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Weekly Contest #363
Friday brought the third named storm of the month, and in its wake, another walk to comb the strandline. Little coal today, a half-sack at best. A few bricks resting on slimy cushions of seaweed, between tiny glittering black fists scattered along the shifting three-mile path to the Creek. Razor clams crunched underfoot among the shattered debris of the seabed as he followed the winding tidemark, ripples in the sand still and soft as the ice cream being pulled onto fresh donuts back in town. Wind fought the long grass all through the mars...
Weekly Contest #359
CW: Contains themes and/or references to dementia and supernatural horror “Your Pa’s been out there at ‘imself in the hedgerows again.” says Sara. You’re halfway to the window before you can fully decode what she’s telling you, her Hull accent thick as soup in your ears. And then you’re standing at the kitchen counter, staring out to the garden like a kid at a zoo, as if keen to see a 78-year-old frantically abusing himself. You look out to an empty lawn, bordered by neat flowerbeds of fuchsia, salvia and carnations, with a row of conifers s...
Weekly Contest #355
The 60th nameday of Sanar Ul Akbari was worthy of no celebration to most who knew him well, and certainly to none who worked or lived on one of his many estates, of whom he was quick to exact rents, despite always being behind on payment of his own. It was, however, a perfect occasion for every breed of sycophant to ingratiate themselves into his dizzying orbit, and for every pavonine preener from all four empires and every free city between, to be seen and heard among the nobility they cherished, loathed, or desperately aspired to. Reckone...
Weekly Contest #350
Mike got off the tube at Regent’s Park and followed the street to Campbell Mansions. As with much of London, he knew exactly where he was going but couldn’t have told you where he was. The doors of the lift were stippled like inverted braille. He would have liked to run his fingers along them as he had as a child, but he knew better now than to touch anything in a communal stairwell. He stopped breathing almost on instinct as the door closed with him inside and only the burn of piss in his throat for company. He stared back at his khaki util...
Weekly Contest #347
| Always the Same The nightmare was always the same. Miles had charted its course since the first night. Eventually he’d written it so many times that he felt the need to post it on a few ghost story forums, just to see what people made of it and possibly get some free counselling. He knew it had been a long shot. A handful of posters took it as a cursed local legend and reshared it in other hidden places to try and build its mystique. The rest offered him constructive criticism on the plot points (which he had had to go back and dig out), ...
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