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Weekly Contest #209
The yum of the car was the sound that woke him. Blind, tugged tight across his face, the ever stagnant drone -- yum -- of the car, and the oncoming air pushing, gushing through the slipstream shield of breaking speed. A facsimile of falling in his mind, a drug wear-off, falling deeper and deeper, and the voluminous light erupting through the clouds below -- yum -- and day is there on the other side, coffee-filter-esque through the spattered bugs on the windshield. And a shake -- yum -- and another and the slipping throttle of an engine stuck...
Forty. Forty miles and he had arrived here. It was the number that he set in his mind. Drive forty miles, come out the other side of this hell hole we call a living. Didn't pan out it would seem.The station door screeched open, a lone strip of the rubber duster caught underneath the door itself. It was being crushed. Something out of Dante, he thought to himself. Set to be trampled by that which he was a part of. He laughed, backed up. The door screamed close. He laughed again. He went forward. Open. Laughed. After five minutes of opening an...
Weekly Contest #122
Walking through the aisles was all that he thought to do. As time ticked on and the world rotated, the best thing, in Edward's mind, was to walk up and down the aisles, looking at the books and CDs, wondering whether or not taking one would really be illegal. If you were trapped in a mall, would you take one? Guess you never really know till your in the situation yourself. Edward plucked a book off the shelf. The book was a thick one with art that resembled a boy walking through a maze. Heh, thought Edward, guess the world wants to taunt m...
Weekly Contest #121
[*This story does contain some violent images and slight foul language.*] Samantha Ward sat at her desk in her little basement office day-dreaming about what she would cook for dinner tonight. Well, it was already night, so maybe whatever she would cook for breakfast would be best. She was going over in her head all the different things. Waffles with syrup dripping down the sides into little pools of sticky and gooey sweetness, all of which is complemented only by the crispiest and most tender fried chicken that - Oh no!. . . seems to have g...
Weekly Contest #120
Dear Halloway, Back in my day, during the old scares of cholera and Ebola, we didn't have any of these terrible differences that we have now. We loved each other as people-neighbors. Nowadays, life is oriented from a point of view that is relevant to the selfish mind. That does sadden me. You, son, are an example of the opposite in the world. You give thanks to those that give you treats and you give treats to those who give thanks. You are the greatest man I know, and, though my old age messes with my memory sometimes, I know that you are...
It was a hot summer day when when Terence Hall found a photo-album. He had come across this collection of photos when clearing out his mother's estate. She had died of a blood clot travelling to her heart shortly after a knee surgery. Eleanor Hall was found unresponsive, laying in her bathtub, her head poking barely above the surface of the cold water, her lips blue with sadness and her eyes shut in peace. "What do you have there?" Clara asked. Clara was his wife and his best friend. She had agreed to come along and help him with this. Al...
David Martin cried for hours at his desk, his notes strewn across the hardwood floor. He had been writing for two days straight and his words were now a jumbled mess lying dead on the floor of his study. He hadn't killed those words. They just died. That's how it is sometimes, you think of something, something really brillaint, and that idea is ripped from your bodice of an intellect so quickly that you have no time to finish it. A miscarriage of the mind. So as David Martin lay, head down, tears streaming down his cheeks, he missed his sto...
Weekly Contest #115
There he sat, the true person of ages, at his great typewriter, writing his stories for the masses to read. He has no name, and nor should you think to give him one. You should refer to him by a title of no importance: The Writer. He sits still, his mind wavering on the words that should but be placed on the portrait of his world. His inspiration limited only to his imagination, he strives for the world in a new light. "Bathel Alta," he says, his eyes flittering across the paper propped in his typing machine. "My name, should it ever arise...
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