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Weekly Contest #376
Let me start by clearing something up, because it’s important to me and nobody ever gets it right. I was not murdered in this house. I did not die tragically in 1887 after falling down the stairs while carrying a candle. I did not have a broken heart. I was not a lonely sea captain waiting for a ship that never came home. Every person who has ever lived in this house has invented a sad backstory for me, and every single one of them was wrong. I was born a poltergeist. My mother was a poltergeist. My father was a poltergeist. My grandmother w...
Weekly Contest #375
It started with the rain. Not normal rain, the polite kind that taps on your window to say good morning. This was rain with a grudge. It came down sideways, then upwards, then from a direction I can only describe as “personally.” I stood at my front door with my umbrella and watched a pigeon walk past, soaked and furious. It did not fly. It had given up on flying. I respected that. I opened the umbrella. The wind took one look at it and turned it inside out with the ease of someone flipping a pancake. I now held something that looked less li...
Weekly Contest #374
Nora Ekholm saw the seam before she saw anything else. It ran along the left shoulder of Professor Adeline Marsh's charcoal blouse, a thin raised ridge of thread where no ridge should be. Once Nora had seen it, the lecture hall dissolved around it. The tiered rows, the two hundred other first-years, the projector humming its dull blue light onto the screen: all of it went soft, the way a word does when you stare at it until it stops being a word. The blouse was inside out. Not dramatically, no tag flapping at the nape of her neck, no pocket ...
Weekly Contest #373
"Don't go," said my grandmother, not looking up from her crossword. "Every girl who walks into that shop after dark comes home in love, and never with anyone sensible." Nobody takes Granny Bridie seriously. She also believes the toaster listens to her and that you should never trust a man who owns more than one scarf. So when my best friend Aoife slid two black tickets across the kitchen table, THE BOOKBINDER'S BRIDE: an immersive dark romance. One night only. Come alone, or not at all. I laughed. "It's theatre, Gran. Actors. In a bookshop."...
Weekly Contest #372
Lucia Bertolini had set the long table for the large monthly village dinner herself, plank by plank, the good linen dragged out from the chest that smelled of cedar and old weddings, and she had told Marco three times (three, as if the number itself carried some protective weight) that no loaf, no roll, no heel of bread was to be set down with its belly to the sky. Upside down, a loaf on the table was a coffin waiting for its dead in her family superstition. Her grandmother had said this over every table Lucia could remember, in the same fla...
Weekly Contest #371
I came to the cinema that day just for fun. Well, “fun” might have been slightly ambitious. Mostly, I came to fight the loneliness. There are days when going home feels too quiet. When you don't necessarily want company, on those days, I go to the cinema. I don't even care what is playing. A good film, a bad film, some ridiculous blockbuster involving explosions, impossible physics and a man saving the world while maintaining suspiciously perfect hair, it doesn't matter. Once the lights go down, the city disappears. No traffic. No messages. ...
Weekly Contest #369
The Shape My Grief Takes They say grief comes slowly, the way frost climbs a window without anyone watching it start. They say it begins as a weight behind the sternum, something with no shape yet, no name, only pressure, only the sense that a door has opened somewhere inside the chest and will not close ever again. They say it takes on texture, grey at first, like an ash before it remembers it was once wood, once something that could burn and give warmth. It gathers in the throat, thick as an unspoken things always are, and settles there, r...
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