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Weekly Contest #360
Juran looked down at the young woman from where he was floating. With her ink-black hair pulled back, revealing her delicate profile, the woman gingerly made her way toward the narrow alley, her boots sinking into the thick snow. One hand pulled her worn jacket tight around her shoulders, the other trailing an umbrella along the snow. “Why am I out in this biting cold?” she asked herself, as a shiver racked her body. Steamed buns, she remembered. She had a sudden urge for steamed buns, of all things. Which was strange, because she did not ev...
Weekly Contest #321
Maddie Addler was supposed to die at 3.44 PM yesterday. She'd known this long before she understood what dying meant. Like everyone, her time of death was stamped on a piece of paper, right next to her time of birth—as if the end of a life were no more than a date in the almanac, another turn of the seasons, dawn carelessly giving way to night.In the days leading up to her demise, she did what had to be done, the hollow ceremonies expected of the dying. She bid farewell to everyone she knew—at least the ones still alive, and even those were ...
Weekly Contest #316
Content Warning: Mentions of bullying The chalk dust was flying like smoke from a fuse about to catch. Mason’s hand moved like a piston, rattling across the blackboard in a blur of symbols and arcs. Fractions collapsed into square roots, cosines split apart and rejoined, integrals bent into elegant loops. Chk-ssk, chk-ssk, chk-ssk went the chalk, faster and faster, each strike landing like a sniper’s shot. Murmurs rose at his back like sparks leaping from a live wire, crackling louder, brighter, wilder. “This is an arc length integral, Mason...
Weekly Contest #311
“Who?” the woman asked through the screen door. Standing on the porch, looking at her wrinkled face, her bent-over frame, I was myself having trouble recognizing her as the lofty Ms Piper I once knew. If I’d passed her on the street, I wouldn’t have had the faintest clue it was her. Yet the barely concealed urge to strangle her was all too familiar. Only that she looked far worse than her years offered some solace; it didn’t make up for anything, but it was proof that she’d suffered. “Jeanine Smith. You taught me in the tenth grade, remember...
Weekly Contest #310
Ever since his first book's modest success a year ago—though it already felt immensely remote—Marcus had been chasing another win, if not something bigger. He was currently sitting across his agent, Melanie, who was unconsciously indulging in her most noticeable personal tic—placing the tips of all her fingers together and idly contorting them in every possible shape—as she contemplated her thoughts on his latest draft. Marcus found the habit irritating, verging on loathsome—not so much for what it was, but because it was a tell that she hat...
Weekly Contest #306
The Human Fold invited readers to share how technology has shaped their experiences of love and romantic connection. The only request was to submit unedited journal entries, raw and exactly as written, to preserve the emotion as it was felt. Thousands responded—some said their entries would make you laugh out loud; others shared theirs as a final act of letting go. Each chosen entry captures a cultural moment, revealing how we loved and adapted, coped and connected in an increasingly digital world.Names have been changed to protect real iden...
Winner of Weekly Contest #305 🏆
I stared at the crowd and told the biggest lie of my life. “James Waters was the best man I ever knew.” I didn’t know the guy. An hour ago, I didn’t even know his name. If his goofy face hadn’t been framed next to his casket, I wouldn’t even know what he looked like. I didn’t know he even existed. Well, he didn’t anymore, so that was a moot point. It was still uncertain if this was my biggest lie—it depended on whether or not it would fall apart. But it was certainly about to get bigger because people in the room were still waiting for me to...
Weekly Contest #303
The broken floorboards creak under his feet as Victor eases the door open and enters the room. He’s faintly aware that the house is crumbling, but he doesn’t care enough, or has the time, to fix it. His eyes immediately find Marie, and there she is, lying in bed, looking like a withered plant in winter—embodying the smell of sickness swirling in the confines—despite the sunlight streaming through the fluttering curtains.“Marie”, Victor calls out, but she doesn’t open her eyes. Her lips keep moving silently, like she’s praying to the gods—mor...
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