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Weekly Contest #346
King.That was the name they gave him when he was born.His name on the farm was Seamus Finnegan, and he was about sixteen months old when he arrived.Farmer Finnegan gave him that name. His birth name had been King, but that name suggested elegance, grace, and sophistication.Seamus possessed none of those traits.He was an Irish Wolfhound.From a long line of champions, Seamus had been judged too big, too clumsy, and far too rambunctious to be a show dog. The farmer’s son was the one who made that decision. To him, dogs weren’t companions.They w...
Weekly Contest #345
It was a cold November night.The kind of cold that would make frost giants cry.On a forgotten country road stood an old man beside a battered 1957 Chevy truck. Most people would have called the truck rusted junk.The old man called it a classic.A pothole had just destroyed the left front tire, and the old man muttered under his breath as he crouched beside the wheel, pulling tools from the truck bed. His breath drifted into the air in pale clouds as he began loosening the lug nuts.Then the growl came from the woods.The old man froze.That soun...
Weekly Contest #344
The fire had burned low, and the room smelled of tallow and winter apples. Beneath the blankets, the old man’s chest rose and fell as though each breath required permission.His granddaughter sat beside him, book open in her lap.“—and the mighty Beowulf seized the monster’s arm in his bare hands, and with the strength of ten men—”“That is not how it happened,” the old man said.She smiled faintly. “It’s a story.”“It is a story,” he agreed. “But it is not only a story.”She hesitated. “You were there?”“I was there,” he said. “For all of it.”She ...
Weekly Contest #342
The Date...Smith knew the knock wasn’t normal.Normal knocks didn’t carry that kind of weight. They didn’t feel like intention pressed flat against the door.He opened it anyway.Prudence stood there.She had tried. Not loudly. Not theatrically. But intentionally.Dark dress. Clean lines. Hair pinned back just enough to show effort. Eyes steady, but expectant.Behind him, Bruno stepped into view, enormous head level with Smith’s ribs, golden eyes locked on her.Prudence looked him over.Old boots. Faded black shirt. Jeans with dog hair clinging to t...
Weekly Contest #341
Smith was halfway through not caring about anything when his phone rang.Unknown number.He stared at it like it had personally offended him.Then it rang again.And again.“Whoever this is,” he muttered, “you’ve got about three seconds before I throw this thing into a river and claim it was self-defense.”He answered. “Yeah?”A woman’s voice came through—calm, controlled, and so perfectly composed it made his skin crawl.“They are with me.”Smith sat up so fast the chair squealed. “Who is this.”A pause. Not confusion. Not hesitation. Just patience. ...
Weekly Contest #340
Run.Don’t stop.Don’t slow.The air behind me still feels wrong, like the moment after a loud crash when your ears keep ringing even though the sound is gone. That hollow feeling. That space where something should be, but isn’t. Like a bowl that used to hold food and now only smells like memory.He’s gone.And I know who took him.I burst through the front door like a missile with paws, claws scraping wood, heart hammering so loud it drowns out everything else. The porch flashes past——and there they are.Ms. Agatha in her porch chair, perfectly st...
Weekly Contest #339
It was Smith’s first cup of coffee in his new house.It wasn’t his first house. He had a home once. A family. A jealous, angry stepmother ruined that. You’d think a half-god who’d lived nearly four thousand years would have owned several homes, saved ancient trinkets, invested wisely, maybe even been a billionaire.But that wasn’t Smith.He lived on the land. He believed in only taking what you could carry—even though the man could literally carry a mountain. He didn’t want this house. He liked his life the way it was.But somehow, he’d become a...
Weekly Contest #338
Prudence knew the meeting had failed the moment Stacy with Three E’s asked where the snacks were.Not if there would be snacks.Where.“This is not a party,” Prudence said.“That’s what people always say right before it becomes one,” Stacy replied, already sitting. “Also, why is there a circle?”“Circles encourage honesty,” Prudence said.“Circles encourage crying,” Stacy shot back.Pond Evergreen stood near the window, hands folded behind her back, smiling faintly at nothing in particular. She looked like a woman who noticed everything and comment...
