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Weekly Contest #374
The house was almost too quiet when Clayton came home. He was used to Wanda’s latin flare—the smell of spices and the sound of cumbia ringing on the speaker–but there was nothing but the humming of the fridge. “Wanda?” As he walked from the entryway to the kitchen, the sound of his own footsteps accompanied him. With his coat still on, he stood before the marble island where a single white envelope lay in the middle of the countertop. Written on the envelope was his name in Wanda’s elegant handwriting. Alongside the envelope appeared to b...
Weekly Contest #372
Content warning; This story contains themes of death and loss. If you are sensitive to these topics, you may want to skip this reading or proceed with caution. I kept thinking that I couldn't wait to go home as I sat at the dining room table of the foster care shelter in which I worked. I stared at the clock, eleven p.m.; that meant three more hours left of my shift. Even three hours had felt like forever. I got up from the table and pushed my chair in. I couldn't be reckless because all the residents were supposed to be asleep. One wrong ...
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