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Weekly Contest #354
This story contains off-color language and some crudeness. Someone is yelling at me. A hand twists into my down winter coat at the shoulder, pulling my whole body askew and slightly off balance. I look over and see an old man, face contorted in plosive admonishment. Words fall out in a tin-pot canter, too fast for me to understand. My Chinese is not good. Dangerous. Idiot. Look forward. I look up to see the white BYD freighter trundling down the road and leaving black effusions in its wake. Its driver is still leaning into the horn, wailing ...
Weekly Contest #352
Murray walked out the door and into the late afternoon. Early-evening winds jogged over the blasted topsoil of the parking area; its black surface dominated by itinerant veins of oily leakage sprung from a lineage of underserved and cheap cars. Over this geography, the gust of air lifted itself to meet the concrete structure of the factory, towing in the updraft a chemical bite of chloride and ammonia scraped from the ground. It was a particular breed of wind that tended to burn the nostrils and loiter in the chest. Murry stopped at the topm...
Weekly Contest #273
There are poems written about snow. Brzezinski knew this was true because he had heard them from books in his youth. They had belonged to his father, an educated foreigner who entered a government van one day and was never seen again. His mother had brought the dusty books out sometimes from their secret place, after the lights were turned off, and translated them. And more than a few of those stories were about snow – how beautiful it was, it’s delicacy and purity. How it made the world feel clean and new. Maybe snow was different in other ...
Weekly Contest #272
Please note, there are some references to sexual harassment, violence, and animal abuse in this story. Marites cursed as she returned her glasses to rest on the bridge of her nose. She had just wiped away the collected steam from their lenses when she looked up to see the line. Under the pale lights that ran the spine of the building’s foyer stood a motley assembly of her neighbors, their discontent voiced in tapping shoes and murmured conversation. The elevators. Again. A mechanical hiss and a breath of hot air from the bustling a...
Weekly Contest #252
Defeat exerts a geologic force on the spirit. Over time, parts of the mind sag under its tectonic pressure. Left untended, this burden sharpens and eventually punctures some vital organ of the soul. What hope and vitality remains bleeds out in a bitter ash, to be swept away on the currents of the world. Lenn was a man meant to suffer such. He was aware of it too, for all the world whispered the message. Standing now under the overcast skies that spread across his homestead, he heard their voices. In the foreclosed shack once called a home,...
Weekly Contest #250
I should write that this confession comes from nobler motivations than what it is: fear. But I cannot – I am afraid, and my fear grows by the hour. I am sorry for the course I am about to take, and I regret the weakness which dictates my actions, but in hard confessions the truth should not be subordinated to pretense. I will adhere to that dictum now. I write this because I am about to take my life, a trespass which may very well consign my soul to Hell’s damnation. I fear for myself. But I have traded for this sin one greater, whose transg...
Weekly Contest #233
People had laughed at him. Called him an old fool. Well, Jeremiah didn’t care. It had been a month without the summer rains, and things were dire— even his little pump-well had run dry. As he walked, he mused how the younger generation had seemed to have turned sour. Mired too much in their education, their almanacs, the lectures and dictates of government men who came by with leaflets on fertilizers. Something in that mix had made the young people mean-spirited, spiteful towards old things; mocking and irreverent. Jeremiah spat into the dus...
Weekly Contest #229
“Three hundred and sixty-four days worked, to one day off!”…Mergle hadn’t known he was going to speak until he already was, his voice broken and hot as he stood upon the crate. He had yet to articulate within himself the reasons that prompted him to action, yet he knew they were informed by a long dormant rage which moved internally like a geologic force. Tears welled in his eyes and slid down his green face. Yes, rage. That all-consuming fire that burnt low and idle in the soul until some catalyst set it loose in a torrent that engulfed all...
Weekly Contest #226
Uncle Phil stood in the highway; hands on his hips and comely smile spread across his bearded face. He wore a bright red sweater with yellow pin-stripes and corduroy pants natural to the style of his time. Rain fell around him, sogging the edges of his cardboard frame and slowly wilting his structural integrity into a collapsing blanket. Wind rocked him on the cardboard triangle that propped him upright. Given time he would be knocked over and become so much mush on the road. But not yet.He had been stolen from a local high school’s Winter F...
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