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Weekly Contest #263
The devil smokes Marlboros. I know because he offered me one.“Cigarette?” A smile curled the corners of his lips—confident, almost smug. He wore an Armani suit, not some crazy red getup. He carried no pitchfork, though I would not be surprised if his tongue were forked.Now, it is never wise to converse with an ancient being who knew most all that ever happened, was created with super intelligence beyond the imagining of man, and who detested you and every creature like you since the very idea of your race came into the mind of God. Long ago,...
Weekly Contest #260
The measure of a man is made in crisis, and no man knows his measure until that time when he must act, or someone dies.I knew. And my partner laid dead at my feet. I had frozen. My finger on my service revolver, the safety off, waiting for me to act to save my partner, the gun trained on the perp, but I failed to fire. How many times had I made easier shots at the range? But this time, it was for real. And had I but squeezed the trigger, my partner’s brains would not be splattered on the wall. My ears rang from the blast of gunfire. I pulled...
Weekly Contest #255
So, this was death. Not far from the nothingness I anticipated—no bliss of heaven, which I had no right to expect, no fires of hell which I, perhaps, deserved. But to be conscious of the nothingness? Who knew? All that was, was no more, except me. I was, in the nothingness. There were no others. There were no other things. Nothing lived in the nothingness, but me. But was I actually alive?And yet, I remembered all that I used to be. Those I imagined I loved, those I hated, those I ignored, all that was evil, all the evil I had done and what ...
Weekly Contest #239
This story contains references to sexual violence, physical violence, murder, and blood.Fiona, my wife, lay dead on the living room floor, and I felt nothing. I glanced at my hand, and the knife, red with her blood, yet not a twinge of conscience. Shouldn’t I feel guilt? I reasoned I had committed a grave sin, and knew it to be a sin, and yet, I knew no guilt. I felt greater sorrow for sin when I had stolen a pack of gum from Floyd’s Pharmacy when I was nine years old. I had run to confession to the priest, feeling this separation from God t...
Weekly Contest #238
Death is the sweetest…A knock on the door. I dared not finish the sentence before opening—that might make it a prophecy. Prophecy? My job was to dispel such superstitions, to propagandize death for the Society of the New Way. But surely the attorneys of the Society would want my missive completed, and bound by their incessant legalism, no one but I could complete this last sentence. The editor could only change it after I had submitted it for review. The New Way Society, headed by lawyers, determined when usefulness had b...
Weekly Contest #230
“Cellar door, most mellifluous syllables, the ironic appellation for the barrier behind which lay that murdered soul amidst the casks of unsampled Amontillado, murdered not for revenge, but by apathy and neglect, the soulless heart yet beating, yearning to love, forsaken, forlorn, rotting in the damp of her tomb—wilt thou not open with creaks yet more sonorous than thy sweet name, cellar door?”I raised an eyebrow and glanced up to meet the eyes of my client, a Professor Smythe of the English Department of the State University. “Why, yes...
Weekly Contest #227
Nicholas Natali did not like surprises, and Christmas was a time of surprises—the worst kind of surprises. So, Nick despised Christmas. While most people hurried home for the holidays, Nicholas Natali did his bit for the Christ child by heading for an island named for one of His saints and spent the holiday time relaxing on the beach. In fact, he would sooner sleep in a barn with the farm animals than be home for Christmas. Unless, of course, there was some kid sleeping in the manger. Such would be the fire instead of the frying pan. And the...
Weekly Contest #225
The portrait of Catherine Derosiers, though perfectly meeting her request, was not quite art, and that irked me. The work captured her innocence and would look fine hanging in her father’s living room, but something was missing. Something important. It needed a dagger.What an odd thought. I turned in my bed, but I could not shake the idea. A dagger? What about Catherine would warrant such an addition? But it had to be. My inner artist’s voice demanded it. It was the difference between a painting and a work ...
Weekly Contest #224
A sacrifice of twins, at the devil’s hour, on the night of a second moon, an incantation in ancient Samarian, in a demonic dialect unuttered since the time of the flood—the ingredients for a most dangerous spell. He had used a discernment spell to discover its meaning—the curse of death and fire. He, High Wizard of the Western Coven, would dispense with that meddler in the person of the Carpenter and the chapel he had consecrated across the street from the unholy temple of the coven, the clinic.When last had the ancient words been uttered? H...
Weekly Contest #221
Marta prepared a lunch for her daughter Kristin and wrote on the brown paper bag the name, “Emily.” Closing her eyes tightly, she gripped the counter for a moment, then crumpled the bag and threw it in the trash.She had no daughter named Emily. She had never had a daughter named Emily and would never name a daughter Emily. She hated the name Emily ever since she had caught her old ex-friend Emily Tyson sucking face with her old ex-boyfriend, Clyde whatever-his-name-was. That was long ago. There were so many names. Why would she ever choose E...
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