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Weekly Contest #307
Louis typed like ticker tape. Click click click. His ginger hair jittered like fire and his fingers worked in a fury of resentment. Beside him, drafts, abandoned, scribbled in red pen, scrunched into balls, folded into origami, paper planes and cranes. A pile I’d have to burn later. Somewhere a telephone rang. He looked up, cigarette dangled, grey ash curling backwards towards his lips. ‘Don’t answer that,’ he said. ‘What if it’s Jules,’ I said. A pause. Louis nodded, keys pressed down again like automatic fire. I squeezed between two le...
Weekly Contest #286
In every instance of my investigation, in my poking, in every timeline, in any tangible, traversable point, and in all my efforts, my mother always dies. Whether it was cold blooded murder, or something completely innocent to the untrained eye; driving over a speed bump triggering a brain bleed, an argument, or just a spiral of causations and effects that were lost in my chasing. I followed all such incidents, like a speck of dust through a sandstorm. And when I took the precautions, when I remembered that particular chip in that...
Shortlisted for Contest #279 ⭐️
Missing in action. That’s what they said. A phrase so indefinite- I can imagine him walking back through the cloud of smoke and snowfall and slinking back into our foxhole to tell me all about it. A phrase which always invites questions in my mind. Is he still walking? Does he know I’m still waiting? I’m sure he’d laugh at how I’ve turned out. I still see him. In dreams, in drunken stupors, mistaken in strangers. He’s never aged as I have, no joint pain or creases, he isn’t missing any limbs. No scars or thin...
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