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Weekly Contest #366
“Are you sure you want to take that thing with you?” I asked my grandmother as the movers lifted the clock from the wall. Part of me secretly hoped they'd drop it. “Of course!” she frowned. “It was a wedding gift.” “From who?” I asked, sealing another box before straightening up. “A vengeful ex? A witch one of you two pissed off? Because that thing isn't a gift, Granny. It's a curse.” And I believed that, now more than ever after yet another sleepless night spent cursing medieval monks and William Clement. Yes, I knew exactly who was respons...
Weekly Contest #364
Some people beg for the truth, but I just circled it like a vulture. I waited until the denial died of its own accord. Only then did I close in to pick at the remains. I had suspected it for weeks. The subtle shift in his routine. The sudden lack of warmth when he greeted me. The way he avoided eye contact on the mornings our paths crossed. Those mornings became less frequent until excuses slipped into half-assed explanations and eventually into nothing at all. I didn’t confront him. I didn’t beg for answers. I let it be. Who was I to questi...
Weekly Contest #360
“Did I ever tell you why I’m so scared of seesaws?” She didn’t expect an answer, but she paused anyway, just in case he was listening. “When I was about six, I was on one with my friend Brittany. Do you remember her? Probably not. It was a long time ago.” She smiled faintly. “She jumped off after launching me into the sky and introduced me to gravity. That was the first time I got winded.” It was a feeling she would become familiar with over the years; that sensation of having your breath completely stolen from you and yet somehow still bein...
Weekly Contest #345
The thing about routines is that when you’ve done them enough, each step comes as naturally to you as breathing. Breathe in. Turn on all the lights. Breathe out. Grab the float from the safe. You punch the code from muscle memory rather than the numbers themselves. Breathe in. You choose the playlist for the day; nothing too offensive. Set the volume to ambient. Breathe out. Glance outside at the deserted streets as Cigarettes After Sex croons about the apocalypse. You snort about how apt the song is and wonder if whatever barista curated th...
Weekly Contest #340
In that moment, the space between us became a diving board suspended over the infinite abyss of possibility, and his eyes, god, his eyes, were pools of liquid sapphire, glimmering with starlight and quiet allure. Wait. No. Stop. Really? His eyes are blue. That’s it. Blue. Like 10% of the actual population and 99.6% of the fictional population. You gave me blue eyes, too. I shudder to think how you’d describe them from his POV. And it’s pissing down with rain. Why did we leave the sheltered pub to have this conversation? Especially after you ...
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