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Weekly 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...
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...
Marie peered in the window to see if Kim was there. She hated ringing that small gold bell on the counter. Its harsh ping was so invasive, like dropping a dish and tensing before it shattered on the floor.She pressed the tip of her nose to the glass to block the glare. Kim waved. Marie backed away from the window. Her shoulders reached her ears with anxiety. She wrenched the door open, muttering under her breath, “Why can’t dry cleaning be self-service like everything else?” Every week, Marie ordered some combination of a soup and salad fro...
Weekly Contest #356
I live on Douglas Street, the note in my pocket reads. I tuck it back in. I am not sure why I have that note, but it’s laminated, so it must be important. It slides through my fingers like a wet fish in my pocket. My keys jingle alongside the card. Sprinkles of sun speckle my hair and warm my shoulders. The sidewalk leaps and dips from gnarled roots that revolt against their cement confinement. I balance against the tree, confused for a moment. The pool was always two blocks from the purple house where my friend Kimberly lives. But all I see...
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