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Weekly Contest #172
TW: violence, substance abuse “On your feet Emerson.” I stand with hands above my head, legs spread-eagle. The door swings open, clanking into the wall. The guard’s belt is slung with weapons— gun, taser. I shift my eyes away from the gun, away from his stare. I fix them on a point beyond his shoulder. He pats me down, cuffs my hands. The walk to the courtroom is endless. The overhead lights reflect in the shining laminate floors, the hallways echo with the click of heels. My mouth is dry, hands sweaty, heart racing. The tang of adrenali...
Weekly Contest #169
The worst part was, it was leaking. Turning the carpet under my bed into a puddle the size of a swimming pool. Which, yeah, I’d begged Dad to build one this summer, but in like, I don’t know, the backyard? At least my room was above the bathroom. Can you imagine the questions if the solid “drip, drip, drip” started pelting my parents in the face while they lay in bed? “Don’t worry Mom, just a little monster. Looks like a baby, really. Why is it sitting in a puddle of its own excrement? Gee, I don’t know. Is it sweat? Is it drool?” I took a...
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