seven hours to pack up everything he owns and leave the house he’s lived in for more than two decades—a house he built with his own hands, and where he raised his six kids.

Imagine, for a moment, that it’s a chilly December night, and a pretty young brunette has come to your apartment. Your courtship of her began when you were picking up a paycheck and told her you had all that money but nobody to spend it on. She accepted when you asked her out for dinner. After that, the two of you spent time together—hiking, cooking, talking. On this particular night, you share a joint. When she leaves your apartment around midnight, you give her some pot for the road. A similar handoff occurs a month later.

“It’s not safe. There’s no safety. You can’t trust anybody. You got to protect yourself,” Rebekah Apachito says. As one of about 1,600 tribal members who live in the Navajo community of To’hajiilee, 90 miles west of Santa Fe, she has good reason to be afraid: According to federal crime data, Native American women are 10 times more likely than the average American to be murdered. Even more shockingly, approximately one in three Native American women will be raped in her lifetime.

Three times a week, Micah Ortega becomes a donut.

“I’m ready, man!” he exclaims in a deafening, raspy, Randy “Macho Man” Savage baritone as he enters Whoo’s Donuts on a recent Wednesday. “I need to kinda get the mojo going—you know, turn up the engine,” he says, making a revving motion with his hands.

Ortega says he gets his mojo from “L-O-V-E, baby,” after donning a glittery, Michael Jackson-style glove.