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Weekly Contest #361
On the last morning of August, Mara Lennox found her father standing at the end of the dock in his good shoes. They were brown leather, polished too carefully for a man who was ankle-deep in lake mist. His trousers were rolled to his calves, his white shirt was buttoned wrong at the throat, and in one hand he held a folded piece of yellow notebook paper as if it were a map, a prayer, or evidence of some crime he had committed against common sense. Mara stopped halfway down the dock, holding two mugs of coffee. “Dad.” He did not turn around. ...
Summer was over, and so were we. Lila wrote the sentence on the back of the photograph with a blue pen she found in the bottom of her tote bag. The pen skipped twice over the glossy paper, leaving the words uneven and too dramatic, but she did not cross them out. At eighteen, heartbreak seemed to demand ceremony. It wanted proof. It wanted some small place to live outside the body. The photograph had been taken three nights earlier at the annual end-of-summer bonfire on Mariner’s Beach. In it, Lila was laughing, one hand pressed to the brim ...
For seventeen years, the lighthouse on Briar Point stood dark. People in town grew used to seeing it that way, a black tooth at the edge of the cliffs, its glass eye turned blind above the water. Children dared each other to touch the front door at dusk. Teenagers drank behind the old keeper’s house and whispered that the tower was haunted. Fishermen gave the point a wide berth after sundown, not because they believed in ghosts, necessarily, but because grief had a shape there, and everyone in Briar Point knew better than to sail too close t...
When Ruthie Bellamy turned seventy-two, her granddaughter bought her a bicycle. It was a bright blue cruiser with a wicker basket on the front, white tires, and a silver bell fastened to the handlebars. It was not a practical gift, and they both knew it. Ruthie’s knees had opinions now. Her doctor had opinions too, usually delivered in the kind of patient voice people used for stubborn dogs and older women who still climbed ladders to clean their own gutters. Ruthie stared at it until Maisie shifted beside her. “You hate it,” Maisie said. “I...
The first time Willa Hartley kissed Miles Bennett, he tasted like cherry slush, salt air, and a bad decision that did not feel bad until it was already becoming a memory. At seventeen, Willa did not know that some summers refused to stay inside the season where they happened. She did not know a person could arrive like weather, change the temperature of your life, and leave echoes in plastic cups, arcade tokens, and songs from carnival speakers. She only knew it was August in Cedar Shore, the boardwalk was warm under her bare feet, and Miles...
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