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Weekly Contest #365
CW: human trafficking, implied assault, emotional abuse, trauma Nineteen hours in a car is the longest Paul and I have spent together since our divorce. It's almost nighttime. A matted stray—Lhasa apso or Shih Tzu—patters down the street, pauses to lift a leg on the SUV tire, and runs off. I'd worry it might be hit by a car if there were any traffic at all. Down the block, a peeling Victorian draws a certain kind of customer. A different tattooed, smoking, visibly armed man occupies the porch each time we drive past.Paul stares at the mounte...
Weekly Contest #362
Fripouille is the restaurant on everyone's bucket list. Reservations are booked months in advance. There are rumors of Michelin's interest; speculation about a lone diner who repeatedly jots things down in his notebook and takes too many pictures. Even a single star would be enough to catapult Chef André's dreams of a second location into reality, and don't I want him to be happy?I try not to think about how good a starred kitchen would look on my resume because it would mean admitting that my time here is short. What do I do if not this? I ...
Weekly Contest #353
We approach at sunrise: five men packed into a crew-cab truck, descending on the last five-acre parcel deemed “problematic” because of its rumored curse. Armed with cables and winches, first aid kits, and an assortment of chainsaws, we're here to “beat the heat” of a fall afternoon, which means the real reason we got up so early is so that Ken could bang pots over my head at one in the morning.He chain-smokes the entire drive because he’s the boss and considers my asthma a personal failing, though he keeps the windows cracked to appease my m...
Weekly Contest #348
A red truck with peeling paint and cardboard taped over the sliding back window sits in our driveway. It’s the meat man’s, from the farmer’s market.Except we're vegetarian. Healers.At least, our mother is. She only lets him in when we’re not there to ask questions.He wears a wedding ring that she thinks I haven’t noticed, and brings her pretty dresses.Millie is too young to ask about fathers—just six years old, to my fourteen.I line up the mason jars our mother sent me to fetch from the root cellar—last summer's peaches, pears, and the berry...
Weekly Contest #345
The suitcase sits at the foot of the bed, its brown leather scuffed by an Albany airport conveyor belt on our last trip to Cancun. Henry said not to worry, the bag could be replaced. We’d get one with omnidirectional casters to make the terminals easier. He said we deserved something sturdier, more stylish—but I’m not the kind of person who chases newer things.This suitcase believes in me.At least, it used to.I shove aside the box for the robot vacuum I bought four years ago, blocking the path to the closet. It died on its first expedition a...
Weekly Contest #343
“I object!” A redhead leaps to his feet, hand raised as if he expects to be called on by the priest who, for reasons I’ll never understand, customarily asks for objections. So do I, though I’m sure for different reasons. This was supposed to be my stained-glass cathedral. My twenty-thousand-dollar hand-sewn crystal dress. The one I paid for because his money was “tied up.” The woman in an enormous floral hat, whom I positioned myself to hide behind, whispers, “I knew this would happen. How did he even get in?” The same way I did, probably, w...
Weekly Contest #342
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” My palms sweat as we approach the vacation rental where our friend’s life may be in danger. At least, according to Oliver, who once convinced me to be the plus one at his ex’s wedding for the open bar, and who stole a congressman’s dinner reservation out of spite for his being cancelled at the last minute.“I can’t believe Denny thought signing up for a writing retreat with a bunch of strangers was a good idea, but here we are.”"Promise me we’ll stick to the plan this time. No chaos. No improv. W...
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