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Submitted to Contest #229
The snowfall didn’t abate on my journey home. I hadn’t been back in a long time. I lived on a different continent, so it wasn’t exactly easy to hop across the water and be back at my family home. It was worthwhile making the visit to spend Christmas with my folks. They were getting older, and so was I, and I suddenly didn’t feel like celebrating the holidays alone anymore. Once I got within one hundred miles of my birthplace, I knew it by the characteristic snowfall that used to plague us every winter. It was beautified by distance and me...
Have you ever seen the movie Groundhog Day? I loved it until that became my Christmas every year. It always felt like a laughably improbable concept, until it came to fruition in my own life. One year, I started going to my great aunt Grace’s for the entirety of Christmas Day. I planned for it to be a one-off. She’s a pain in the proverbial; everything always has to be “just so.” She put me in in charge of bringing a decorative garland for the table centrepiece. I’m not a centrepiece kind of guy. I didn’t even know where to get one, but s...
Submitted to Contest #228
I have always known about food nostalgia. Food has the power to take you back to a moment long ago that had almost fallen into the recesses of your memory for good. One bite and bang: you’re back in that moment, tasting the flavour you associate with something you weren’t even conscious of. For me, it evokes more than a feeling of wistfulness for bygone times. Clementine cakes are the taste of my childhood. My grandmother used to bake them for every family celebration we had. They were little cakes that contained a powerful flavour, like lit...
Submitted to Contest #227
Sensitive Content - References to Death and Grief Jean saw the first snow of the season. It surprised her when the nurse opened the curtains. She was used to looking at the grey Northern Irish sky. It hung heavily above her: oppressive and a constant reminder that she was closed into the world and her husband had departed to the sky. George had died the previous year. They used to share a room in the nursing room, but now it was all hers. She’d never wanted to have her own space, even though it was a room made for one. Slowly, her family h...
The whipped cream towered over the rim of Rachel’s mug. It had a gentle dusting of cocoa powder and a layer of marshmallow melt cushioned below the swirl of cream. It smelled as inviting as it looked: like carefully collated Christmas memories in a cup. Eve had arrived just in time for them to both make it to the head of the café’s queue. A minute later, the whole town seemed to spill in. There was a blizzard after all. The coffee shop was the engine at the centre of everything; like a heart that kept pulsing no matter what transpired around...
Submitted to Contest #226
The turkey was basted. It looked moister than usual. That was a real achievement for the Conor Family. Dry turkey was as much of a tradition as family fights were. Everyone served up the sweet potato pie and then they fell into disgruntlement with one another. There were six members of the family that attended dinner at the Conor’s family homestead each and every year. They could grow vegetables quicker than most people can grow the hair on their heads, but the turkey was always bone dry, and Aunt Clarissa would always be first to comment on...
Submitted to Contest #223
Trigger Warning - references to sexual abuse. I was an overeager reporter with a dodgy laptop and an unquenchable thirst for stories. My university had its own newspaper and I’d signed up to it as soon as I’d enrolled in my classes. I didn’t know what on Earth I’d end up writing about, but I knew when I got to hear that comforting clickety clack of an overworked keyboard, I was bound to be happy. Whenever I walked into the paper room, it was strangely quiet. I’d expected the buzz of a typical newspaper, but maybe there was limited news...
Submitted to Contest #222
I walked in the door with two strange women that would soon become family, carrying all my worldly possessions. They amounted to one suitcase and a shoulder bag. I was broken. I’d been granted entry to the refuge after a long debate with myself about whether I should ask to go or not. It should have felt like progress, but it felt like a huge step backwards. I was starting from scratch, building upon the rubble of my recent life. I didn’t know where to put myself. The old building was warm, but it felt vast. I didn’t know where I was going, ...
Submitted to Contest #221
Haunted. That’s the only word that adequately describes it. It mightn’t sound like that to other people that have dealt with true hauntings: ghostly apparitions that appear at night in old Victorian houses with more history than future possibility. To be haunted by something is no less unnerving. It conjures up images of Halloween in my soul; the worst parts of it. I feel the prickle of hairs standing on end like pins shoved into voodoo dolls. I feel the tremors that come when my heart is filled with terror, and I can see my breath in front ...
Submitted to Contest #220
I remember the day that altered everything. It feels like it was only yesterday, but in truth, it was decades ago. The kitchen air filled with cinnamon scented steam. Nana and I were having a baking marathon, filling another empty Saturday afternoon with our favourite pastime. “Darling, would you get me the brown sugar from the pantry?” Nana asked. I loved baking with her. It had always been predictably fun. It was when I felt my most carefree. Nana had a knack for baking, and she loved involving me in it. She never seemed to m...
Submitted to Contest #219
Sensitive topic warning - themes of death and imprisonment. This is my home; it's a funny kind of home. The walls are cold to the touch. They have shiny paint that covers bumpy plaster. Names are scored into it – messages that have been painted over, written and painted over again. Thoughts have been recorded there and then muted with cheap emulsion. I have scratched my own into it too, but they will soon be erased with fresh paint for the next tenant. I have four equidistant walls. If I stand up and stretch my arms like an eagle, I can to...
Submitted to Contest #218
If I could give it zero stars I would. The funny thing is the name of the restaurant should have been a warning in itself. It was called the Michelin Star Inn. It didn’t really have a Michelin star; that false claim was just a cheap marketing ploy. I wonder on reflection if any inns have Michelin stars. They’re too homey for fine dining, but still, I fell for it. That makes me feel idiotic, knowing that their laughable promotional idea worked on me. I thought I was reasonably intelligent, but I’ve questioned my own brain power since that day...
Submitted to Contest #217
“It’s the most haunted house in the country,” said Orla. I could instantly feel a shudder of fear travelling through me. My body felt as cold as unbreakable ice shards. I didn’t want to go there. I was always afraid of the spiritual world. I tried my best to back out of it, but Orla wasn’t having it. “Christa, you have to come. It’s for you. I can’t tell you the details, but you just have to be there.” I didn’t know why she needed me there. If she wanted to put herself in harm’s way, why did I have to tag along? I couldn’t think of a...
Submitted to Contest #216
Her feet are at the poolside, placed on the very edge, toes primed for the plunge. Her body is a stiff, unwieldy skeletal structure. Her bikini feels like bondage and the unforgiving sun roasts her exposed back. Sara is stuck in limbo – one that exists between the solid and watery worlds. Everyone around her is laughing and squealing, as if they’re mocking her fear as she inches forwards. She tries to drown out the sounds, but it is impossible. Everyone is in full-fledged holiday mode, except for her. This is her moment: the one she worried ...
Submitted to Contest #215
Satan’s smiling at me. I don’t know why I’m shocked to see him; I invited him here. He looks much more alluring than I could have imagined. He doesn’t have any horns, nor is he red with a pitchfork. He looks like a pleasant man: good looking and friendly but with eyes that are hypnotically evil. He reminds me of a serial killer I’ve seen in a documentary – one of the affable ones you couldn’t help but like, despite knowing the monstrosities of which they are capable. He is easy to talk to, welcoming, cheery – everything that no one exp...
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