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Weekly Contest #374
“I serve you dust when I kill the light. I catch the smokeless without a fight.” A dozen thoughts fly through my head as I set down my half-full wineglass on our cocktail table. I mouth the inaudible until I speak one word that rises above the rest: “Ashtray.” Holding up her icebreaker card, Margaux rolls her eyes, then nods. Booyah! My smartwatch lights up green with a black “+3” in the middle; Margaux’s lights up red with a “-3.” I’m closing the gap and coming for the tenants. Geoffrey, our host, calls the game’s final five players the ten...
Weekly Contest #293
Daddy was seven when we met on the streets. “How old are angels when they die?” I’d asked Daddy a lot of questions before. “Why is the sky blue?” He’d cleared his throat, readying that bass-low pitch. “The many seas of this flat world we live in be reflecting sunlight back, kiddo. So the blue of the seas mixed with sunlight makes the light blue that goes all over up above.” My jaw had hung open. Jaw open, I awaited that thick chunk of pancakes hanging on my fork. Daddy’s answers to my questions came long before the 7-am pancakes and the surr...
Weekly Contest #257
Where’s the funeral? I picture tears collaborating with the sad coos, which slide from a low register to a high pitch – like a child squeaking between sobs. Broken hearts, maybe? “So that’s why they call them mourning doves,” I remember saying with the youth of a seven-year-old. Riding my bike past the autumn leaves, I heard more of the mourning doves in the afternoon. They must’ve been the ones that slowly made the sky blue. Oh, the things I at seven could imagine. Then Clyde rode up to me. “Recrest Street corner Bastianne Drive, hurry!” he...
Weekly Contest #212
Hola, Gaspar, It has been a while. Gracias a Dios Señor Felipe, the mailman, agreed to take this letter to you. He just told me to leave it and a white blanket sticking out of a closed first-floor window. I hear that he’s willing to do the same with you if ever you wish to also send me a letter. Just do the blanket thingy like I do. No te preocupes, he only takes the letter. It’s a little weird. Señor Felipe wore a scarf over half of his face and these thick raggedy gloves. Well, he’s not alone. Papa ties his blanket around his neck like a c...
Weekly Contest #209
I peeked at him through the corner of my eye. He looked back, barely turning his head. I snapped back to my window. Then both his eyes focused on the road. “If you try any funny business, sweetie,” he said, “it’s only me who’ll end up laughing.” I nodded and wiped my cheeks dry with the back of my hand. He pointed at the glove compartment. When I opened it, a box of tissues tilted down. I got two sheets and mouthed the words “thank you” to him. “Apologies for being firm. You can’t be too safe when taking in a hitchhiker.” Sinking back in...
Shortlisted for Weekly Contest #179 ⭐️
1) Start fresh and carry on Congratulations, you beautiful breathing thing. Stray bullets from the celebratory gunshots missed your skin on New Year’s Eve. The curfew applauds your compliance, and as promised, you’ve reaped safety. Now, put out that cigarette. You know he despises the sting of your bitter breath—as if his strikes anyone like a wreath of roses. Those “welcome home” kisses bring about the exchange, and his demand repeated through time builds up in volume. This year, don’t wait till his actions speak louder than words. Reme...
Weekly Contest #171
Covering her ears, she watched the clock. No burst of sound must catch her off guard. Ever. Tick. Tick. Tick. The final bell rang. Susie charged into the traffic of students, slipping past their shoulders. Upon seeing Mrs. Marghast’s office, she stopped and peeked through the glass. Her guidance counselor and friend, with her back to the door, fixed a few of the little things hanging on the wall. Susie closed her eyes, her hand feeling the doorknob. Mrs. Marghast turned around as a hinge squeaked from behind. Her eyes grew gentle. “Priscilla...
Weekly Contest #141
I looked up at its façade, looked back down to my phone, then looked up again. The photo matched. Expectation equaled reality. “Today’s Diner,” I whispered, reading the sickly sign. “Why? Is it gone tomorrow?” I got the place right, yes, but I had no idea why Mom—who loved the company of heavenly cuisine, sparkling ambiance, and five stars all around—would dare to set foot in it. Maybe it gets better beyond the cracked windows, stuttering neon lights, and stained walls, I thought. Mom’s arctic-white SUV was parked right outside, and I kne...
Weekly Contest #138
Haste and tumbles layered the floors of roller skate discos, long lines in restaurants barely moved, and house parties brought the noise. Friday night had arrived at last, and Hunter, with his clean afro and chocolate skin, was on his way to get a gulp of that good time. His squad of bros from high school waited for him near the ticket booth, hoping to get good seats. After the explosive film, they played rounds of bowling on the mall’s basement floor. Sad scores broke out countless laughs from the bunch, and strikes made a few go cocky. The...
Weekly Contest #135
“The worst of fears acts like a contagion,” my mom, the bookkeeper, used to say, “like a rumor that seeks a wider audience.” Slam... Slam... Slam... The doors of our small town on a cliff sliced winds short, acting on their purpose, which was to shut out the unwanted. The fog had arrived with the evening, weighing down our roads. It was like a scorching poison to us. Our visitors would often ask why, and the quick question always earned a quick answer: people had been vanishing inside it—horrifying. The fog hadn’t always been an enemy. It...
Weekly Contest #130
Written by Maynard Maxwell—the credits of three record-breaking shows were quite familiar with these words. Millions of people had seen what a British scriptwriter living in California can do. Maynard himself had been doing fine with his wits and talent alone. He had a huge, two-story apartment; a smashing view; and a glossy BMW parked in his own parking spot. He, of course, had friends, but his hours of vacancy belonged to family time. Speaking of family, one of them just walked out of the shower with a towel over her chest. “Good morning...
Weekly Contest #129
Noah fought to find refuge, dragging his ski boots through the snow. Winds kept throwing punches ever since rapid snow filled the evening sky. Doomed to walk the distance, Noah kept holding on to one ski as if it had life to spare; the other one stayed broken, sticking out like a thorn from his backpack. His eyes, holding on to a shard of visibility, never strayed from an image on the snow—a tall, wide rest house tucked between trees. It looked abandoned, for there were no lights. After enduring his ice-cold penitence, he busted through the...
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