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Weekly Contest #369
I open the mail. A letter with a due date and a requested amount of 100 dollars is due to Boston IVF. Every month, I pay $ 100 for one frozen embryo. My son puts his feet out in front of him while he hangs off the couch. I slide on his socks. It feels both extreme and silly for something so important. I keep telling myself we’ll stop paying once we decide. Whenever the thought comes up, I choke. I know our family is set, but I would love a third. It feels balanced even though it's odd. A beginning, middle, and end like a storybook. A darkn...
Weekly Contest #368
This is the second time I've found myself in court, accused of not following the rules. The first time was by the British Ecological Society’s photography contest, and now it's by the rangers at Yellowstone National Park. Jone looks sweaty. When she represented me as my defense attorney the first time. I was accused of photoshopping animal photos and entering them into competitions. The charges didn’t stick, but I never entered a competition after the backlash and the snubbing from other photographers hurt. This time is worse. I made up a ne...
Weekly Contest #367
“It’s a nice piece of land,” Jeff said while hooking his thumbs in his belt, which fought gravity to keep his pants up underneath his protruding gut. Ted pressed his heel into the soft wood of the porch. “Definitely needs some work.” But he couldn’t deny the view. Crisp October air tickled his bare arms as it whistled through feathering orange and red blending down the hillside. A soft creek babbled beneath the cabin, smoothing century-old stones. His socks squished in his shoes from a misstep off the little log bridge over the creek on thei...
Weekly Contest #366
“Purple?” Her daughter, Melony, didn’t seem convinced by the choice. “Just highlights, not the whole thing.” Rachel huffed. She ran her fingers through her fine graying brown hair. “It’s just that.” Melony swiped through the pictures Rachel saved on Instagram. “I love you with brown hair; what about doing some darker shade?” Rachel snatched her phone back, wondering whether the images she had saved were of real people or AI, and whether her daughter was right: purple would look tacky. “Just say it, you think I’m too old for purple hair.” ...
Weekly Contest #364
“And the winner is….” Hannah turned up the volume in the waiting room. She was part of the evening shift, so they could pretty much do whatever they wanted in the ER after six pm. The TV announcer rolled the cage of balls to reveal the winning lottery numbers. Hannah held her ticket tightly in her hands. She’d picked her daughter's birthday. She was behind on rent and student loans, and she really wanted to get her daughter, Emma, a new bike. But above all else, she just wanted a fruity drink on a beach somewhere far away where no one could...
“It’s perfect,” Emily said as she ran her hands down the simple embroidery. “I mean, once we get the stains out.” Years hanging in the attic closet left yellowing brown stains around the body and hem of the white dress. Gwen fanned out the skirt. “It’s a little simple.” She held it to her body. “I'm not sure I love the sleeves.” Emily snatched it back. “Good thing it isn’t for you.” She spun around in it. “Don’t you think Dan will love it on me? Plus, I like simple.” She carefully hung it back on its hook, cautious not to let any of the la...
Weekly Contest #363
Email 1: July 21st Subject: Request for ghostwriter: Two Men and a Bear Dear Katherine, Thanks for your message. This sounds like an interesting ask. I usually ghostwrite memoirs, but I’ve dabbled in fiction before. You mentioned the story would focus on two inexperienced men who go camping in the forest and come across a bear. You also mentioned some material you're willing to share from camping with your cousin. Please send it as an attachment, and I'll review. I'll be honest, the premise sounds a bit "done," but I'll keep an open mind. I...
Weekly Contest #362
I try his number again. As it tries to connect, I heat water on the small burner plugged into the cigarette plug. Dried Earl Grey tea leaves leak from the small mesh bag, revealing its age. It barely darkens the water when I drop the bag in. No answer. I call again. This time it goes straight to voicemail. The reception in my van can be spotty, but I’m connected to Starbucks Wi-Fi, and the signal is strong. It isn’t like him to ignore my calls. For the last two weeks we’ve connected at eight every morning. Arjun usually hands the phone to ...
Shortlisted for Contest #360 ⭐️
Packing tape rips on the holder’s teeth. We work together to keep the sticky side from tangling. We’re boxed in a fortress of cardboard. The box in front says Kitchen Shit. We wish we had labeled it better. The azalea bush blooms outside. It’ll help the open house succeed. We stack the boxes against the wall. A crayon-drawn house sits above the outlet. Jim suggested framing it as Katie’s Cape because one side of the roof sloped steeply. It adds some character to the otherwise stark white room. We laugh. On the sheet of things to do, we penc...
Weekly Contest #360
Vishal loves to cook. Every morning he scampers downstairs, fuzzy slippers sliding over each step. He pulls bowls from the lower cabinet. Metal rims clink against stacked pots and pans. Some mornings he makes muffins, some mornings he makes dosa. He loves the “pop” and “crackle” of mustard seeds when he and Dad spread them in the pan. He always spins the mixing spoon to blend cinnamon and cardamom into pale, wet dough when making dosa. When baking popovers, he’ll always poke the top with a fork to make sure the buttery, flaky bread is perfe...
Weekly Contest #359
Welcome to the Sea Sore Inn, the sign taunts. It pisses me off. The kids from Salem State stole the H three weeks ago. Marlo still hasn't bothered to fix it. I dust the counter. The dust plume scatters into the air. It seems to accumulate within seconds of me cleaning. So irritating. A couple strolls by the bay window. They're bundled in fall coats. I wave; they don’t even look up from their phones. The Castilleja’s red flares line the walkway leading to the front door. I hope they notice. The curtain billows with the sea breeze. My easel ou...
A sharp pop echoed through the two-story building. Tanya’s eyes shot open. A gun going off in West Philadelphia didn’t usually wake her, but this one sounded like it went off right above her head. She pulled her knees to her chest. The bed springs creaked. Gabe’s body stiffened. A light upstairs flicked on, spotlighting the strip of green between the graffiti-covered brick in the back. She listened for footsteps. Silence pressed in. “Is it them?” Gabe whispered. Tanya cursed. A thud shook the floor above. A man wailed. Her thin brown hair tu...
Weekly Contest #358
Control, Alt, Delete. Thunder grumbled outside. She clicked the recycle bin icon. With one key, all the little folder icons vanished before her eyes. She pulled out the thumb drive. The file she’d saved before wiping it from his hard drive was named “J.S. Will Pay”. At first glance, grainy photos and saved xeroxed copies filled the folder. Lindsey planned to give it more attention this evening. Pedestrians hurried under awnings for shelter as a blanket of rain draped over the streets of Brooklyn below. She slipped her key off his key ring an...
“Nobody believed in me. That was their first mistake,” read the sticker slapped diagonally across the top of her computer. It was sandwiched between the neon comic-sticker “Only good vibes” and a wiener dog driving a pickle with the slogan “In a pickle.” They were the only things holding Kelsey together as she tapped the shift key repeatedly to meticulously align the table indented .5 inches beneath the first letter of the title on slide eight. After two rounds in front of St. Elmo's Hospital, PMR Consulting needed to close the deal, or they...
Weekly Contest #357
I see them every Saturday at the park. His shaggy coat bounces with every jump. The boy, Prakash, throws a tennis ball across the field. He’s taller now, freckles cascading down his tan cheeks. His dangly leg kicks out behind him as he throws the ball. “Get it, Rami!” It’s short for Ramen, the noodle that best describes the pup’s curly blond fur. His paws slash against small pools in the turf. Dark mud dampens his underside. I don’t get much closer. I fear that if I do, he’ll come running in my direction. Instead, I sit at the bus stop for a...
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