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Weekly Contest #351
Only the mother acknowledges me at first. My body knows that it’s her by the timid creak of the door, the mellow footsteps padding the carpet. In the beginning, she sits in the rocking chair in the corner of the room and just watches me. I always lack self control in these earlier stages. It’s for the best that she doesn’t come too close. As the days go by, she grows more comfortable, and I more self aware. Her hands encircle my wrists over the chains they’ve bound me with, and she rocks back and forth while muttering things like where has ...
Weekly Contest #282
There’s sheet music on the stand with my name on it. I’ve never seen it before in my life. It’s five in the afternoon and there’s just enough light streaming through the cracks in the blinds to be able to make out the notes. Nocturne for Kole is scribbled across the top of the page. Jarring to see her handwriting appear again so suddenly, and to still recognize it. Feels utterly mundane and supernatural all at once; like finding a ghost in your hamper. I squint my eyes in the living room dusk, my hands fumbling over the phrases. Since s...
Winner of Weekly Contest #239 🏆
“God is dead.” “Which one?” “I meant it as more of a blanket statement, but if we’re getting into specifics, I guess I mean the one that I killed.” [When | the | god | of | cause-and-effect | is | slaughtered | in | cold | blood | everyone | knows | who | to | blame.]“People aren’t too pleased about that, you know.” “I’ve heard.”[Everyone | has | heard.]“Why did you do it?” [But | nobody | knows | the | motive.]The moment stutters and skips. A silhouette of a memory scampers down the hallway, rounding the corner in a...
Weekly Contest #172
As the earth embraces my flesh, I can’t help but recall the moment of your birth. (I’m writing this letter as I lie dead. Of course, this cannot be a physical letter, but rather a metaphysical one. You’ve always had a penchant for the abstract. I only hope you can read my handwriting. Please understand— it is rather difficult to maintain good penmanship when one no longer has a sentient body.) I’ve always derived a certain sense of satisfaction from living my life in multiples of three. You were born at exactly three past s...
Weekly Contest #152
Stories are not always formed in straight lines, but in circles. Picture a conical pendulum. Can you see it? It’s just like any other pendulum, only it hits different points each time it swings. If you connect these points, you’ll end up with something round. Back and forth it travels on its predetermined trajectory, always cutting through the center, always without a finish line in sight. This is how our story moves. We’ll start at whichever point the pendulum decides to swing towards next. It’s beyond my control, you see. Ev...
Shortlisted for Contest #146 ⭐️
Love crept in through the window silent and unannounced, like a mouse tip-toeing its way along the shadows of a dimly lit room. Or at least, that was the effect that she had been aiming for. What happened instead was a clumsy maneuver that involved stumbling over the roughly hewn wooden sill and landing on the floor of the treehouse in a crumpled heap. That was the way she made her entrances— it was the same way she had entered my life and it was the same way she greeted me everyday— stumbling, and messy, and beautiful. She smiled ...
Weekly Contest #145
I wake up in somebody else’s shoes. The reins of sleep still encircle my wrists and throat like strands of pearls, but this single ray of knowledge slices through the veil like the glint of a sharpened jewel. I know nothing else, but on this my faith is unshakeable— these are no shoes of mine. Like sheaths of molten ruby cradling the arch of my foot, grasping my ankles with clinging, bloodied fingers, they feel like an ossified skin encasing my tender flesh. I peer at them through the single standing mirror leaning agai...
When I come to him, he is scattered amidst a garden of crushed glass and wilted metal. His head is twisted to one side, mezmerized by the sanguine floret blooming beneath his cheek. He must have anticipated my arrival; his eyes drift upwards as I approach, completely devoid of surprise. Thorny edges of broken things perforate my knees as I kneel amongst the carnage. I have never seen him before, but he considers me with a certain yearning, like he has been anticipating me for a long time. It’s a shame this is no place to exchange ple...
Shortlisted for Contest #143 ⭐️
There are seventeen dreams in the sky. You count the ones within your field of vision, for there is only a limited swath of that cerulean fabric available to your naked eye at a single glance. Seventeen of them; or at least, seventeen of which have discernible shapes. Some of your favorites: The head of a whale, breaching the swell of a cresting wave. A pair of ballet slippers, the wispy breath of satin ribbons trailing behind them. A small hand, curled into the shape of a fist. A gummy bear, a deliciously larg...
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