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Weekly Contest #343
He was in her line again. Tall, dark, and oh my god. Talk, dark, and yes please with a side of frosting. Was he buying buttercream? She surreptitiously glanced at his sole item on the asphalt gray conveyor belt, but couldn’t tell which flavor because the label was faced away. Millie, with the slow drawl and the ginger-hued beehive, had named him after the first time he’d come in. Day one, she’d called him Mr. Dreamboat, because he really was. He had the look that made Janie go a little weak in the knees. Casually handsome with some rough edg...
Weekly Contest #342
Nobody stands in the rain on purpose. Nobody stands outside on the wettest night of the year in no raincoat, the pelting drops making their glasses unusable, the damp growing and spreading. You have to be really ucked-up to ignore the sternly delivered weather report, to forgo the battered, second-hand raincoat hanging by the door or even the umbrella left by a friend, to go outside and stand in the storm for no reason at all. Raymond was that ucked-up. He had been through the mill, the gist, the this and the that. He had lost the things and...
Viola had officiated 7,062 weddings at the little chapel, the type of tiny chapel in the type of backwater town where people come to get married so they can say they were joined at the junction of Happily Boulevard and After Drive. She had seen 7,062 beginnings to 7,062 fairy tales, women in white, sometimes men in white, sometimes two women, sometimes three, although they didn’t all stand up at the front together, but she’d noted people in the pews mouthing the words in tandem with the bride and the bride or the groom and the groom. Or some...
Weekly Contest #341
Do you remember believing in wishes? Do you remember thinking that if you wished on enough falling stars and tossed enough shiny pennies and blew out enough birthday candles, perhaps your dreams would come true? Joe died at 37, and I was 26, and there isn’t any reason or rhyme to this story. He died at 37, and I am nearly twenty years older than that now, but I am thirty years older than when I received the news. I didn’t believe the words across the crackling phone line. Some information isn’t digestible. You don’t fully comprehend the blac...
Weekly Contest #340
—Don’t do that!—Lisa looked around, confused. She was seated at a small, round table in the window of her favorite coffee shop. Her battered laptop was open in front of her. She had a half-filled diner mug at her side.—Seriously—Again, she glanced to her right and left. There was a violet-haired woman wearing emerald headphones leaning against the wall. An older man with an inordinate amount of packages under his table was shoving a croissant into his mouth as fast as she’d ever seen anyone eat. She realized the words were coming from her co...
Weekly Contest #330
I wasn’t supposed to be kissing him. See, there are kisses and there are KISSES. You can engage in an underlined one. Or one in italics. Bold or regular. There are kisses you forget almost immediately afterwards, and kisses that linger for forty years. So that when you think back, you bite your lip and look off into the distance, and you can still feel his hands in your hair and his body against yours, and most importantly his lips. Oh, his lips. I wasn’t supposed to be kissing him. Let’s get that straight right up front. I wasn’t supposed ...
She said, “I like my coffee like I like my men. Late at night and a little depressed.” He was intrigued and moved one stool closer to her at the bar. He’d never seen anyone drinking black coffee with the intensity she had been doing all night. It had to be hot. The bartender continually made fresh pots. This chick didn’t wince or flinch, and although there was sugar on the bar, she hadn’t touched her spoon. “So you’re a purist?” he asked. “You could say that.” “What makes coffee depressed?” "What makes anyone depressed?” she asked. “You tell...
Weekly Contest #329
“You know this is why you're single, right?” Jake asked, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Ace could have said the same thing right back at him. Jake often had a little catsup somewhere on his person. Instead, Ace spun his butter knife on the table, as if he were going to make the stainless balance on the tip. “You have to stop with the nonsense,” his ex-former future brother-in-law said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Yeah you do. The numbers, man. All you do is talk to people about numbers.” Numbers followed Ace—or vi...
Weekly Contest #328
“You can’t go back in time for $17,” Randall said. “I can,” Meg insisted. “It doesn’t make any sense. It costs twenty times that to take the trip unless you do stand-by. Most people want to go back in time to fix something big. You know that. You’ve read the articles, right? You get how this tech works.” “That’s why I’ve got to go. I need to fix something.” She steeled herself and looked directly into his eyes. She really wanted him to understand. “I didn’t have the money to lose. Losing seventeen bucks changed everything.” He’d heard the st...
Weekly Contest #325
Cassandra could sense when Calvin was getting ready to leave work. He would be shifting his mask, taking off his “Work” Calvin face and putting on his “Home” Calvin face, tying the knots under his straw-blond hair. Even though his office was downtown, and it took at least 30 minutes to get back to their little bungalow, she had a feeling when he lifted his briefcase, said goodbye to his secretary, Trish, and headed to the parking garage. She’d speed up then, fixing everything the way “Home” Calvin liked. Glossy magazines that featured his th...
Weekly Contest #324
You couldn’t tell Chad anything. Well, you could, but he wouldn’t listen. He always had to figure out anything and everything the hard way. He didn’t even consider it a hard way. If you said, “Hey, don’t touch that, Chad, it’s hot.” Chad would touch it, and say, “Yeah. That’s hot.” It was as if every day were his first day on earth. If someone accidentally used an idiom in front of Chad, he would cock his head and look at that person with his striking blue eyes piercing into their very cerebral cortex. “Why would anyone try to make a silk p...
Weekly Contest #323
CW: Horror, implied gore/violence Melanie took her time. There were candles to light and blinds to draw and a bath bomb to drop and a record to play. The undoing of the week came with a specific order of events in order to welcome in the weekend and wash away five days of dreck, the dust and the grit (both emotional and physical) that got under her nails and into her soul. She took her time placing the rose-scented candle on the inside corner and the vanilla one on the edge of the sink. There was a knock on the front door right then, of cour...
Weekly Contest #322
The waiter had those reptilian, once-in-a-lifetime kind of eyes, green ovals with yellow in the center, flickering and jewel-like. He wasn't exactly attractive. It was more that he was enticing, slim in his fitted black waistcoat and perfectly pressed trousers, and charming in the way he spoke with an almost hidden lisp, as if his tongue touched each letter of every word but lingered longer on the sibilant consonants. Think the opening lines of Lolita, except in this case his tongue caressed every “s.” He was courteous, but not obsequious. T...
Weekly Contest #321
Norbert and Bobbin and Reginald and Frisky were all standing with their white gloves on, wringing their hands, bowing and shuffling. They had been taught what to do if the mistress tinkled her little bell or the master bellowed. But not one of the classes had explained how to deal with this type of disaster. Sure, Gilbert and Filbert and Wilson and Narwhal had learned how to press the lord’s boxers and puff the lady’s niblets, and they were well schooled in how to pretend not to see indiscretions of any type occurring directly in their line ...
Weekly Contest #319
I am tired of being called his monster. I am literally exhausted. Seriously, when someone says “Frankenstein,” and then some arrogant little twerp adds, “I think you mean Frankenstein’s monster, the doctor was Frankenstein,” I believe we should all be able to cannibalize that person for parts. You should just call me Frank. It’s much easier, neater, we can all be on the same page of the same classic. And yeah, I know. I know. I am a monster. I scare people with my oddly colored skin and my mismatched limbs. But the thing is, aren’t we all ju...
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