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Weekly Contest #328
The attic smells like cedar and dust and the faint ghost of my mother’s perfume—something floral that never really suited her. The air’s thick enough to taste. I shouldn’t be up here yet. I told myself I’d only go through the boxes when I was ready, but grief makes a liar out of you. The floorboards groan beneath me as I crawl between stacks of old holiday bins and cardboard marked in her careful handwriting—WINTER, PHOTOS, MISC. There’s one that catches my eye: SUMMER 2003. My throat tightens. I sit cross-legged on the floor and lift the li...
Weekly Contest #327
She used to hum when she cast spells. Soft little tunes that made the air shimmer and the walls sigh in relief. Now she mutters to ghosts only she can hear, and her magic leaks through the cracks—like rainwater through a roof that once kept us dry. I used to curl against her shoulder as the light bent for her. Now I watch the sparks slip away, useless and wild, while she forgets the words that once made them dance.The smell of burnt lavender lingers in the air, sweet and wrong. Her hands tremble around a chipped teacup, her lips moving sound...
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