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Weekly Contest #355
Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure is nicer to cry in a Rolls Royce than on a bike. The McDarin family had four Rolls Royces, and none of them had ever learnt how to ride a bike. That should tell you more about them than anything else I could say. This story starts and ends with a burning house. The first burning house is the mantelpiece in the story of an entitled young man. The second burning house is the one he’s telling the story in—an event scheduled by Fate to occur some forty-five minutes after the telling of the first burning ho...
Weekly Contest #354
A ship exited hyperspace in the middle of the starry seas of space. Frothing waves of nebulas crashed into black holes, schools of shooting stars dispersed as supernovas chased them, and planets slowly swam along, raising their young moons and teaching them the ways of the galaxy. It was a world teeming with life on so enormous a scale that to the human eye it seemed as vast and lonely as were it empty. In front of the ship was a lighthouse, an old space station modelled after the old colonies. A large spire surrounded by a ring—an arrow pie...
Weekly Contest #353
Father Time watched the death of Mother Earth and in his sorrow became a drunkard that knew not whether to regress or progress, so in his confusion he mashed it all together and went to sleep. It was an amalgamation of past and future. People atop hover bikes, using bows and arrows to hunt the mutated animals that still lived. Smartphone flashlights lighting up cave shelters. Skyscrapers, many miles tall now lying on the ground, covered in vines and pigeon droppings. Everywhere the skeletal remains of sentient droids. Throughout it all was ...
Weekly Contest #352
The upside to catching a lasgun beam in the stomach rather than a lead bullet, Sinclair thought, is there is no bullet you have to dig for before stitching yourself together in your office using a hot sewing needle, duct tape, and about five times your monthly ration of whisky. Sweat pearled on Sinclair’s forehead as he poked the needle through his skin, grateful the gore was monochrome. He’d been twelve when they’d used up all the colour. He still remembered red blood, green leaves, blue androids, and purple laser streaks. Most people nowad...
Weekly Contest #351
There I lay on the bathroom floor. I had no more sobs, no more tears to let fall. I had watered those yellow tiles for endless eternities, flooding them with the salty water that should have stayed in the sea but was overflowing from my soul. As of yet no flowers had bloomed from those rains but I imagined that if a flower did indeed sprout from between the bathroom tiles, fed by my despair, it would be a thistle. Ugly. Prickly. And impossible to get rid of. I prepared to let loose yet another soul crushing wail when it all lifted. Floated ...
Weekly Contest #350
It’s right around the corner there. JESUS CHRIST! Where’d you get your license? A Kinder Surprise? No, stupid, Kinder Surprises are illegal. As is stealing a suitcase full of money from Danny Maroni but that didn’t stop us, did it? I suppose it didn’t. You know, I accidentally brought a Kinder surprise from Canada into the States one time? You crime rider. I know right? But it seriously was an accident. Which is what we tell Maroni if he asks. You think he got mad? I think it might have annoyed him a bit, yeah. You think he knows it was us? ...
Weekly Contest #349
It was a wet forest, the canopy of which did not succeed in warding off the acid rain. The family shuffled through the undergrowth, three beating hearts and a battery. Hoods drawn low, balaclavas covering everything but their eyes. On their mottled coats were smeared a paste of their own creation: a mixture of car oil, crushed garlic, and fox urine. Their scent was putrid, yet unidentifiable. If that wasn’t enough to mask them from the creatures, the father of the family carried a machete and the mother an assault rifle. The little girl had ...
Weekly Contest #336
CW: Gun violence You’ve got the words all muddled up—she’s singing about the son of a preacher man.No, I’m fairly certain she’s singing about the sun from the peaches, man.But what does that even mean?I don’t know, I’m not the one singing it.Here, I’ll turn it up so you can hear. See? Preacher.Sounds like peaches to me.Well anything sounds like peaches if you want it to.We’ll just have to agree to disagree.So long as we can agree that Dusty is a national treasure.National treasure in America is setting the bar awfully low.The only national t...
Weekly Contest #286
I carry my life in a suitcase. My parents gave it to me when I was still too young to understand what it was. They taught me to carry it and they put some of their weight in it, though I’m not sure if they meant to. It’s a lovely suitcase made out of cured brown leather, with bronze locks and a mahogany handle. It is not a very big sort of suitcase, but it is just large enough for me to fit my life in. I have a lot of books in the suitcase. Most of them I have never read, but I like the idea of reading them. I carry them with me, because one...
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