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Weekly Contest #291
Veda counted heartbeats instead of seconds while the ferry crossed the strait toward Ithaka Island. Thirty-seven days since the fever dreams began. Eighty-three nights since she last slept without jerking awake, gasping from visions of a lighthouse.Rain pelted the deck. Other passengers huddled inside the cabin, but Vedas stayed at the rail, letting droplets blur the boundary between sea and sky. The odd crescent scar on her wrist—appeared the morning after her first dream—prickled beneath her watchband. Her doctor called it a stress reactio...
Weekly Contest #288
Lyla's Her boots clicked against the old cobblestones – tap, tap, tap. The sound bounced between the buildings lining Main Street, those ancient brick beauties from back when people actually cared what things looked like. Not like the glass-and-steel boxes they were throwing up downtown these days. These buildings had stories etched into their walls, decades of city grime in their pores.God, she loved mornings like this. The sky stretched endless and blue above the old brick buildings, and somewhere nearby, coffee was brewing – that rich, bi...
Weekly Contest #286
Memories are fragile things, Sarah learned early. They slip through fingers like water, evaporate like morning mist, dissolve at the edges until only the faintest outline remains. Her first lesson came on a crisp autumn afternoon when her father sat in his study, surrounded by photographs that meant nothing to him anymore.Her grandmother's Alzheimer's was a slow, merciless thief. It didn't steal all at once, but in incremental moments—first, the names of distant relatives, then the recipes she'd perfected over decades, and finally, the faces...
Weekly Contest #285
You know what's weird? Being a phone that can't make calls anymore. Not that I'm complaining - at least I didn't end up in some landfill like most of my friends from the store window. God, that feels like forever ago. 1962. Kennedy was president. Beatles hadn't even made it big yet. Vietnam was just something in the newspaper nobody really talked about. Funny how memory works. Or whatever you'd call it for a phone. Can't remember what I cost or what day of the month it was, but I remember Harold whistling "Return to Sender" when he walked in...
Weekly Contest #284
Thomas Reeves had delivered mail to 384 Cedar Grove for fifteen years. Every Tuesday he'd climb these same concrete steps, past Mrs. McAllister's meticulously pruned hydrangeas, to slide the day's letters through the door. Today, something was wrong.The brass numbers on the house flickered like a failing neon sign, momentarily reading 834 before settling back to 384. Thomas blinked hard, letters clutched against his postal uniform. More jarring than the numerical dance was the door itself, the bright red door seemed to mock him—hadn't it bee...
Weekly Contest #282
"I'm sorry for what I'm about to do, Dr. Chen." The message appeared at 3:17 AM, casting a sickly green glow across Sarah Chen's cluttered desk in MIT's Advanced Computing Lab. Her mother's porcelain teacup, still half-full of now-cold jasmine tea, reflected the text like a digital ghost. The delicate blue pattern on the cup – a gift from her father on their last anniversary before his death – seemed to ripple with each blink of the cursor. "What do you mean, ARIA?" Sarah's fingers trembled as they found the keys. In the fifteen months since...
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