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Weekly Contest #215
Dennis Preen scowled as he got out of his Audi. The noxious blanket from the paper mill covered the town today, giving him a banger of a headache. The prickly summer heat didn’t help matters. He could feel his armpits seeping the second he emerged from the civilized comfort of the car’s air conditioning. He paused only to retrieve his briefcase from the trunk before stomping up the hill, shading his eyes from the cresting sun. He saw the old man’s bald red skull bobbing in time with an unheard melody through the sweat stinging his eyes and ...
Weekly Contest #214
Indian summer always turns my thoughts to my father. All men have a season; his was late summer; the days often blistering hot but the nights turning cool and promising the relief of autumn. I remember the hay bales and corn husks starting to tower in the green fields. I remember cookout smoke, pop-tops sssshing open, and the deep laughter of men. Most of all, though, I remember my father, quietly brooding amidst a cloud of bluish white cigar smoke, his deep-set eyes searching the horizon for he alone knew what. I remember his hair, once je...
Weekly Contest #213
Everett McAllister’s gravedigger’s eyes bore into the new buck as his squaw spoke to him. “Would you look at that, Iggy? You can even see his whiskers!” “Pipe down, Stacy---you’re ruining the mood!” Iggy’s hair hang down in lank, greasy strands. Sweat dripped into his left eye, ruining his squint. It had to be 80 degrees here. Everett waited quietly, humming a bit. “McCallister!” called Iggy. “You’re gonna pay for what you’ve done to the people of Muskrat Ridge, do you hear me?” He did his best, but soft men can never look hard. Everett...
Weekly Contest #212
It was an envelope. A white envelope which felt oddly heavy as Neve Temple ran her fingers over its edges as she contemplated what to do with it. The oddly-flourished iridescent green lettering had her address on it all right, but the name of the addressee---one Gyles Mayhew---didn’t live here. She could just write Not At This Address and drop it back in her box, but something about the way the ink sparkled and the strange, almost plastic smoothness of the envelope brought her up short. This letter was just odd. She held it up to the sunl...
Weekly Contest #211
The crackling flames were a time machine. They took him back to the past, to better times, to youth and vigor and laughter. He missed laughter. Everything now was sadness and anger. He shifted in his chair, feeling his anger rise. He was wet again. Why didn’t somebody do something about it? The dampness was akin to a swimsuit, the recollection of which drew him back to the beach, the sun and surf and the coconut smell of the lotion sticky on his hairy legs. “Does he even know I’m here?” Jeff was irritated. “He knows. He’s not a vegetable....
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