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Weekly Contest #366
The broth has to simmer slow, or it separates. I discovered that the hard way, back when I first brought Carrie home and burned the first pot black. She deserves better than a burned pot. She deserves patience, and patience is the one thing I have surrendered my whole life to give her.Morning light comes through the sheer curtains and settles on the kitchen tile. I stir. The spoon knocks the sides of the pan in a rhythm I no longer hear. Outside, the fields run flat and yellow to the treeline, and no car has passed on that road in three days...
Weekly Contest #365
They have me preserved in amber down at the clinic. Not literally. But in the waiting room, where the talk flows faster than the coffee at Dottie's Diner, I'm a specimen pinned to a board. The Heartbreaker Vet. A man so charming he could talk a cat out of a tree and your girlfriend out of her phone number in the same afternoon. The stories get passed around with the flea collars and the heartworm pills.Twenty minutes ago, I was arm-deep in a constipated sheep, which is about as glamorous as it sounds. The sheep won. I've still got lanolin in...
Weekly Contest #364
1. I Own Exactly One Lucky ObjectI'm good at exactly three things. Rolling a pie crust thin enough to read a newspaper through. Guessing a bake time within thirty seconds, no timer. And lying to myself about how much either one actually matters.Here's the other thing you should know about me before we start: I don't tell a story straight through, start to finish, all the cards face up. Never have. I let things land when they're ready to land, which means some of what's coming is going to feel like it came out of nowhere, right up until it do...
Weekly Contest #363
The wind quit around four in the morning. I sat at the kitchen table in the dark and counted the silence where it used to be. One. Two. My thumb pressed my palm on each number, an old habit surfacing the way a bruise does, days after the fall. I hadn't done that in months. I did it again now, without deciding to.By the time the sky went the color of dishwater, I went out in my father's canvas coat, the one still on its hook by the door because I'd never found the nerve to bag it for the church drive. The yard looked wrong the way a well-used...
Weekly Contest #359
She has forty-seven freckles across the bridge of her nose, and I have counted them on seven hundred and twelve separate nights. This is not adoration. This is what I tell myself.The moment she falls asleep is the moment my work begins. I pour through the dark of her flat the way cold air finds the gap beneath a door. No sound or ceremony. Only the threshold of her sleep, and then I am beside her bed, and the contract settles over me like a harness cinched in place.The paralysis takes her promptly tonight. Her chest stops its easy rise. Her ...
Weekly Contest #314
I know Arthur by his smell. Always have. His scent lives in my nose the way sunlight lives in morning grass. Worn flannel that holds decades of Saturday mornings. Old books with their patient, dusty whispers. The gentle soap he uses after his evening shower, clean and honest as rain on hot pavement. This is my master. This is home. But something is wrong. The wrongness started three weeks ago, creeping in like fog under the back door. At first, I thought it was the heat. Summer has teeth this year, and they bite deep. The air hangs thick as ...
Shortlisted for Contest #252 ⭐️
Jack Thompson’s fingers drummed a chaotic symphony against his cluttered desk, surrounded by the remnants of unrelenting perfectionism—crumpled paper mountains, an army of empty coffee cups, and the flickering screen of his laptop displaying the solitary bulwark of his creative struggle: one stubborn sentence. This single line of text, which he revised with the same unyielding dedication some might reserve for disarming a bomb, had been his nemesis and companion for five torturous years. “The sun erupted over the horizon like an overzealous ...
Shortlisted for Contest #246 ⭐️
Once, in the recesses of Josh’s cluttered study—a space so densely populated with crumpled papers and half-finished manuscripts it could have been mistaken for the lair of a particularly literary breed of dragon—a plot of exquisite pettiness took root. Josh, an author whose disposition was as sunny as a thundercloud, and whose success in the literary world was comparable to a lead balloon in an origami competition, harbored a grudge. This was no ordinary grudge; it was an epic, monumental, could-be-the-subject-of-a-Greek-tragedy kind of grud...
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