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Weekly Contest #296
Status update: One conversational bull. One geriatric china shop. Zero chance of survival. I should've known Grandma Ruby was up to something when she called me over to Sunset Gardens Retirement Home with that too-sweet voice of hers. The same voice she used when trying to set me up with the mailman last Christmas—despite my detailed PowerPoint presentation on why romance is society's greatest scam. "Zuri, honey, I just need a teensy bit of help while my hip heals," she said from her bed, silver ...
Weekly Contest #290
Trigger warning: separation anxietyThe late afternoon sun cast long shadows across their tiny Echo Park apartment as Ebony stretched out on their worn leather couch, her hand resting on the slight swell of her belly. Omar sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, his sketchbook balanced on his knee."What about Jade for a girl?" Ebony traced circles on her stomach. "It reminds me of the jungle back home."Omar looked up from his drawing. "I like it. Better than your suggestion of naming the baby after your favorite chemical compound.""Hey, Ph...
The bell chimed as Omar pushed through the door of the campus café, his leather portfolio case banging awkwardly against his hip like an oversized, unwanted dance partner. The familiar aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries wrapped around him like a warm blanket, but the usual cacophony of student voices and clattering dishes was conspicuously absent. One woman darted between the counter and the espresso machine with the frantic energy of someone doing the work of three people, her wild dark curls bobbing up and down as she moved l...
Weekly Contest #275
Every autumn, my sister collects dead things. She says they're not really dead, just sleeping, but I know better. I've watched her gather fallen leaves in her little red wagon since I was five, treating each one like a wounded bird. Now I'm twelve, and she's fifteen, and nothing has changed except the size of her collection and how far we have to walk up these mountains to find the best ones. "Look at this one, D.J.," Sade whispers, holding up a maple leaf the color of Grandma's candied yams. "It's still warm from the sun." Her dark eyes s...
Weekly Contest #274
There are two types of people in this world: candy corn fans, who are basically the human equivalent of a cheerful yet slightly squishy fruitcake—easy to point and laugh at. And then you've got black licorice enthusiasts, whose love for that stuff reveals a frostbitten heart that could suck the joy from a toddler's birthday party. Seriously, when they walk in, you can practically hear the horror movie soundtrack. I met one of those black licorice lovers last October, on All Hallow’s eve, right here in Los Angeles. It was a perfect week. I’d...
The first thing they don't tell you about Food Network auditions is that the studio lights make your palms sweat like you're holding raw chicken. The second thing is that those lights aren't really lights at all, but tiny judging suns, each one designed to illuminate every single one of your insecurities. Standing here in their glare, I can feel my childhood stutter creeping back into my throat like kudzu. "Whenever you're ready, Ms. Williams," says the producer, a white woman whose clipboard probably costs more than my first car. I am not r...
Weekly Contest #272
I lounged on my plush velvet sofa, the dim lights of my penthouse casting long shadows across the room. The cityscape of Los Angeles twinkled beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, a glittering tapestry of life unfolding beneath us. Mia bustled around, her pixie-cut hair catching the soft glow as she set up microphones and checked levels. Her tattooed arms moved with practiced efficiency, a symphony of preparation. "Selene, darling, have you met our sound wizard?" I purred, gesturing towards Mia. "She's an absolute godsend. I'm hopeless with all t...
Weekly Contest #271
I tripped over a mountain of sketches and coffee cups—clearly, my design process was 'organized chaos’—or at least that's what I told myself. "Focus, Nikki," I muttered, pushing my unruly curls out of my face. The deadline for this logo design was creeping up faster than my caffeine could kick in. My phone buzzed. Another client requesting changes. I groaned, realizing I'd need to put on real clothes for a video call later. Reluctantly, I shuffled to my closet, coffee mug in hand. I rifled through the hangers, each item a reflection...
Weekly Contest #270
Maggie's hands moved with precision as she sliced through the crisp okra, the rhythmic sound of her knife against the cutting board echoing through the kitchen. The aroma of simmering collard greens and spicy fried chicken filled the air, a testament to the soul food legacy she was building at her restaurant, Sweet Home."Shawn, how's that cornbread coming along?" Maggie called out, her eyes never leaving the task at hand."Golden and perfect, Chef," Shawn replied, his deep voice carrying a hint of pride. "Just like everything else that comes ...
Weekly Contest #269
I didn't mean to steal Mrs. Abernathy's cat. Honest. But when you're known as the neighborhood's most nimble-fingered "collector of misplaced items," sometimes things just... happen. And Mr. Whiskers happened to be wearing a very shiny, very pawnable collar. "Ruby!" Mrs. Abernathy's shrill voice cut through the humid Harlem air. "You bring Mr. Whiskers back this instant!"I peered down from my perch on the fire escape, the fat tabby purring contentedly in my arms. "Sorry, Mrs. A! Looks like he wanted a change of scenery. Can't blame him,...
I traced my fingers along the worn edges of antique picture frames, dust clinging to my skin as I wandered deeper into the cramped shop. The French Quarter's usual cacophony faded, replaced by the musty scent of forgotten treasures and lost memories. My gaze swept over shelves crammed with oddities until it snagged on something tucked away in a shadowy corner. Nestled between tarnished silver candlesticks sat a small, dark object that seemed to pull at me. I reached for it, my breath catching as my fingers closed around cool, polished wood. ...
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