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Weekly Contest #274
The boy at the counter resembled a skeleton with a thin layer of skin on. He was busy looking at a fly. He was unblinking, mesmerized by the flying pest, a pale countenance taut with concentration. His round head bobbled on a swivel, jerking frantically from side to side like a psych ward patient waiting for his meds to kick in. The fly settled on a lamp. The glow of the bulb illuminated the little hairy body and voluminous dark eyes. The counter boy eyed it moving along the covering of the shade, hypnotized. His big emerald eyes shone ...
Weekly Contest #272
Dagon searched for a view through a slit of wood. In the grey sky, brooding clouds roared thunderous booms. A tempest laid siege to the Carpeon Sea, a silver moon reflecting in bursts upon the bosom of dark, erratic water. A vulgar wind rolled over the crests of mighty waves, foaming and collapsing onto the shoreline. The waves knocked on the concrete walls of the lighthouse with sodden fists as if the sea were deranged, desperate to find shelter. A sea frightened of its own fury.Dagon sighed while watching the apotheosis of the storm. He wa...
Weekly Contest #268
In a gloomy town of Monmouthshire, there lived a woman, Lynn Jones. She was a bartender in a grimy haunt of a tavern — Old Peg Leg. Lynn would toll the clock, Wednesday to Friday, at a humdrum pace, serving the thirsty brutes of Pontypool. The place wafted in pipe smoke, the ceiling hung low, burnt with ash. It resembled a coal pit in a hole in the earth. Drunkards guffawed at stupid stories and swivelled on rickety stools, demanding more ale for their flagons. In a rhythm, Lynn would yell at the lunkheads to “shut the hell up” while she pou...
Weekly Contest #266
*There are mentions of sexual themes.Gorky sang a hymn at the altar of Saint Jude's Church in Tupelo, Mississippi. He was the only pale-skinned teenager in a congregation of African American churchgoers. His voice was ineffectual, and the choir kept sneaking glances when it cracked and whined. Patrice, the soprano, shot a vexing look, prompting Gorky to lip-sync the rest of the chorus. You're right, Patrice. I should banish myself to the fires of hell where my voice would serve as a torturing device. And so he held his tongue. Finally, "I wi...
Weekly Contest #265
It was a June morning. Furrstota felt heavy-eyed from the previous night's festivities. His yawn was as wide as the promise of the day. But his spirit was merry, and the sunshine refreshed him. "I'll be back soon, Mama," he shouted through a crooked window, the door closing behind his heels. His message sailed like a tumbling wind from wall to wall. And his mother, Peggy, scrambled as she cleaned dirty dishes piled in the sink. The faucet was loud; water spilled over silverware and crusted plates. And she was becoming deaf as the years passe...
Weekly Contest #248
It was a damp night in the village of Bree, the moon shone brightly in the west casting a light over the crown of Weathertop, which was drenched in rain and mud. All of the inhabitants of Bree, men, and hobbits, slept quietly like gravestones except some who snored raucously, and hardly cared whether they woke up the neighbours or the fattened ponies in the stables. The village was bordered by overgrown hedges protecting the sleepy inhabitants from unwanted visitors, one of which, s...
Weekly Contest #77
“Beguile? What does that even mean Zelda? Can you stop already? I’m over this silly game.” Fitzgerald was on his last nerve, his lower lip turning a cool shade of purple, and trembling from the cold, his nearly frostbitten fingers stored productively between his thighs for warmth. For the last half hour, his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend Zelda promptly read from an old, worn-out dictionary, finding words she considered interesting and rarely used. “He'll beguile you with his famous smile, meaning to charm.” Zelda read calmly, her grapefruit ...
Weekly Contest #74
Five years ago the despondent, grim-faced prisoner was found guilty of treason, contesting a corrupt law that only favoured the rich, the greedy and the malicious. In his mind, the concept of power should have been divided equally amongst the town, to the joyous people, and dispensed like a wheel of cheese, for all the mouths in the village to feast upon uniformly, but it wasn’t meant to be. “You call yourself a king!? The people are starving, and you sit on your pompous throne fattened like a rotten boar! You’re a no good rat!” Cauldro...
Shortlisted for Contest #72 ⭐️
I knew this sailor once, Bruce, old Bruce. A strange guy and a flagrant malcontent, always causing trouble when he wasn't out sailing his boat on the black waters, poking and prodding people like a curious, destructive cat trying to understand what it really meant to be a dog, pulling tails and breaking a silver glass or two along the way.Bruce would voyage out into the black seas every night, and return solemn and grey the next morning as if empty handed, a golden sun shining down on his ill contempt like a lamp illuminating a festering bog...
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