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Weekly Contest #369
Cars pass. The clock tower sings, 8:00 PM. A bluebird startles a squirrel and flits away. Spring snow melts into the storm drain, and passing strangers look on with unease as a woman beats a bouquet of roses into the narrow slot of a public bin. Missy Dimitrova is, after four decades of personal prayer for it, in her middle age. Her mother likes to say that forty is when other people begin to recognize that a woman knows what she’s doing and what she wants. If only it were so. The roses, shoving a final retaliatory thorn in her palm, di...
Weekly Contest #197
The man glanced at his desk, and the whole room fell silent. He stepped toward the laptop awaiting his touch. As he scratched his beard and laid a hand on his rickety chair, the room held its breath—and he walked away. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” “Jesus!” “Who owes me money?” The projection of the mildewed study and its closed laptop flickered away, and so did each watcher, leaving with their tongues licking various stages of laughs and I-told-you-so’s. The gods left the viewing room one by one until only two remained: Maestrom, Greater God of Li...
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