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Weekly Contest #266
Gregor sat, surrounded by the morning rush of the congested coffee shop, occasionally checking his periphery for any admirers. He peacocked as a struggling writer. He was sporting faded blue jeans, a wrinkled white button-down, and a rusted suede coat a few sizes too small that strangled his arms like a boa. The coat forced him to write uncomfortably in ten-minute intervals, anything over that, and his arms began to go numb. Without it, however, he would not look like a writer, ruining the point of writing in a coffee shop. The t...
Weekly Contest #255
My forehead started to numb as it pressed against the cool, laminate bar top. I looked down at my weathered jeans, staring into the spots where my tears had soaked into the fabric. They created dark blue circles beside the colorful blots of oil paint my work clothes had collected, creating an unintentional abstract design. The tears finally completed the struggling artist's look I was going for. I was alone in the bar, aside from an older gentleman who sat at the end of the cane-shaped bar and paid me no attention. He was nursing a sco...
Weekly Contest #254
From her tightly fixed chignon, a strand of amber hair escaped the claws of Alyssa's neatly placed clip, caressing her cheek as it fell. Lifting the tips of her fingers from where they had danced on the keyboard, she pinched the hair back into place and resumed typing. For a few more seconds, there was a hidden rhythm in the tapping of her unpainted fingernails until, in a culminating moment, the enter key was pressed. She read the message aloud to ensure its meaning could not be misinterpreted. To whom it may concern, While I apprecia...
Weekly Contest #187
After taking a deep, controlled draw of his Italian cigar, he pointed it at me to indicate it was my turn to shoot. The game's tempo had flatlined as we played hide and seek with only the cue and eight-ball remaining on the table. Our pockets were on opposite sides, causing a stalemate in which neither of us was willing to give up a good position and risk losing the five dollars. Five dollars feels like ten when you win it in pool, twenty when you can barely make rent. There's a sweet satisfaction in hearing silence wash over a demean...
Weekly Contest #184
James lay lengthways on the small brown couch in the middle of his tiny studio apartment, his head propped up by the armrest. He thought to himself as he stared at the ceiling. His eyes focused on the imaginary patterns one finds when staring too long at a blank canvas. Noting the ridges and bumps amidst the sea of white paint. He had begun to count the tiny bubbles to pass the time but gave up somewhere around six hundred when he started feeling his eyes close from mental fatigue. He had forgotten how intricate the world could be when takin...
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