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Weekly Contest #363
Every single time Ruby sat down on her small wooden desk, her laptop would show the usual blank page. Opened in front of her, with the cursor blinking on the sheet, indicating the need to finally add the words that would make her story flood the pages. Every morning she would sit down and try to concentrate, to channel her thoughts into writable constructions. But her ideas seemed to be extracted from her. Just like when she decided to throw away all of her belongings. Her mother used to collect all kinds of things. She would pile them up on...
Weekly Contest #362
Tread and Mill. There was enough time to think about the logic behind words when running for your life. Tread came from the treading. From the sheer endless steps he was pumping into the machine. It came from the sound his sneakers made on the hard rubber. Mill came from the farming. Just like a mill for grain, investing energy to work the harvest. The mill would just go on, move in circles with steady production. Dave felt like he was harvesting himself. His calves burned from the steps he took, almost flying at the high velocity he put on ...
Weekly Contest #361
Summer 2072"A global heat wave still rolls over the East of Europe. Experts advise you to drink enough, use skin protection and avoid direct exposition to the sun."The reporter's voice is flat, stripped bare of all emotions. It's not her first time delivering the exact same message. Not the first year. The first summer. It won't even be summer and she will still repeat it over and over, like a broken robot."Do you want another towel?" He asks his daughter, already rinsing it with semi-cold water from the sink. Martha takes it, questioning."W...
Weekly Contest #360
Malik remembered the day they met like a tattoo on his heart, with a heat that lingers long after. The bar was loud that Friday and Malik, on his fifth yawn, messed up the foam on a beer. Meanwhile, Felicitas was wiping her glass with theatrical precision, still playing their guessing game. „The word is the colour of my hair.“He snorted „Brown?“ „Specific, Malik. Try again. You know these little stones where insects are trapped in?“ He opened his mouth to answer, as one of the birthday guests met the bar. His mind still rattling with colour...
Weekly Contest #358
CW: violence, blood, death, mentions of sexual abuse Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake. Or maybe it was their second, since putting me through this had to be their first. At least, these were my thoughts before I entered the scene. Now, the moment the school bell rings, I run for my life. The room is dim with windows covered in soot and dirt, unable to let light through. Chairs and tables mix up on the floor, broken. All from the explosion, I guess. On the whiteboard, some old formulas are still written. A cylinder, drawn ...
Weekly Contest #357
Friday, 6:38 p.m.TV’s on. Ravioli fresh out of the can. Hand in shorts. Lying on the sofa. Room warm. Rest of daylight through almost closed curtains. Waiting for the scene. There he comes. Black tuxedo. Hair perfect. Looking like a model. Audience clapping. Stomping. Loud. It’s him. Aleksander Marquardt. A star. Turning up the volume. Taking in every piece. Three steps. Turn around. Wave. Reporter blushing. Sander smiling. Like right out of a toothpaste commercial. Fake. But delicate. Not like with me. Met him few weeks ago. A Friday as wel...
Weekly Contest #356
“I can’t sleep”Standing in the doorway with her pink teddy bear, Jonathan’s sister rubs her eyes. Sitting on the plain burgundy sofa, Jonathan’s mom pauses mid-sip, putting her glass of sauvignon down with a clink. “It’s okay, darling. Just put on an audiobook.” Their dad not even listening, instead highly invested in his online shopping, Jonathan fiddling with the ropes of his jumper, Abigail’s gaze drifts past all of them and lands on Rafaela, searching, almost pleading. Rafaela freezes. She’s not used to that look, especially by a child....
Weekly Contest #355
It’s always a pity when a king dies. And when I say it’s a pity, I really mean it’s a pity. Not a disaster. Not even doomsday. It’s as horrifying as if your professor called in sick for tomorrow. Bad for them probably. But for you? Imagine this when thinking about a king’s death. Imagine all the young men gathering around his bed. When the king dies, a new one is looked for, meaning someone is about to climb the throne and to call a whole kingdom as possession. And hell yes, it’s as terrifying as it sounds. Not only because a lone person sh...
Weekly Contest #354
CW: misogyny, stalking, femicide Up-down. Up-down. The man’s knee was trembling, shivering as if to a high up-beat. With his worn-out sneakers and his green hoodie, the guy in front of officer Mile couldn’t be older than twenty. His jet-black hair was sticking to his sweaty forehead, his eyes not darting around the room, as most one’s do, but instead fixed on an imaginary point somewhere in the corner of the small office. Maybe he was looking at the huge black spider that made it into the office a few days ago and that officer Mile just cou...
Weekly Contest #353
„The Rain Man is coming.“ My grandma’s finger desperately clamp around my wrists, her rough hands trembling with the last strength she has left. Her eyes dart feverishly arond the small hospital room, her head rocking in small, frantic motions. „Beware of the Rain Man.“ Only when her eyes close and her body goes still, her hands slipping from my arms, do I understand that these were her last words.It takes me three days to find out what she meant. After the last two, which I desperately needed off from work, being back at my place in the lab...
Weekly Contest #352
Frozen, I muster Mason’s face, its lower half hidden behind a thick layer of lead, where his helmet intended to protect his dear life. Only that this helmet has just terribly failed. „Darren, what happened?“, the others‘ voices call, but my gaze stays locked on Maosn’s beauty, now gone to eternity. Still I remember the day we first shook hands in combat, one of the last lessons of our ultimate year. Me being a small lonely boy never ready to dive into a fight, but there he was: Pretty Mason, offering me his hand as if asking me to dance not...
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