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Weekly Contest #336
"That's not what I meant." The computer blinked, long and slow. I wondered who taught it that—not who programmed it in (if it wasn’t me, it was Carli), but who taught it the timing. The blink had the smug patience of a cartoon wink, like Bugs Bunny playing slower than he is. Carli slept on the couch. Of the two of us, she was the one who would’ve fed it cartoons. "No, I meant two spaces back, then up. It's like you're not even listening to me anymore, I swear." Another slow, refracted blink. The peacock-colored orbs of RGB light gleamed acro...
Weekly Contest #334
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, before the happily ever after, there was a crow, and a dove. The winter that year had been bitterly cold, and a dense blanket of white snow draped and coiled over the yews and such conifers in such long rivulets it was as if a child had lain them there, steepled them, before she might roll over, and get to sleep. It was here that, though the dove very much regretted the cold and skipping her yearly migration, she cozied amongst the sunken bark, and fell asleep. “Wake, wake!” The dove startled to. ...
Timeborn Magazine, June 15th, 1835 - “Heiress Passing, Parisian Tragedy” ‘Sadly one of the leading ladies of fine French-American home decor was killed today, outside her summer home on the Rue de le Paix. Janette Le Comte, known better by her American business nomen, Jane Comney, was found dead in less than decent state propped between the light post and post box by a local crier just before the dawn, Saturday. We all express our sincerest regrets. Lady Comney was the beloved mother of three boys, Peter, Jacob, and Edney Comney, their fat...
Rose Riding knew the cathedral was at the corner somewhere. The coroner had told her she couldn’t miss it. But the rain was coming heavy, and the soaked clay of the Garland Hamlet’s outer fields slogged heavy on her boots, hem, and cloak. When she lifted her feet, a thick ‘schhhlok, schhhlok’ followed, and it sank her mood, too. She didn’t want to be out here, on Christmas Eve, looking for the big old thing, but Granny had said this was the only way. Her mother’s picnic basket was chafing something awful, pinching the wet wool of her cloak a...
I’m not spooked by winter anymore. I suppose there was a moment, back there, in grayer days, when the chill felt like the edge of something. Like being 5 years old, with your hand cupped on the edge of your grandmother’s metal platter, that cool rim between you and what you want, and the floor. It startled my sister, I know. To her, the ice was like spiders, racing along the sidewalk, twisting and winding. It was like those desert snakes, tail in their mouths, tumbling, indifferent, across the sands. We knew some winter when we lived in Engl...
Sensitive Content: alcohol and drug use in a comedic setting, bar setting, irreverent mentions of mental illness and innuendo. I remember her hair being gnarly, honestly. The last guys I told about it were so messed up when I said that, I’m glad you’re being more chill. Yeah it was gnarly, nasty. Haha, you can laugh but I’m being honest, D. What was it like? Big. I mean, of course. Long. Yeah, they got that right on the news. Did I watch the news? Oh beans, no. I can’t stand that news guy, with his nose hairs coming right out- You think I h...
Weekly Contest #313
The cork mat had been on the floor for hours. Sandy nearly tripped on it twice, and since she’d had 3 Zoom meetings back to back, as soon as she remembered it was there, the thought shuttled through her brain and out the other side. Around 3, she looked at the clock. Kevin should have been home by now. He was supposed to be making the pasta sauce for their dinner, and the lack of sour tang in her nostrils as he put in his usual overdose of tomato paste was puckering her tongue to the roof of her mouth in a ghost of anticipation. Not that sh...
Weekly Contest #297
“No.” “No what?” Vi looked down into the casket, its lid still off, her sister’s face a little sunken moon in the pillow. She didn’t know ‘what,’ honestly, and the more she thought about it, the more silly it seemed. Eve was looking at her with a perfectly placid and porcelain expression, the type of clean pokerface which made her such a legendary hunter among the Sidhe clan, but Vi knew better than to underestimate that look. She swept her hand side to side. “Well, what?” Eve said again. She pushed the shovel out, stretching her arm. Vi ...
Weekly Contest #111
Jacqueline Varon’s hands worked feverishly. The light was dim, her workroom saturated with the pines and sepias of the evening gray, but that was not, as it was never, the cause for her hurry. Carefully, quietly, she bent over the uneven table purchased for sewing and kitchen work, but that was instead laden with scraps, screws, gears, bobs and bits. Threaded through her gloved fingers were the wide glassine reels of filament that made up the real cause for her speed. She had to be careful, quiet, as she threaded the ‘plastic’ paper ...
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