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Weekly Contest #351
“I’m sorry if this hurts, but what happened between us the other day was a terrible experience for me,” said Rose. She kept her distance, arms wrapped around her chest. He smiled softly and reached for her face. His arms strained against the sleeves of his shirt. The sight of him sent something hot and helpless through her body. She bent over, as if fighting the urge to throw up. “I know,” he said. “That’s what made it real.” He stepped— *** Wait. What? Rose looked up from the page. “What?” she said. You’re supposed to throw yourself int...
Weekly Contest #350
By the time Laura Scheinbaum arrived, Walter Schmidt, known on that stretch of the street as Fix-It Walt, had already identified three things that needed correcting. Mrs. Rothchild’s geraniums needed to be moved twelve inches to the left to catch the morning sun. He had seen that the moment he rose from his cardboard bed on the upper landing of Number 6. The second was one he had been timing for days: the crossing signal changed two seconds too soon for Mrs. Schultz, in her eighties, to get across safely with her trolley. He found the third ...
Weekly Contest #349
The strip came up orange again, edging toward red; a step closer to hunger. She took it to the shed and held the damp paper beside the faded color chart, only to confirm what she already knew. The scale, though, narrowed the margin they had left. The others will find out when the sweet potatoes fail to sprout. The handheld radio crackled on the bench. “Mom?” Cyn called. Her voice was faint, followed by a rush of coughing she couldn’t stop. The radio crackled again. Sally’s eyes filled with tears every time she heard it. The shaking, the fold...
Weekly Contest #348
Whitehall 2743 This number is too old. It shouldn’t work. I dial it anyway. When it rings, I grip the phone tighter. I didn’t expect it to. “Front desk.” I freeze. The sanitarium closed decades ago. “Hello?” I murmur. “Well, hello, love. Haven’t heard a new voice in ages.” That can’t be right. The line carries more noise than usual. “May I—” A breath. “I thought I might. Not you, not— just… someone.” A small laugh, dry. “Anyone, really. By now.” I press my thumb to the end-call button. “I suppose you’re still there, since the ringing didn’t ...
Weekly Contest #347
Margaret Stork JFK - LHR20:457F The boarding pass lay on the table beside an empty wine glass.“Yes, yes, Claire.”Maggie tipped back the last of the wine.“Of course I’m going.”She twisted a strand of hair around her fingers until it hurt.“Please. Just tell Mom I’m coming.”She stood, pinning the phone between her shoulder and jaw, and crossed to the counter. The screen went dark. The boarding pass wrinkled in her fist.“Just the wine?”Maggie nodded, already handing over a bill. Back at the table, she poured the wine into the glass. Her phone li...
Weekly Contest #346
The ice is white and opaque on the surface, like packed snow floating in my whiskey. Harsh as life. As the blunt and final chance she gave me.It’s transparent where it meets the honey-colored liquid. Like a promise of soothing heat down my throat. A devil’s promise that’s most attractive just because it’s true. At a cost.My heart starts to pound.She must be waiting for me to call. She’s warned me. And this time she means it.“Road’s closed till tomorrow,” the barman announces.Murmurs rise around the room, broken now and then by complaints and...
Weekly Contest #339
The terrace of that café was always in the shade. The winter sun lit the tables on the other side of the street, but no one here seemed to mind. At that hour, the shade was enough.He sat at the same table as always.The waiter passed by, dressed as if the cold didn’t fully apply to him, his tray full of glasses and cups.From his table, Mount Teide was visible between buildings, clear and unmoving.When the waiter returned, he was already carrying the barraquito and set it down in front of him.“Good to see you,” he said.The table wobbled, unbal...
Weekly Contest #338
She walks the streets without hurry. It has become her habit now: to leave time unused, to let it pool before something happens. The pavement is still damp from a morning rain that never quite decided to fall, and the air smells faintly metallic - the scent of a city that has already been handled too much today.She looks around, letting the pace guide her steps. A building to her right draws her attention at once. She stops and looks up. The sign by the door is the only invitation she needs.She has not entered a place like this in years.She ...
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