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Weekly Contest #357
My name is Laddie, and I am a rough collie. Remember Lassie? She was one gorgeous girl. I look like her, except I am more majestic. I live with my Mom and Dad. They believe they own the house. I have never corrected them because they seem happy with the arrangement.Most mornings begin with me stationed at the front window conducting security patrol. That is where I first met Chester. Chester was sitting on top of the fence, twitching his tail back and forth. He looked like he wasn't doing anything, but I knew better. Now, I have spent years ...
Weekly Contest #355
This story contains themes of death and murder. Adair Grayson opened the funeral home on Dorothy Street at twenty-two with a business loan and a used embalming table. His father had thought he was out of his mind, though Steven Grayson kept this to himself, the way a man who charges a hundred and forty dollars an hour to do exactly that. Eight years on, the loan was paid, the table replaced twice, and Adair had buried sixty-one North Haven residents. He knew which widows needed to talk and which needed to be introspective. He knew which fath...
Weekly Contest #354
By the time the Acheron cleared the Moon and settled into deep-range trajectory, Elias Vane had stopped checking Earth every hour. The first week, he kept finding reasons to return to the observation port — system checks, exterior scans, navigation confirmation. Most of the time, there was nothing to check. He simply wanted to look. From that distance, Earth’s blue and white looked simple and whole. It bothered him how simple it looked. Sometimes he pressed his thumb against the glass and covered half of it, staring at the fact that everythi...
Weekly Contest #353
(contains mention of dying) He was on his back in the snow when I found him, one leg twisted under him at a bad angle. Alive, but not for long. His lips were moving. I assumed it was prayer, but when I got closer it turned out, he was naming his sheep — working through them one by one. Bess, Graidh, Old Meall, and the three unnamed ones he kept meaning to name. I crouched beside him. He opened his eyes and looked at me. He was old enough that fear wasn't the first thing. "You're her," he said. "I'm her." He had the look of a man who had alwa...
Weekly Contest #351
Grace Pellitier had moved to North Haven a month ago. She had bought the small cottage at 100 Cross Street. She was at the kitchen table with her ten-week-old golden retriever, Bella, asleep under her chair. She was fifty pages into a thriller that wasn't quite working. Her Detective Cole Renner had just arrived at a crime scene. There was a body, no witnesses, and a mayor who wanted neither fact on the record. Plotting came naturally to her; character came harder. She kept putting people in rooms without knowing what to do with them. ...
Weekly Contest #350
Ellen Anderson had lived long enough to know trouble didn't announce itself. It didn't knock, call, or send a letter. It just showed up like mud tracked across a clean floor, a door left ajar, or a stranger who didn't quite fit. Eighty-one years had taught her that. Eighty-one years, and she still trusted that feeling. She stood at the kitchen sink at 106 Arbor Court, holding a chipped teacup she'd owned for so long she couldn’t remember where it came from. Outside, spring had reluctantly come to North Haven. The snow was gone, the ground wa...
Weekly Contest #348
Thump. Thump. Thump. Somewhere between twelve and thirty, Daryl Whitecloud figured out that your body doesn’t care about your uncertainty. Your mind can turn a question over and over in the dark — pick it up, set it down, examine it from every angle — but your heart just keeps going. Steady. Insistent. It doesn’t give a damn whether you’ve got yourself figured out yet.―――First time Daryl heard the question, he was twelve, sitting in his grandfather's birchwood canoe on a lake so still it looked like glass. His grandfather lifted a cedar padd...
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