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Weekly Contest #349
The stew tasted like dust and success, but mostly like dust. Mom had traded two jars of her pickled beets, the last of last summer’s crop, for a scrawny rabbit and a handful of real potatoes from the settlement trader who still pretended coin meant something out here in the Western Anarchy Zone. Dad had come home an hour before sunset with a small bottle of vinegar clutched in his fist like a trophy. He swore he won it in a poker game behind the store, but I didn’t believe him. Dad didn’t play cards. He just knew how to look like he did when...
Weekly Contest #347
The fish arrived alive.That was how Marco Neeri had always insisted upon it, even in the early years when the insistence cost more than it was worth. The restaurant was barely breaking even, and his sous chef, a capable, tired man named Dwight, would look at the tanks bubbling in the back corner and say nothing. Some arguments weren't arguments. They were theology.Dover sole, langoustines, the occasional turbot that Marco would carry from the delivery van himself, arms soaked to the elbow. He held each fish for a moment before placing it in ...
Weekly Contest #345
Everyone in town knew about the hour, but not when or who decided, or why it came to be. Just once a year, on the same night the leaves finally let go, time loosened its grip for sixty minutes.During the hour, you could hear the unsaid.Not spoken aloud. Not exactly. It arrived as a pressure behind the eyes, a warmth in the chest, a voice that wasn’t a voice but still carried meaning as a whisper carried on the wind.Most people avoided it. They stayed indoors. Put on music. Drank themselves stupid. The unsaid had a habit of arriving uninvited...
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