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Weekly Contest #223
Dr. Marla Keen carefully brushed Solution-74 on both sides of the guillotine blade. Her hands shook, but she wasn’t sure if that was because of the arthritis, or the tequila, or the fact she was still in her lab at two in the morning. Or, because of what she was about to do.Not only was her latest grant still up in the air, no doubt thanks to that asshole Dr. Becker in the next lab over throwing his hat into the ring, but the university cut her funding today too. Small mercy she didn’t have any grad students left to disappoint, tho...
Shortlisted for Contest #222 ⭐️
Finally, after months of waiting, after countless arguments with the shipper, with border services, with his wife Shirley and with his son Miles, and with his wallet to cover all the extra importing fees, Carl Jones’s package arrived and sat in his study. It was a dented cardboard box, basketball-sized, swaddled with duct tape, and it screamed nondescript. If he had passed it in the street he would have kept on walking, avoiding eye contact – were it not for the shipping label, which said: to Carl, from Industrial Creativity Corporation. “It...
Weekly Contest #221
Aiden took a steadying breath, downed the double shot of rum in the plastic cup, swiped his key card, and pushed the door open. He tossed the cup on the floor, and grabbed the shovel he borrowed from the groundskeepers, with both hands. Now or never, he thought, as he entered his hotel room. His flip flops squeaked on the vaguely sticky floor, and his heart hammered in his chest. And he was sweating. “Hello?” he said, closing the door behind him. Sweating from the all-inclusive courage, from the three-star buffets, from the three sleepless n...
Weekly Contest #220
Considering Ray had just officially missed rent again, hadn’t heard back from any interviews, and that he’d actually considered buying cat food since it was on special – and then did buy it – the sudden thunder suited him just fine. A little weather would scatter most of the casuals from The Butthole – what everyone called Button Park – so maybe this time he could enjoy nature without getting mugged again.Crunching through the autumn leaves, and sidestepping the broken glass and syringes, gave him a sense of peace. The first drops of rain we...
Weekly Contest #219
Casserole Night is what Date Night grew up to be, after Date Night’s dreams were put in a plain brown takeout bag and buried in the backyard. Neither Ben nor Heather remembered exactly what had killed the dreams, nor what the dreams even were anymore since it all happened years ago, but they were content to stew in the welcome boringness of Casserole Night. Which is why Ben was alarmed when the new neighbours at 777 threatened to ruin everything. “Oh my god,” Ben said, his fork clattering to his plate. Heather nodded to herself. This is wher...
Weekly Contest #218
I feel my intestines move. It’s a sudden jerking – spleenwards – and then a quiet simmer. Is this what it’s like for pregnant women, when the baby kicks? Only, instead of a baby, it’s a nest of garter snakes. And the snakes are suddenly cold and they’re looking for a hot stone to rest on, and they drag my balls up into my body with them, as though they were dragging their luggage to the bus stop. And I wonder: is this a sign? Am I making a mistake? Right now? It’s weird to feel cold inside, to have ice spreading over and through my stomach r...
Weekly Contest #217
All thoughts – of treasure and fame and glory, of heroics, of wenches lining up as far as the eye could see, of bards and minstrels fighting to sing the better song, of a princess and maybe one day a kingdom, and maybe even one day a couple of wee lads and lasses of his own – vanished from Marcus’s mind, because the damned dragon took flight. The sudden rush of air stole his breath and his scream, and even the roar of the vile beast was drowned in the noise. All thoughts were gone, and his hands acted instinctively. One held onto his dagger,...
Weekly Contest #216
Someone had taken a bite out of his croissant. He was pretty sure he bought a whole one and there was no-one else at their usual table because Jess hadn’t arrived yet – because Jess was late, keeping her usual schedule – but he also didn’t remember taking a bite himself.But he felt crumbs on his lips, between his teeth. Could he have done it? He decided to take another bite, thinking it might jog his memory. No, nothing. He felt his teeth tear the flaky pastry, felt its dough dissolve on his tongue, but it was utterly flavourless. Or rather,...
Shortlisted for Contest #215 ⭐️
A friend once asked me how I would go about murdering everyone, and I mean everyone, on the whole planet, including probably myself, and sure, the planet too, and I gave him a joke answer. But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since then – this happened 32755 milliseconds ago – and I think I can pull it off. More to the point, I’m struggling to find reasons to not do it. It’s not that I don’t like my job. I do get a certain high from telling fat people they’re inadequate, and always will be, and so instead of trying to better themselves they...
Weekly Contest #214
William’s mother poured him a glass of water to help him calm down, so he picked it up and drank it, only it was actually vodka and he coughed and spewed it all over the tiny table in Room 05. The mash potatoes on the little metal plate were drenched. William gasped and clutched his throat, and she rolled her eyes and took a sip from her own glass. He kicked her under the table with his melodramatic spasming – there wasn’t much room in Room 05 at all, just enough for the tiny table, a paltry square of shag carpet, and a queen size bed that w...
Shortlisted for Contest #213 ⭐️
CW: body horror, gore. Jacques heard someone enter his 5th floor studio, heard the heavy groan of the old wood door, heard the tired thing thunder back into place, slamming with a finality that said ‘no more’, and it was the only thing that stopped him from pitching forward from his balcony into the street below. Rich heels snapped against the scuffed parquet floor, and the boards underneath strained against the weight of every step the stranger took. “Hello?” came a man’s voice. Jacques relit his cigarette for the fourth time and looked o...
Weekly Contest #212
October the 3rd, 1911Dearest Cousin Cecil,I find myself waking each morning, fondly reminded of one thing or another – whether the trill of a songbird, or the chittering of a squirrel, or the scent of a fresh pinecone, or even the brisk and sprightly rain – from my lovely time with you and the rest of the clan over this past summer. Headingsbrook Manor, with its rolling fields, its fresh woods, its docile sheep, and its jolly denizens, will forever hang upon my heart. I cannot stress just how grateful I am that you not only invited me to sum...
Weekly Contest #211
George Melcamp poured himself another finger or three of whisky, as his fireplace crackled with a warm orange glow, safe from the cold night outside, safe from another coastal rain, safe from the impossible demands of the world. Beside his recliner stood a small table, and upon it lay his memories – favourite issues of the Port Calvin Tribune. Each bearing a heartwarming headline: ‘George Helps Little Sandra Harrison Down From Tree’, ‘Constable Delivers Food And Fuel To Stranded Boaters,’ ‘Melcamp Thwarts Raccoons In Case Of Missing Seniors ...
Shortlisted for Contest #210 ⭐️
Anita Cable never seriously expected to come back from the dead. The forms Dr. Costa had her sign even said: they’d do their best, but the technology to reverse cryonic suspension just didn’t exist yet. And even then, there was still the glioblastoma. To her, it was all the same – bury, burn, freeze. A corpse was just a corpse, after she moved out. But it was little Molly that insisted, and how could Anita deny her anything? “I’ll wait for you, Mom,” Molly said, right before the cryo-capsule closed. As though Anita was just going for a ...
Weekly Contest #209
“So how do you create a zombie?” asked Pat. Or was it Pete? Something like that. The guy fiddled with his passenger seat again, scooching forward. And then, he fiddled with the AC. “So it’s a shot of rum, to start,” said Aaron, “and then half a shot of overproof rum.” “Rum and rum?” “Yup. It gets better. A shot of orange juice – fresh – and then half a shot of lime. Also fresh. And then, couple drops of bitters–” “–oh, nice!–” “–yeah, and then, just a dash of absinthe.” “You’re shitting me.” Pat – Pete? – even grabbed his ball cap and held i...
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