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Shortlisted for Weekly Contest #376 ⭐️
Mr. Morgan say, "The defense calls Miss Wilma Rhodes." I don't move. I know he talking 'bout me, but I keep telling him that I'm married. Just 'cause my husband good and dead don't mean he can disrespect our union by calling me “Miss.” Plus, I'm old enough to be his granny, and I been cute all my life. Stand to reason I had a husband at some point. He look down at me like he mad. I cross my arms and stare right back. He know better by now. All this time we been meeting and preparing. He know who I am. Trial or no trial, he gon’ learn. The ju...
Weekly Contest #229
Sometime during the summer of 1998, Bevin Abernathy got a lip ring. On the first day of senior year, she sat down across from me in Mr. Scanlon’s AP Environmental Science class and whispered, “Kissing is a little weird at first, but then you get used to it.” I stared at her mouth, waiting for the next juicy tidbit to slip past that ring, but it didn’t come. She just smiled flirtatiously, bit down softly on the opposite side of that ring, and ignored me for the rest of the year. Lisa Miller, the quintessential girl next door and my only frien...
Shortlisted for Weekly Contest #228 ⭐️
I could tell my drink intimidated her. Vodka and pineapple juice in its squat, masculine glass convinced her of preconceived inadequacies. “Shall I order you one?” I offered. She considered my question as she raised her water with no ice and no lemon to her mouth and took a dainty sip. That plum-colored, matte lipstick, the only makeup on her perfectly symmetrical face, left no hint that her lips had touched the glass. Her smooth, mahogany skin, radiating in the afternoon sun, gave her an angelic glow, and I wished then that I had chosen the...
Weekly Contest #227
Flakes drifted and danced in the air before they landed. He'd forgotten the peace of simply gazing out of a window. If this hadn't been the day, he may have wished to sit there on that bench forever. He would have longed for hot chocolate and one jumbo marshmallow, like when he was a boy, allowed just once a year to sip a mug held in careful hands on the couch in Mama's living room. That's what she called it. My living room. And she meant it. Every place else, like in Eden, was fair game, but her living room was forbidden, except the first s...
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