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Weekly Contest #375
“They’re just excited, Bee." Nick slides his hand across the console to cup my knee. He gives it a gentle squeeze, like the reassuring pet you give a rescue dog before you take it to a crowded park. “My mom made the sugar cookies you like. Just… give them a chance. If it gets too loud, we can sneak to the basement. Okay?” I can’t look at him. My attention is locked on the roofline of the wrap-around porch. “They’re blue.” I interrupt his pep talk. Nick blinks, his hand stalling. “What?” “The lights. On the gutters.” I point toward the ho...
Weekly Contest #361
I’m jealous of the ants. Strange, I know, to be envious of bulbous stealers of crumbs, but the ants have a foundation that rivals any bug that crawls, flies, or slithers. Below my perch on a blade of damp sweet grass, they march in a tireless highway of black into the safety of the earth, their bodies aligned in perfect two-by-two formation. A sense of shared purpose propels their spindly legs. I feel myself go green. Every summer, they persist. The queen may change, and their hills may crumble, but still they gather, build, multiply. Their ...
Weekly Contest #359
“Shit, Mallory. Get it together.” Pulling hard, she managed to dislodge a well-loved map from the workbench, but not after cutting herself on a monkey wrench along the way. She stuck her finger in her mouth and assessed the map’s barely visible roads, blurred into a mess of faded ink and fast-food stains. With a short sigh, she folded it gingerly and stuffed it in her back pocket. A bead of sweat rolled down the slope of her nose and fell onto her chest. Turning her gaze toward the sky with a hand shielding her eyes, she figured now was as g...
The salt air has a way of eating things whole. First, it claims the iron railings of the balcony, flaking them into red rust that stains the white stone beneath. Then, it bleeds into the velvet damask of the parlor, stiffening the fabric until it smells permanently of rot and low tide. Finally, it goes for the mind. It devours the memory of his voice. I hear him everywhere, yet I can no longer pinpoint the exact timbre of his laugh. Sometimes the echo is loud enough that I find myself reaching for the empty air beside me or craning my neck, ...
Weekly Contest #356
Seven’s optic lenses blink back to life under the coppery sky of Xeon-13. He’s above ground. Where’s Thalia? [MPV: Playback footage] His storage core pulls a staticky playback feed and displays the hologram onto the sand. Thalia’s face materializes— covered in dirt and grime— close to Seven’s camera. The playback quality distorts her voice, but Seven can register his chief engineer’s last command: “Seal yourself in the airlock, you ruttin’ bucket of bolts. I’ll see you on the other side.” The file ends abruptly where it always did. The pre...
Weekly Contest #355
There is a particular kind of country-house violence that can only be executed over a plate of perfectly roasted game. “It is simply a matter of basic competence, James,” Caroline Vance said, her voice ringing with more clarity than the fine crystal on the table. She sliced into her venison with the exact level of precise, cold violence she wished she could inflict on the man sitting to her left. To the untrained ear, Caroline was merely a conscientious chatelaine distressed by a spot of rising damp in her newly renovated west wing. A swath ...
Weekly Contest #354
“You know, I feel like we have this… incredible connection,” Gary says. He’s leaning across the table to reach for my hand. I settle for the tips of my fingers and feel the desperate, thrumming need in his veins. And then I wince. The C-word. The beginning of the end; another cycle doomed to repeat when the hunger that curls around my spine barks again. A bald spot at the top of Gary’s head reflects the dying sunlight. I try not to stare at it and continue pushing around the filet I’ve hacked to pieces. When I take him, I know what’ll happe...
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