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Weekly Contest #369
The lawyer’s office smelled of burnt coffee and old carpet, and Mara had been sitting across from him for almost fifteen minutes without a word between them. “I know it’s unusual,” Mr Halloway finally said, sliding the paper across the desk for the third time, perhaps thinking that repetition might make it all less strange. “But your grandmother was very specific: you may enter the house and you may take exactly one item. Everything else goes to auction.”“I met her twice,” Mara replied, her incredulous tone withered now. “Once when I was six...
Weekly Contest #368
Desmond Reyes had been touching wrists for eleven years before he understood what it meant.It happened on a Tuesday, back when he was still new enough to flinch every time the ambulance doors opened. A man was rushed in, complaining of a tight chest – nothing dramatic, no clutching, no screams. Just an exhausted construction worker rubbing his sternum and insisting that he probably just needed some water. Reyes took his face the way he’d been taught: two fingers, radial artery, fifteen second count multiplied by four.And something pressed do...
Weekly Contest #367
StaticThe phone rang for the ninth time that week on a Tuesday, and I let it go to voicemail while I stood at the sink with my hands in dishwater, watching the screen light up the counter with my brother's name.Danny.I didn't need to hear the message to know its shape. I'd received these messages a hundred times before, in a hundred different keys — sometimes slurred and apologetic, sometimes bright and manic and full of plans, sometimes just breathing, thirty seconds of breathing. and then the click. I dried my hands and picked up the phone...
Weekly Contest #366
The last thing Arthur Pemberton felt was the seatbelt cutting into his collarbone, and the last thing he thought was, I really should have gotten that brake pad checked.Then there was a sound like the world folding in half, and then there was nothing, and then there was something that was not quite nothing, which was worse.He had always assumed dying would be dramatic. Tunnels of light. A booming voice. Relatives waving from a warm, golden distance, maybe his mother, who'd been dead eleven years and would surely have something to say about h...
The light comes in through the gap in the curtains the way it always does, a blade of gold laid across the blanket, and I wake before the alarm because Sam's elbow is in my ribs again. Sam sleeps like a starfish. Always has. Eleven years of marriage and I still wake up bruised some mornings, and I still wouldn't trade it."You're going to give me a black eye one of these days," I say, and I nudge the shape under the blanket, and I get up before Sam can answer because Sam is never much of a morning talker. That's fine. I do enough talking for ...
Weekly Contest #365
Darkened skies were always bad omens when wrestling with the dangers of the ocean. Ships of men remained the ocean’s captive as storms brewed in the distance, winds whipping past with only one intent: to destroy. Sea spray became merciless as a crew desperately grappled with ropes and sails, puking overboard before sprinting back across the vessel to do their job. Shouts for mercy and aid could hardly be heard over nature’s screams. Panic rose – why did the sea hate them so? Why were they not being granted an easy passage?Through a tainted w...
Weekly Contest #364
We do not study. We mourn. Within the University’s stone corridors, learning has fossilised into a ritual of silence and repetition, a sacred theatre where only the ghosts of knowledge remain. We speak in the brittle syllables of dead languages, debate the nature of man in words that no one understands. Oil lamps flicker, their flames too tired to chase the shivers from the darkest corners, their light dancing upon faces too young to seem so weary. Time does not pass here – it pools, thick and unmoving, in the silence between our words. We a...
I am writing to apologise for what I did on Thursday. I stare at the sentence until the words begin to separate from themselves, the ink of my pen hovering as though it, too, is unsure of what it writes. My fingers remain curled around the implement, but I don’t remember beginning to write. There it is, in my own handwriting; careful, measured, certain. But I am not certain. I do not remember writing this.Across from me, Mrs Halden holds her hands over each other. Something in her stony stare instills fear like no other in me, and I can feel...
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