Weekly Contest #329
I knew the night was going wrong the second the jukebox started playing the same damn song it had been stuck on the last three Tuesdays. That, and the fact the demon was already on his third pitcher. The bar was one of those places that only exists after midnight—sticky floor, bad neon, a bartender who looked like he’d died in ’92 and never got the memo. We liked it because the lights were dim and the regulars minded their own business. Easy hunting. Drunks, drifters, lonely idiots who wouldn’t be missed. Perfect for monsters like us. The va...
Weekly Contest #328
The city smelled of burnt ozone and feathers. Streetlights flickered like nerves, afraid to stay on. John Merlin stood in the middle of it, coat torn, eyes quiet—the look of a man who had finally run out of arguments with the universe. Matilda limped to his side. For now she was a dog—black-and-brown mutt, one crooked ear, dragon’s gold eyes—but scales shimmered under her fur like a storm trying to remember itself. She pressed her head against his thigh and huffed. Mr. Whiskers hopped onto a mailbox and wrapped his tail around his paws. Just...
Weekly Contest #327
Matilda’s Keeper by Jim Moore (as told by Lucifer Morningstar) Hello. My name is Lucifer Morningstar, and before you roll your eyes—no, I did not choose that name. If I’d had any say, I would’ve gone with something sensible like Mr. Whiskers, Fluffy, or even Midnight. But no, the witches decided I needed something dramatic and infernal. Figures. Anyway, since you’re reading this and can’t see the illustrations, I should tell you I’m a cat—a sleek black tom with a white star-shaped patch over my right eye. It’s not paint, and it’s not irony. ...
Weekly Contest #326
The 1977 Impala slid off the two-lane like a shark easing into shallow water—windows down, radio up, four monsters inside laughing as if the night were a joke they’d already told. Lucien, the vampire, practiced his smirk in the mirror that he absolutely did not need. “You know what I miss about the Renaissance?” he said. “Murder had style.” Rex, the werewolf, cracked his knuckles and a beer with the same motion. “Style’s a condiment. I prefer flavor.” Dax, the demon, shouldered a scarred camcorder and framed them as if he were directing a co...
Weekly Contest #325
I feel the breeze brush against my skin, soft and cold, and for the briefest second, I swear I can feel him beside me again. It slips through the torn screen, smelling faintly of river mud and cut grass. The curtains lift and fall. The porch glider creaks. Out in the yard, the maple leaves flip their pale bellies to the sky as if they’re ready to tell a secret. I stand there, hand on the doorframe, and let the wind climb the inside of my wrist like it used to when I was small—when I had a hand to hold that made everything ordinary and safe. ...
Weekly Contest #324
Once upon a more dignified time, I wore velvet waistcoats, wrote with a raven-feather quill, and was addressed as “Master Sinclair.” I dined with queens, lectured on alchemy, and owned more hair than modesty. Now I have fins. Not elegant fins, mind you. I am a goldfish—orange as a poorly baked tart and round as a teacup. My world is six inches wide: a glass bowl, a pink plastic castle, a gumdrop-blue pebble, and a filter that hums lullabies of captivity. My keeper is a teenage sorceress who smells of strawberry lip gloss and chaos. Her name ...
Weekly Contest #323
Most mornings start the same for me. I wake before the sun — sometime between 5:30 and 6 — and go through the small, automatic motions that make the day manageable. Coffee used to be the anchor; now it’s a cold can of C4. Pop the tab, take that first bite of fizz and caffeine, and the day lines up behind it like obedient ducks. It’s little, stupid, perfect. A ritual. This morning the fridge betrayed me. A bare patch stared back where a silver can should have been. I stood there for a second, feeling the ritual slip like a missed step. Then I...
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